Rich S.O.B.: A Romantic Comedy Read online

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Epilogue

  Epilogue

  CH 1

  CH 2

  CH 3

  CH 4

  CH 5

  CH 6

  CH 7

  CH 8

  CH 9

  CH 10

  CH 11

  CH 12

  CH 13

  CH 14

  CH 15

  CH 16

  CH 17

  CH 18

  Ch 19

  CH 20

  CH 21

  CH 22

  CH 23

  CH 24

  CH 25

  CH 26

  CH 27

  About Bijou

  Twitter

  Rich S.O.B.

  Bijou Hunter

  Copyright © 2017 Bijou Hunter

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  ‧:❉:‧ ♂ ♀ ‧:❉:‧

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  For more information about this series and author visit:

  http://www.bijouhunterbooks.com

  Cover

  Photographer: konradbak

  Source: Depositphotos

  Cover Copyright © 2017 Bijou Hunter

  Dedication

  To my sweet stinky boys

  Bold badass mother

  Awesomely honest betas

  &

  Judy’s Proofreading

  Book Summary

  Who is Asher Ferrer?

  Filthy rich? Yep!

  Deliciously attractive? Oh, yeah!

  Fastidiously solitary? So much so!

  With a life meticulously organized, Asher remains perfectly isolated from people and their loud, messy problems.

  Until Junie skates into his life.

  If the handsome hermit wants to win over his Roller Girl, he’ll need to give up his reclusive lifestyle and unseal his guarded heart.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  CH 1

  CH 2

  CH 3

  CH 4

  CH 5

  CH 6

  CH 7

  CH 8

  CH 9

  CH 10

  CH 11

  CH 12

  CH 13

  CH 14

  CH 15

  CH 16

  CH 17

  CH 18

  Ch 19

  CH 20

  CH 21

  CH 22

  CH 23

  CH 24

  CH 25

  CH 26

  CH 27

  Epilogue

  Epilogue

  About Bijou

  Prologue

  ❁ Asher ❁

  Dr. Elliot Disher is the finest psychiatrist in Dietrich, but that didn’t stop me from ending our visits over a year ago. He has his ideas. I have better ones. We never agreed, so I canceled all our appointments and moved on with my life.

  Now I’ve returned to his office which reeks of expensive leather. Next to me, a skittish Junie sports the expression of a woman dragged somewhere against her will. She wears black jeans and a red Coca-Cola T-shirt. Disher, though, focuses on her black roller skates while I’m more interested in her legs. The only sound in the office for nearly three minutes is Junie tapping her left roller skate against the hardwood floor.

  “I was surprised when I heard you wanted to see me,” Disher says in a Southern drawl.

  “I was rather surprised too,” I say and reach over to pat Junie’s hand. “Somehow after choosing to end our sessions, I found myself convincing Junie to give you a chance.”

  “Have you ever been to a psychiatrist before?” Disher asks Junie.

  “I don’t believe in therapy.”

  “What about it gives you pause?”

  “Nothing. I just don’t believe it exists.”

  I shake my head and tell the doctor, “Ignore her. Junie’s father had a poor view of psychiatry. His death made him a martyr to Junie who must now believe everything he ever said.”

  “How did your father pass away?” Disher asks Junie.

  “Like Buddy Holly.”

  “What did your father do?”

  “He was a doctor.”

  “A podiatrist,” I add for no reason beyond enjoying Junie’s irritation.

  Her hazel eyes narrow. “That’s still a doctor.”

  “I went to medical school too,” Disher says.

  Junie crosses her arms. “Well, I didn’t, so what’s your point?”

  “Let’s begin again,” Disher says when she only frowns at him. “Asher, why don’t you explain what spurred this visit?”

  “I’m dating her, but we’re having problems.”

  “Have you considered not dating her?”

  “Big shock that he’s against me,” Junie mutters. “Now that he knows I’m onto his pseudo-medical racket.”

  I glance at her and then back at the doctor. “Yes, I have considered this option, but I found it more unpleasant than keeping her around.”

  Junie fights a smirk. I watch her struggle for the longest time until she finally gives in and smiles.

  “I’ll keep you around, Ferrer.”

  “What kind of relationship issues are you having?” Disher asks when we ignore him for too long.

  “Since the death of her father and sister, Junie’s emotionally stunted. Her entire life revolves around that incident.”

  “And Asher’s emotionally stunted since his best friend ditched him and married a bland Barbie. His entire life revolves around avoiding someone abandoning him again.”

  Irritated by her throwing Garrett in my face after Disher made such an issue about my friend during our sessions, I grumble, “Well, I don’t wear roller skates everywhere I go.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t lock myself in my house like a temperamental beast king looking down at his minions. I choose to embrace my quirks in a healthy way. You, not so much.”

  “Quirks?”

  “Everyone has them, and people don’t even hide them anymore. In fact, I know a girl from high school who is in love with her turtle. Personally, I feel like she could do better. You know, she could love a dog or cat, but she has a pretty horrible voice, so maybe the turtle is the only creature capable of dealing with the sound,” Junie says and then asks me, “Can turtles hear?”

  “I would assume so.”

  “Never assume,” she says, taking out her phone and googling the question.

  “Can we move back to the reason you’re here?” the doctor asks.

  “This,” I say, gesturing toward Junie, “is why we’re here.”

  “I guess turtles can hear a little. I guess that’s why he’s always hiding in his shell when I see him.”

  “When you say ‘in love,’ do you mean romantically because I sense that’s a lie?” I ask her while ignoring Disher who also seems distrustful of Junie’s story.

  “No, Emory’s in love with him. I don’t know if she thinks he’s in love with her, but I honestly can’t deal with her voice for more than a few minutes. Normally, I flake out halfway through whatever she’s saying.”

  “Still feels like a lie.”

  “Love is a strange thing,” she says, giving me a wink.

  “And where did you see this woman and her turtle lover? They aren’t friends of yours, I assume.”

  “I see them every month at the farmer’s market where she pushes him around
in a baby carriage.”

  Laughing, I remain ninety-nine percent certain that Junie is lying, but I’ve been wrong before. Occasionally. Okay, once.

  “Can we stop talking about the turtle and discuss you two?” Disher asks, sounding tired which doesn’t bode well for our future sessions.

  “He’s very bossy,” Junie whispers loudly to me.

  The doctor smiles at her attempts to irritate him. “Why don’t we start with how you two met?”

  CH 1

  ❁ Asher ❁

  People usually refer to me as a recluse. Hermit is the runner-up on their favorite terms to use. I live in the penthouse of the tallest building in a burgeoning tech town. The Dietrich Tower provides a restaurant, spa, and my company’s main offices along with the apartments for my top employees. I had no reason to leave my sanctuary until I saw Roller Girl.

  I tend to avoid the more offbeat neighborhoods in Dietrich, but I’d heard solid praise about the Flamingo Exit Diner’s chicken and waffles from my former best friend. Garrett claimed they made the best he’d ever tasted, which was saying something since he’d had my mother’s.

  One day after Garrett left Dietrich, I found myself driving through our old neighborhood. My parents now live on the north side in the house I purchased for them. I’d driven for nearly thirty minutes down the streets I once played on with my only childhood friend. Finally, I ended up at the Flamingo Exit Diner to try their chicken and waffles.

  Around since the early days of this town, the diner hadn’t aged well. Everything from the scratched Formica table tops to the torn booth seats screamed dump, but the food was fantastic. I knew my assistant, Egor, could pick up food from the diner whenever I wanted, so there was no need for me to make a repeat visit.

  Until I saw Roller Girl.

  The dark-haired beauty wears roller skates every time she comes into the diner. By choice, I’ve learned nothing else about her. Not her name or if she’s involved with anyone. I don’t even know what she orders at her front counter spot. Any real-life facts would likely ruin the fantasy I’ve built up about her.

  During my first visit to the Flamingo Exit Diner, I assumed Roller Girl was just another of the quirky locals known to live in East Dietrich. She ought to be forgettable, yet I remain obsessed months later.

  There are many regulars at the Flamingo Exit Diner besides Roller Girl and me. However, this is no Cheers where everyone knows our names. Craving our privacy, the regulars barely acknowledge each other, and no one sparks up conversations. We choose to remain strangers.

  Despite my disinterest in making friends, Roller Girl became an obsession of mine. I’ve built an entire fantasy around her based purely on her Sophia Loren-esque beauty and those roller skates. What possible reason does she have to roll rather than walk?

  Watching Roller Girl from behind my newspaper, I take in the small details of her appearance. The way she recently cut her thick brown hair, so it now barely touches her shoulders. I notice how the edges of her bangs curl up slightly. She’s wearing black as usual, and I spot a decorative red stripe on the hem of her bootleg jeans that matches her red skates.

  I’m lost in my thoughts when I hear someone yell, “Nobody move!” A slimy-looking man makes his demand only a foot from Roller Girl.

  The thug looks familiar, and I wouldn’t be surprised to learn he’s a burnout from my high school. Or worse, he’s likely friends with my lazy, stoner brother, Alistair.

  He waves a small handgun at everyone in the half-filled diner. The waitresses freeze where they are while the man to my right mutters about “people these days.” My gaze remains locked on Roller Girl who stares at the weapon and then slowly shifts her gaze to her plate.

  The next seconds are a blur.

  Roller Girl lets out a banshee scream as she grabs a pot of coffee from the countertop. The thug turns toward her and lets out a scream of his own. I see the gun fall to the ground seconds after the coffee pot slams against his face.

  What the hell just happened? Without thinking, I’m on my feet and moving toward Roller Girl who sits back on her stool while customers rough-up the screaming thug.

  My momentum hits a brick wall once an elderly woman stands and blocks my path. Unwilling to knock her down, I’m stuck watching a guy handcuff the thug and drag him out.

  “Undercover policeman,” the old woman whispers loudly to her elderly friend.

  Staring at Roller Girl, I mentally will her to look in my direction. Only her hazel eyes can calm my raging heart.

  My mental pull fails. Instead, she only focuses on her food.

  Not the commotion around her.

  Not the screaming thug.

  Not the mess on the ground behind her.

  Not on the people speaking to her.

  Roller Girl only sees her plate of waffles.

  Is she in shock? Insane? High on drugs? Stupid? Really hungry?

  Leaving cash at my booth, I use a back exit to avoid talking to the currently arriving police. This place and its people aren’t my problems. The cops can handle the thug and whatever else comes up. I possess no ties to anyone in the diner besides my obsession, and she’s currently infatuated with her waffles.

  So I drive away without looking back, but I know something’s changed inside me. I’m no longer satisfied with my fantasies. I want the real Roller Girl. Mostly, I crave answers to the endless questions I have about her, and I can’t learn them by hiding in my penthouse or behind my paper. This recluse is ready to make a move.

  CH 2

  ❁ Junie ❁

  Dietrich’s local cops are probably the nicest people in the world, but they ask too many questions and refuse to listen to my answers and end up asking them again.

  They want to know why I attacked the gun-toting wiener who tried to rob everyone at the Flamingo Exit Diner. I tell them my behavior was instinct rather than explaining the more honest—embarrassing—reason.

  I suspect they suspect I’m lying about what happened. Most definitely, they’re annoyed by how I won’t stop eating. Screw them and their judgments. I am a taxpaying citizen! I refuse to have them stand between me and my strawberry waffles.

  The diner’s other regulars sneak out before the cops give the go-ahead. There’s Missing Front Teeth who uses the restroom and never returns. Daytime Hooker asks to go outside to have a smoke, and I catch her high-tailing it down the street. Even the hoodie-wearing hottie ditches the scene before the cops can interview him.

  I’m forced to stick around for-fricking-ever. Finally, one of the officers insists on driving me home. After all, I’m so terribly shaken up, and he doesn’t think I should ride the bus.

  “If you need anything, here’s my card,” he says while parked in front of my house.

  Grabbing the card he hands me, I babble, “Sure. Thanks for the law and order you do for mankind.”

  Before he can say anything else, I shut the door and skate away from the black and white.

  My yellow multi-unit Santa Fe-style house sits alone at the end of a dead-end road. My closest neighbors are white-tail rabbits and an occasional gray fox. I’m relieved for the privacy as I use my skates’ toe stops to climb the outside stairs.

  The cop remains out front until I disappear through a black, metal security door. After locking it behind me, I skate to the door of the first of two units on the second level. My bestie, Mallory, lives down the hall while my mom has the main floor.

  Inside my place, I hang my messenger bag near the door and head to my tiny bathroom. The skates come off first, followed by my socks, jeans, shirt, and finally bra. Walking in only white panties, I shuffle to the next room where my bed awaits.

  My nightgown is half on before I crash onto the mattress and yank a blanket over me.

  Fate brought the thieving wiener into my life on the only day a month when I’m hormonal enough to go “No Wire Hangers!!!!” on him.

  Now my day is over with only a long night of snoozing on the schedule. I will likely crawl out of bed
for a snack around one in the morning. Otherwise, I am dead to the world, and everyone who matters knows to leave me alone. Except for my white and gray Persian mix, Couch Potato, a.k.a. CP, who climbs on my back and sets up shop for the night.

  Tomorrow my sanity will return, and the Coffee Pot Incident of 2017 will be no more than a bad dream.

  ‧:❉:‧ ♂ ♀ ‧:❉:‧

  As expected, I awake with a clear head and a new outlook on life. No more attacking criminals who interrupt my meals. With common sense back in the driver’s seat, I put aside thoughts about my behavior yesterday.

  My day working as a technician at IT Zen blows by, and soon I head to the one place where I might catch grief for playing a tough chick when I’m nothing of the sort.

  The main reason I frequent the Flamingo Exit Diner is my unease with chit chat. I’m good at nodding and smiling at people’s babble. My problem is the part where I’m expected to provide a tit for their tat. I’d rather keep my tit close to the vest, so to speak.

  My waitress, Maureen, mentions the coffee pot incident, just so I’ll know the robber’s gun wasn’t loaded.

  “You were never in any danger.”

  “Okay. Can I have my waffles now?”

  Maureen gives me a wink, but she does the same with everyone. No doubt her middle-aged flirtation guilt-trips men into leaving bigger tips.

  I’m a notoriously inconsistent tipper. Whatever is in my pocket dictates the tip rather than how good the service is. That’s not how my mother raised me, though. She always gives solid tips to delivery men, and they flippin’ love her for it.

  Losing out on their love is a-okay in my book. I’m satisfied with a smile or a wave from across a street. Up-close love brings the kind of clinginess I’d rather skip.

  Years ago, Mallory’s indifference rubbed off on me, and now I’m slowly turning into an anti-social slob. My lifestyle is addictively freeing. No more caring about the opinion of others or focusing on what I don’t have rather than enjoying what I already possess. As incredibly freeing as indifference is, I can’t help wondering how I look when I see the hooded hottie in the back corner.

  Mallory and I call him Hitchhiker. Though I know I’ve seen him somewhere outside of the diner, I can’t for the life of me recall where. He’s too old to be a high school wiener I’ve long since forgotten. He’s too sexy to be one of my old teachers. Who is he?