Page 57 of Big D!ck Energy

CHAPTER 20

BORN READY, BABY

DALLAS

My truck rumbled to a stop in front of a converted warehouse in Ybor City. It was two stories, and faded graffiti stretched across one side of the building.

“This is you?” I asked, staring up at the building.

“This is me.” Davina was already unbuckling her seatbelt, keys jingling in her hand. “Try not to look so confused. It's not a good look on you.”

“I'm... recalibrating my expectations.”

She shot me a look that could have curdled milk. “And what exactly were you expecting? A penthouse with a butler named Reginald who serves champagne on a silver tray?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of a gated community with a guard who checks IDs and judges visitors based on the value of their car.” I killed the engine, slid out of the truck, and followed her through the entrance. “You know, rich people stuff.”

“Rich people stuff,” she repeated flatly, jabbing the elevator button inside the lobby. “Is that the technical term?”

“I believe it's in the dictionary right between ridiculous assumptions and foot in mouth disease.”

She laughed.

The elevator arrived with a shudder, and Davina stepped in without hesitation, which told me either the thing was safer than it looked or she had a death wish.

“You coming?” She held the door open, one eyebrow raised in challenge. “Or are you scared of elevators too?”

“I'm not scared of anything.”

“Commitment,” she said sweetly, a teasing smile spreading across her face.

“That has nothing to do with fear. That is a lifestyle choice.”

The elevator lurched upward, and I grabbed the railing, making Davina smirk.

The doors opened, and I stepped inside, prepared to see something that matched her success: marble countertops, designer furniture, maybe one of those ridiculous kitchen islands that cost more than my first car.

Instead, I found myself standing in what was essentially a very nice, very modest loft apartment.

Don't get me wrong, it was beautiful. Exposed brick walls, original hardwood floors, ceiling beams that had probably been supporting this building since before my grandparents were born.

Afternoon light streamed through massive industrial windows, casting sunlight across a living space that was warm and lived-in. It was nothing like what I'd expected from a woman who ran a multimillion-dollar fashion empire.

The furniture was comfortable but not extravagant. There was a deep blue sectional, a coffee table covered in fashion magazines, a bookshelf stuffed with paperbacks and photo frames, and a collection of shot glasses from all around the world.

The kitchen was small and separated from the living area by a breakfast bar lined with mismatched stools. There was a single orchid sitting on the counter, and the refrigerator was covered in sticky notes.

“This is...” I started, then stopped, genuinely at a loss.

“Not what you expected?” She kicked off her shoes by the door, adding them to a small pile. “Let me guess, you thought I'd have a mansion. Maybe a home theater. Definitely a pool shaped like a dollar sign.”

“I didn't think dollar sign,” I protested weakly. “But maybe... I don't know. More.”

She turned to face me, arms crossed, and her expression softened. “Want to know a secret about me, Dallas Dodger?”

“Desperately.”

“I grew up with nothing.” She said it simply, without self-pity. “Like, actually nothing. My parents worked three jobs between them just to keep the lights on. I wore hand-me-downs from cousins I'd never met. Christmas presents came from the church donation bin.”