Secret Doctor Daddy (The Chester Street Billionaires #2)

Chapter One

Scarlett

“Time?” I call out to my roommate, Mia, a bubbly blonde with big eyes and a killer smile.

If I run the whole way, I can get to the subway on time. Maybe an e-bike? No, they run almost twenty dollars an hour. I race into the living room, hopping on one foot while wrestling with a black micro-mini dress and a pair of fuck-me heels.

Fuck me. The heel just snapped off one of them.

“Six fifteen,” Mia yells back.

“Fuck. Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Glue? Where’s the Gorilla Glue?” I hop into the kitchen.

“Junk drawer.” She emerges from her room and stares at me. “I thought you didn’t have to work today.” She leans against the door jamb of her bedroom.

We live in a fifth-story walk-up on the Lower East Side.

The rent is outrageous, and for the price, we get two closets the landlord mistook for bedrooms—each just big enough for a twin bed.

We have a windowless living room and a kitchen consisting of a sink, three drawers, a two-burner stove, and a dorm fridge.

“They called me last minute with some crazy masked, wear almost nothing in weaponized heels, secret society, billionaire bullshit. Ugh, I hate billionaires.”

“Hey!” Mia scoffs.

“Except for you. And you’re not a billionaire; you’re a black sheep. Ah, there it is—Gorilla Glue.”

I bite the dried glue off the tip of the nearly empty tube and force the usable remnants out. Liberally spreading the adhesive over the base of my shoe, I fit the spiked heel back onto the only pair of nice heels I own—the ones I wear too often to events like the one I am now going to be late for.

“Ugh, I’m not going to make it.” I blow on the end of my shoe.

“We can take the Lambo,” Mia says with a smile. “I’ll drop you off.”

“No, it’s cool if I’m late, they called me last minute,” I say, blowing on the shoe harder.

“Here’s the thing, and I mean this in the nicest way: You, dressed in that, with those heels on, are going to get brutally slain. I’m not talking mild homicide; I mean, headless in a ditch somewhere.” Mia grins.

I hate that she isn’t wrong.

“You read way too much dark romance…” I touch the glob oozing from the seam to see if it’s dry and suddenly have glue-skin on my finger… likely forever.

“Come on, I haven’t driven Larry in a while. He needs to get out of his cage.” She dips back into her room.

“I can’t believe your dad thought a Lamborghini was a sensible car,” I say, shaking my head.

“Oh, he didn’t. Big Bro regretted that the ‘little oops’ didn’t get big bucks from Daddy’s estate. Larry the Lambo is one hundred percent guilt. Larry was Daddy’s treasured 1987 Countach, and though he’s an old man, he can still get it up, if you know what I mean.” She offers a wicked smile.

“Why do you live here? You could sell that car and buy a house. A big one!” I still don’t understand why Mia lives with me, other than the fact that we’ve been best friends since the second grade.

We grew up in the same run-down tenement building.

My mom sold her body; hers sold her soul to the diner down the road.

Mia’s mom was a hot waitress who boned a billionaire one wild weekend in the Poconos.

She was killed in a car accident, leaving Mia to live with her much older half-brother and her elderly father, who never knew she existed until DCF dropped her on his doorstep.

My mom died of a drug overdose just after I turned eighteen. Mia and I got this apartment the minute we were both old enough to sign a lease.

“Because I love you, and I want to drive down these mean streets in an impractical car. Come on, you’re going to be late.

Besides, Beckett is probably going to be at this party, and I like to piss him off.

He’s so fucking omnipotent. Being the bratty little sister he can’t control makes me smile.

I’m the only one in the world he isn’t able to command. ” Her voice deepens on the word.

“He’s a doctor, not a dictator,” I say, grabbing my coat and taking a tentative step in my barely fixed shoe.

“If you asked him, he’d tell you he was God. No thanks. The other guys in his little fight club are hot as fuck though, and all single.” Mia grabs her keys from the side table.

“Isn’t your half-brother like fifty or something?”

We leave our cramped apartment and walk down five flights to the basement.

Mia pays way too much for one of the three parking spaces behind the building in the alley, where she parks a five-hundred-thousand-dollar car.

Granted, the alley between our brownstone and the one next door is chained off with an electric fence, so it’s pretty secure.

“He’s thirty-eight, but he’s a full-on asshole,” she says, winded from the descent as we both duck into the tiny sports car.

She drives like a maniac. The upside? I get to the gig on time.

“Don’t wait up, this thing will probably go on forever,” I tell her as I wrangle myself out of the car, wearing absolutely not enough clothing.

“Your chances of being abducted by a vampire king increase after midnight. What’s the game plan?” She looks at me, dead serious.

“John Milbrook, bouncer extraordinaire and proud owner of a Toyota Avalon, will be escorting me through the dark and dangerous streets this evening. My prince.” I flash her a smarmy smile.

“Okay. Flirt enough to get paid, but do not get laid; one-night stands are not worth it. Only the best man in the world gets that maraschino, baby!”

“My maraschino is staying safely in the jar, I promise. However, this is not the eighteen-hundreds; I can hand over my V-card to a loser, asshole, or hot drunk guy if I want.” I frown at her, then give her a wink.

“Just don’t make an oops,” she says, driving off into the honking traffic she’s been holding up.

I walk up to the aristocratic Waldorf Astoria Hotel, glad I was dropped off by a Lamborghini while wearing my Marc Jacobs bow minidress.

I don’t feel so dirt-poor. I’m tempted to walk in the front door, but the catering entrance is around back, so I step carefully on my wonky heel, hoping it lasts the night.

The kitchen is bustling with people clattering pots and utensils, listening to a very sweaty chef bark orders.

Five sous chefs look terrified—probably begging for death rather than facing the night ahead.

Servers weave in and out around them. I ask one of the sous chefs where I can find the catering manager.

“At the bar, but you can’t enter the hotel without a mask on.” He is deveining shrimp and nods toward a basket of masks near the catering entrance for employees.

“Gotcha, thanks.” I give him a flirty grin, and he returns it with a nervous smile. Shit, the chef really has put the fear of God in them.

I pick a red mask, mostly because it only covers my eyes.

I hate having things on my face. The rest are too gaudy and weird.

Some are animals, some have a Gothic vibe, others look like they belong in a horror movie.

But the one I pick is simple—papier-maché painted red with little stars next to each eye. It feels magical.

I put it on and walk out of the kitchen into a room that is empty, save for a few interior designers decorating tables with gold candelabras, pink flower petals, and gold-wrapped chocolates strategically placed around enormous bouquets of black, pink, gold, and white flowers.

“Hi.” I stop one of the designers. “I’m looking for Sadie. Have you seen her?”

The woman doesn't even look at me; she just nods her head toward the next room. I’m tempted not to say anything in response—all these highbrow people are getting on my nerves—but I thank her and walk next door. I find Sadie gathering the caterers for our pep talk, as she likes to call them.

“Oh good, Scarlett, you’re here. That’s all of us.

” She visibly relaxes. “Tonight is about the best of the best. They want service, they want discretion, and they want to be left alone. Y’all are going to have to sign a waiver, but this party is for the international elite.

Offer food and drinks and stay invisible unless someone approaches you for more.

If you agree to more, you can make some extra money. ” Sadie drops her voice.

“Wait, to do what?” I blurt out, suddenly incensed, mouth gaping.

Is she whoring us out? It must be some sort of joke.

John, my bouncer friend, jumps right in.

I’m pretty sure he doesn’t care about the extra money, but he’s probably worried about an increased threat to ‘the perimeter.’ That’s what he calls our venues, like he’s government special ops. It always makes me laugh.

“Does discretion include safety?” John is getting really jumpy.

“Companionship. This is a hotel, and if you want to escort someone for the evening, we have a dignified way to make that happen. Each of you is assigned a room to tray-pass hors d'oeuvres. You are wearing a particular mask. If you’re open to conversation, or a little more, you can put your name on the list. If a guest selects your mask name and room, well, we will make sure conversations happen,” she says with a weird, smarmy smile.

“As long as it’s all consensual, Sadie,” John cautions.

“This is a special request from Massimo himself. I promise you consent and legality is his utmost concern. And if you don’t want a little extra, just don’t put your name on the list.”

For some reason, after saying that, she looks at me. I give her a grimace. I will definitely not be putting my name on any list that allows anything other than shrimp canapés and puff pastries to be exchanged between me and the guests.

I whisper to John, “Are you good to drop me off at home tonight? I'll give you gas money.”

John eyes me. “Yes, and no gas money is needed. I’d drive you to Mars if I had to.” He gives me a kind smile.

“John, if you weren’t gay, I’d say you were flirting,” I say under my breath while Sadie answers a question about the ‘extra benefits’ we could offer.

“I can be gay and flirt.” He gives me an insulted glance, and I laugh.

“Fair.” I return the look.

“If someone approaches you for more than you are offering on the tray, play nice. If you’re not down for a night on the town with one of the world’s most eligible bachelors, or a tryst with someone who has enough money to keep you happy and quiet, simply say ‘no.’ We aren’t selling our souls here.

A top-secret collection of the world’s movers and shakers is going to be in this room, so be on your best behavior.

Just remember when you sign these waivers you’re releasing Satin Catering from any liability.

Once again, just say ‘no’ if it isn’t your thing and stick to passing out Wagyu kabobs. ”

She offers a plastic grin, and her pep talk—slash—you can whore it out if you want to speech is over.

“Shit,” my friend Matt says in exasperation.

“You down for a little back door, behind the back door?” I tease him. It’s sickening that rich men think they can fuck the catering staff.

“Depends on the price. I could be gay for pay.” I think he’s teasing, too. “You’re drop-dead. What about you?” Was that a compliment?

“Hell no. They can take their bougie little elitist club cocks and lodge them straight up their asses, right alongside the Wagyu kabob I’ll be shoving in there.” I flash him a flirty grin because Matt is pretty one-dimensional: he likes sex, women, and cars.

“Straight to the point.” He makes a gesture like he’s ramming something up an ass, and I smile. John does too.

“Oh, Matt,” John plays along. “That’s so tempting.”

“For a million dollars…” Matt offers a kissy face, and we all laugh.

“After tonight is over, I’m going home to my slippers and Hairball, our apartment cat.” I offer a big smile. “Nothing is better than being in my own bed without an entitled billionaire in it.”

“Livin’ on the wild side.” John makes a goofy face under his Harlequin mask, and I laugh more.

We had to audition for this gig, and it shows. Everybody is a little weird, larger than life, and stunningly gorgeous.

“Okay, we’re going to let them in. Big smiles, be discreet, and have fun,” Sadie says. While that last part is a bit of a stretch, I go back into the kitchen and grab a pass tray, ready to spend the night on my feet. Being a dancer, they are going to totally hate me in the morning.