TRAINWRECK 1: An Alpha Billionaire Romance Inspired by a True Event Read online

  I always said: Some things are best left to the imagination. I wished I’d never met him. I wished I’d never fucked him. I wished…I wished…Sarah, just admit it…I wished he was mine!

  “Sarah, do you know how he made his fortune?” asked Lauren, snapping me out of my wishful thinking.

  Was she testing me or something? Truthfully, I had tried to google him last night before I went to bed, but my damn Internet connection was down again. And I didn’t own a fancy smartphone with Internet access like Lauren’s. Mine was one of those yesterday’s news clunkers with a $19.98 basic monthly plan. The kind you had to convert numbers into letters for texting. I was saving up to buy an iPhone, but right now I couldn’t afford the exorbitant cost or to add the hundred dollar service fee to my already high monthly cost of living. Between my low paying job and mother’s condition, I could barely make ends meet as it was.

  Lauren cut into my thoughts. “Okay. Time’s up. His company invented Dermadoo! That miracle anti-wrinkle cream that’s so hard to get. You’ve got to get me some!”

  I hardly knew the man—in fact, I was never going to see him again—and Lauren was already asking for favors. So like her.

  While I digested all of this information, Lauren sauntered back to the kitchen and returned with yet another Diet Coke. I guess it was on her raw diet.

  “Did you sleep with him?” Lauren asked, not one to hold back.

  Silence.

  “C’mon, you’ve got to tell me,” she pleaded with a fling of her perfectly blown, shoulder-length auburn hair.

  “No,” I said, at last. Theoretically, that was true.

  “One of these days, you’ve got to say goodbye to your virginity. It’s no big deal.”

  I twitched my mouth, saying nothing to big-mouth Lauren.

  Knitting her brows, Lauren took another sip of her soda. “How did you meet him?”

  “On the train home from Philly.”

  There was no way I was going to tell the gossip girl about the details of our train encounter as the juices between my legs began once again to percolate. I flushed at the memory.

  “Well, you know what they say. You never know when and where you’ll meet Mr. Right.”

  As my sassy friend put her cell phone back into her Birkin, my eyes landed on something that I hadn’t noticed before.

  “Oh my God, Lauren, what’s that?” I asked, pointing at her left fourth finger.

  A big smile spread across her Emma Stone look-alike face. “I thought you’d never notice.”

  “No way!”

  “Way!” she squealed. “Taylor and I are engaged. He got down on his knees—right in front of all my friends—and asked me to marry him while the Black Eyed Peas were singing tonight’s gonna be a good, good night. It was so romantic.”

  The engagement ring on Lauren’s finger must have been at least five carats. And I’m sure it was flawless. Taylor Hodges IV grew up in the same circles as Lauren; their families probably dined together on the Mayflower. They’d known each other since their childhood cotillion days, but their relationship didn’t blossom into a romance until he went to Brown while she was “next door” at RISD. Despite a couple of major breakups, they’d been together for six years. He worked for her father. Already written up in the Wall Street Journal as one of Wall Street’s wunderkinds, he was destined to be one of the financial world’s major players. While he was never my favorite person in the world, for Lauren, he was perfect marriage material. I gave her a huge hug.

  “That’s wonderful! I’m so happy for you.”

  “I want you to be one of my bridesmaids. You can bring Ari as your date.”

  “I’d love to,” I replied, eschewing Ari. That wasn’t happening!

  “Mummy has already lined up a private appointment for me at Vera Wang’s at noon, and then we’re heading over to the Bergdorf Bridal Salon. It would be so much fun if you came along.”

  I politely declined. In my head, I knew I’d better get used to the next six months of constant wedding talk from Lauren. There’d be no detail spared, and she was going to want me to weigh in on every decision from the color of her wedding day nail polish to the number of layers of her cake. I wouldn’t be surprised if she bought me an iPhone like hers so that we could be in touch 24/7.

  “Maybe, tomorrow we can hang out,” I said.

  “Can’t. I’ll be in the Hamptons. Taylor’s parents are throwing us a little impromptu cocktail party tomorrow night to celebrate our engagement.”

  Lauren plunked the Diet Coke can on my coffee table (having servants her entire life, she didn’t know from cleaning up—that was my job when we were roommates at RISD) and heel-toed toward the door.

  “Sarah, maybe you’ll be next.”

  She winked at me as she turned the doorknob to let herself out. As the door slammed behind her, my phone rang. My heart jumped. I ran to it before it went to voicemail. In my head, I could hear him saying my name in that soft, sultry sexy voice. Stop it, Sarah. Stop it! This man is not into you.

  When I picked up the receiver, I was as relieved as I was disappointed. It was just another one of those obnoxious bill collectors. I pretended to be someone else. I hated these people because I was positive they got some sadistic pleasure out of people suffering. Since my mother’s illness, my bills had piled up. The added cost of my weekly trips to Philadelphia forced me to make late payments and even ignore some bills. Seeing my mom had to be the priority. Someday, I would be a rich and famous toy designer and never worry about money again. I just wanted my mother to be in my life when I got there.

  More bills were stacked in a pile on the kitchen counter. I’d left them there last night. After feeding Jo-Jo, I attacked the bills. The usual suspects—termination of cell phone service if my bill wasn’t paid immediately…late charge for an emergency room visit (I fell off my skateboard and needed a few stitches)…an invitation to one of Lauren’s charity balls ($1000 per ticket—forget it)…and finally a bill from The Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania. Except the latter was not a bill; it was a letter.

  Dear Ms. Greene:

  I regret to inform you that the government grant providing for your mother’s treatment has run out of funds. Unfortunately, her insurance company will not cover experimental drug treatments. In light of the circumstances, we have no choice but to terminate her current treatment protocol, but we will be glad to work with the both of you to find a viable alternative that is affordable and possibly covered by another insurance provider. Please contact me at your earliest possible convenience.

  Sincerely,

  Dr. Martin Chernoff

  The letter shook in my hands as tears swelled in my eyes. How could this be happening? She was doing so well. Making progress. What was I going to do? There was no way I could afford her exorbitant experimental treatments with my meager wages. We had already tried all the treatments approved by her insurance company, but they did nothing to arrest the growth of her cancer. Finding another company that could help defray the cost of the new treatments could take months—with each passing day bringing my beloved mother closer to the end. The tears multiplied, giving way to sobs. All hope was ebbing from my pores. I couldn’t even think straight.

  I needed to get clarity. With tears streaming down my face, I fled to my bedroom. I flung off my bathrobe and laced up my running shoes.

  ###♥###

  Jogging around the Central Park reservoir always energized me. The majestic apartment buildings along Central Park West and the soaring architectural wonders along the East Side never ceased to amaze me. And the reservoir itself was a little miracle in this big city of sidewalks and skyscrapers.

  The dirt track around the reservoir stretched just a little over one and a half miles. I was now on my third lap. I was well into my run, my heart pounding at an even rate, my legs propelling me forward almost effortlessly. It was probably already in the low eighties, and under the bright morning sun, sweat poured from every crevice of my body.

 
Clarity came to me. I would just have to work harder. Overtime for my demanding boss, Catherine. Or take on a second job like being a barista at Starbucks or a waitress at some neighborhood restaurant. And I could work weekends too. Somehow, I’d figure out how to pay for my mother’s treatments.

  As I got off at the Ninetieth Street entrance, another brilliant idea came to me. I’d sell Ari’s little black dress, which I couldn’t bring myself to shred, to an upscale resale shop. That should fetch me a nice bundle of money, especially since it was practically brand new. Too bad I no longer had the shoes. They were probably worth a small fortune.

  Slightly cheered up, I ran home through the park. The park was in its spring glory, with its multitude of verdant shrubs, colorful flowers, and blossoming trees lining the winding path that led to Fifty-Seventh Street, where I would exit. It was filled with New Yorkers of all ages, taking advantage of the beautiful day after a long, cold winter. Cyclists, joggers, strollers, rollerbladers, nannies pushing elegant prams, and even a few equestrians. The run took my mind off my mom…and Trainman. The temperature was rising and so was my heat level. My thin, cotton tank top clung to my body, and my running shorts were soaked. I was looking forward to a cold shower.

  Stopping for a moment, I bent down to re-tie a loose shoelace.

  “Watch out!” screamed a voice ahead of me.

  I looked up and coming downhill toward me at hell-bent speed was a bearded man on a racing bike.

  Before I could blink an eye, two strong arms scooped me up.

  “Saarah.”

  My name. That voice. It was him!

  My brown eyes gazed up and met his sparkling sapphire ones. His sensuous lips stretched into a saucy grin. His golden hair, more carefree and tousled than yesterday, glistened in the sun. Embarrassment washed over me like a sudden downpour. Here I was all hot and sweaty in his bare, sculpted arms. In fact, I was melting at the sight of him. Don’t let him do this to you.

  “You can put me down. I’m perfectly capable of managing on my own two legs.”

  He gently set me down and sighed. “Princess, you really must be more careful.”

  He’d come to my rescue once again. I hung my head in shame, my eyes roaming down his sinfully perfect body. He was dressed in all white. White tennis shorts, one of those expensive cotton polo shirts with the alligator on the pocket, and white tennis shoes. His long legs were lean, tan, and muscular, laced with a layer of gold threads.

  “So you’re a runner,” he said, eyeing me from head to toe.

  I was also a hot, sweaty, disheveled mess.

  “Yeah,” I said daring to lift my head. Oh God, was he gorgeous! Heart-stoppingly gorgeous. My heated-up body was close to igniting.

  “You have great legs.”

  I humbly shrugged my shoulders. “Thanks.”

  The truth was, my legs were my best feature. Like his…long, lean, and toned from having been a tomboy my whole life. I was especially proud of the ripple that ran down the side of my thighs, almost to my knees, thanks to running.

  “I see you’re not wearing a bra.” A devilish expression accompanied his words.

  I glanced down at my chest. Shit! In my haste to get of out of my apartment, I had forgotten to put on my sports bra, the only kind of bra I wore. My pert nipples popped through the thin, soaked layer of my cotton tank top. Mortification raced through me.

  “What else aren’t you wearing?” he asked, his eyes gazing at my crotch as if they had x-ray vision.

  “My running shorts have attached panties,” I smirked back at him.

  Flipping up the edge of one side of the shorts to prove it to him, I could feel my crotch getting hotter and wetter. Oh God, this man was turning me on. I had the burning desire to tear off his clothes and mine and fuck him right here, right now in the park. Why was I still talking to this womanizer? And lusting for him? Shame on me. He was bad news.

  He shot me that breathtaking smile. “We should run sometime together.”

  “I don’t think you could keep up with me.”

  “I think I would do just fine.” He paused. “Hey, what got into you last night? I looked for you—”

  Before I had a chance to reply, a little boy on a scooter rushed up to us. He had long-lashed green eyes, sandy hair, and a handful of freckles scattered on his face. He was, in a word, adorable.

  “Daddy, I want some ice cream.”

  Daddy? The word numbed me.

  Ari nervously ran his hand through his golden hair and knitted his brows together. “Sarah, this is Ben. My son.”

  His son? Trainman had a son? I felt the ground open up beneath me, and I was sinking into a dark abyss. Fucking Trainman was fucking married! From the corner of my eye, I saw the beautiful redhead jogging our way. She was waving. Holy shit! His wife?

  “I’ve got to go.” I hurried to get the words out as I fought back tears.

  “Saa—”

  The second syllable of my name faded into the fragrant spring air as I took off like a bolt of lightning. I raced through the park, tears streaming down my face. The married fucker fucked me on a train? And called me his princess? I didn’t know who I hated more—my Trainman or myself. I felt sick to my stomach.

  When I reached the corner of Forty-Fifth and Sixth, I finally slowed down. My heart was still racing, and I was drenched with a combination of sweat and tears. Never had I felt so dirty, so humiliated, and so regretful in my whole twenty-five years. And so hurt.

  With tears still spilling down my cheeks, I speed walked the remainder of the way home. When I got to the landing of my brownstone, I mounted it two steps at a time. I couldn’t wait to hop in the shower and wash myself off. The sweat. The grime. The memories. I unfastened the safety pin that attached my keys to my shorts, and jiggled the largest of them into the feisty lock. The door wouldn’t open. Damn that lock!

  “Can I help?”

  I spun around. Fuck. It was him. His face was flushed with beads of sweat glistening on his bronzed skin like fairy dust. His breathing was heavy, his eyes hooded.

  “Get away from me!” I yelled. “I don’t want to ever see you again.”

  “Jesus. I ran halfway across this city to see you, and trust me, I never have to chase after women.”

  His voice was breathy, the look on his face a cross between rage and lust. A look that made me want him even though I had no right to want him. A horde of emotions swarmed me. Guilt, confusion, hurt, and desire. I began to sob and pound his rock hard chest with my fists.

  “Get away from me, you asshole! You’re married!”

  With one hand, he clasped his long fingers around both my hands, so tightly I couldn’t move them or strike him again. The other hand cupped my tear-soaked chin and tilted my head back slightly. Too drained to resist, my gaze met his. His eyes were intense and did not blink.

  “Saarah, I’m not married. I’ve been divorced for three years.” He loosened his grip.

  My lips parted, but I was speechless. I could only taste my salty tears.

  The next thing I knew, his lips were consuming mine, my face now cradled in his ample hands. My eyes closed, I could hear him softly moaning, as he pressed harder, deepening the kiss. My parted lips made an easy entry for his tongue; it instantly found mine and I couldn’t say no to the warm, velvety suitor. I had wanted his kiss ever since we’d met. Our tongues swirled together, his dancing across my palate and the hollows of my cheeks. Oh God, he tasted delicious. Sweet and minty and just a little salty. Oh what a kisser! Melting, I moaned into his mouth.

  Still holding my keys, I wrapped my arms around his neck and raked the unencumbered fingers of my other hand through his thick, damp hair. His hands slithered down my neck to my chest, until they landed on my breasts. Squeezing and massaging them, he brushed his thumbs across my nipples. Desire was pooling between my legs at the speed of a locomotive.

  With one arm, he drew me closer to him. I could feel my hard, erect nipples rub against his drenched cotton shirt. I folded my arms arou
nd his taut torso, pressing my body tighter against his.

  Moving his hands to my waist, he forcefully shoved me against the hard wooden door, pinning me against it with his equally hard body. My groin ached as the hard wedge between his legs pressed against it. I dug my fingers into his narrow hips, clutching the tails of his tennis shirt. He was still kissing me passionately. The wildfire inside me kept spreading. I couldn’t believe this scene—straight out of a movie—was actually happening to me. With this gorgeous, gorgeous creature.

  Slowly, he withdrew his tongue from my mouth. His breathing was heavy, his beautiful face with its hooded blue eyes only a palm’s width away from mine. His tongue flicked across my neck and then his warm breath blew in my ear. Clasping a large hand over mine, he expertly transferred my house keys into his possession.

  “Saarah,” he whispered, “I need a shower.”

  That made two of us. I was dripping wet. Soaked with his sweat and mine. I don’t know whose was whose. Our musky mists mingled.

  With two simple twists, he managed to unbolt the double lock. After turning the doorknob, he kicked the door open and, in one smooth move, scooped me up in his arms. I brushed the sweat off his brow and then wrapped my arms around his neck, inhaling the sweet scent of his manly sweat mixed with mine.

  Effortlessly, he carried me up the three flights of stairs to my apartment. I ran my fingers through his hair and let myself just enjoy the ride. With every step, the throbbing inside me grew more intense. Along the way, we passed Mrs. Blumberg with her shopping cart. Her eyes grew wide. I simply waved at her, stifling a giggle. I knew what she must be thinking. Oy! She’s going to let him touch her there.

  Oh yes, I was!

  Still holding me in his arms, Ari managed to unlock the door to my apartment, again easily with two quick passes of my key. I was beginning to think he had a special talent when it came to inserting things. Be it a key. His tongue. Or his dick. Just like before, he kicked the door open and then kicked it again, slamming it shut behind us.

  Embarrassment crept over me. Here was this drop-dead gorgeous billionaire, who probably lived in some Park Avenue penthouse, in my rinky-dink one bedroom apartment. At least, it was clean and tidy. Trainman didn’t stop to notice a thing. Not even Jo-Jo who meowed loudly and brushed up against his legs. As if he’d been here a hundred times before, he carried me straight into the tiny bathroom down the hall. Given that my apartment was only 300 square feet, I guess it wasn’t too hard to find.