This Billionaire's Bully: This Billionaire, #11

By Rachel Foster

Jenna was bullied in the elite private high school she attended. She was from a poor family but attending the school on a scholarship. She ended up graduating valedictorian and attending an Ivy League university. She went on to be a psychiatrist. Shane was a bully when he was in high school. He is a billionaire from a rich family. He was a star lacrosse player in high school, but he really was interested in music. His abusive father discouraged his interest in music, but he ended up rebelling and starting his record label, which led to a multi-media empire and a billionaire. What happens when Jenna once again sees her bully? 

• Language: English
• Publisher: 3rd Publishing
• Release date: Mar 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215158777

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This Billionaire's Bully

Rachel Foster

Copyright © 2018 by Rachel Foster

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Epilogue

1

J

ENNA

Most of the time, I loved my job. I had the chance to help people, to put my education and skills to the test.

Most of the time, I was certain being a psychiatrist was the best job I could hope for, that it didn’t get any better.

That session with Mr. Simmons, however, was not one of those times.

I don’t know what it is, he said, wringing his hands as he spoke, his eyes looking out the window of my third-floor office. It’s like...I can’t control myself.

He was short and squat, his brown hair thin and his face fleshy, that same worried expression he always wore painted all over it. His suit, however, was immaculate – exactly what you’d expect a millionaire to wear.

It’s like...there’s something inside of me, he went on. "This other person. And I don’t know for how much longer I’ll be able to keep him hidden."

Andrew Simmons’ didn’t exactly have the standard anxiety or depression that most of my clients -themselves among the richest LA had to offer- tended to deal with. There was something...off about Andrew.

’Him’? I asked.

He nodded, his double chin spreading out with each up and down of his face.

"I’m pretty sure it’s a ‘him.’ I mean, he feels so...aggressive, you know? Like he’s the one who wants to be in control."

I jotted a few notes down. Nothing important – scribbling notes down was more a way for me to give myself a second or two to think more than anything else.

Control, I said. That’s the word that catches my attention.

What do you mean? he asked.

I mean, you work a very important job, Mr. Simmons. A top executive for one of the largest shipping companies in the country.

He allowed himself a pleased smile, one that seemed to say "yeah, I am pretty important, aren’t I?"

And a job like yours, I went on. It requires major control. You have to be on the top of your game at all times, right?

Right! he said, as if I’d hit right onto the heart of the matter. "Total control, at all times. I mean, I have to manage million-dollar contracts every day!"

And that’s what I think this is all about, I said. "It’s not that you actually have some...man living inside you. It’s more that this man is a symbol for what you have to do every day. When you’re at work, wouldn’t you rather be doing anything else?"

Sure, he said.

But you can’t. When some people get up for work in the morning, all they have to worry about is filling out spreadsheets or waiting tables. You, on the other hand, Mr. Simmons, have the weight of the world on your shoulders. And all you can do is bear it.

He nodded. It’s hard! No one gets that!

So, you’ve anthropomorphized your stress.

"I’ve what?"

It means...to take something that’s not human and make it human. You know like in those kids’ cartoons where you’ve got characters that’re talking cars or whatever?

Ah. Got it.

That’s what it’s like. You’ve turned your stress into this person who lives inside of you, which is how you can cope with it. After all, if your stress is a separate person and not a part of you, you can pretend it’s something you don’t have to worry about right? Not a problem to treat, but a tenant to boot out.

He nodded.

That sounds good and all, he said. But...I don’t know. I have this picture-perfect image of him in my head.

Is that right? And what does he look like?

"Well, he looks like, um, me."

Naturally.

"But cool me, you know? Like me if I’d stuck with playing guitar when I was a kid instead of going to business school. He’s like, me if I weren’t afraid of anything. He’s me with a leather jacket and long hair and painted nails."

I had to do my best to not burst out laughing at the mental image of the dweeby Mr. Simmons done up in glam-rock style.

"And he’s the me who’s not afraid of anything. The me who’d take a stage dive during a guitar solo and not even think twice about it. He’s the me who doesn’t give a damn about quarterly reports or earnings charts or anything like that. And he’s the me who wouldn’t be afraid to ask his pretty therapist out on a date."

With this, a smirk spread across his face.

Uh, come again?

"What do you say, Dr. Quinn? How about you and me, tonight?" He stood up from the couch when he finished, putting his hands on his hips.

At that moment I noticed there was something...different about Mr. Simmons. He was still the same short, squat dude with thinning hair. But there was a confidence to him that hadn’t been there just a few moments ago.

Uh, Andrew? I asked. You OK over there?

He shook his head, slicking what little hair remained on his head back.

"Andrew’s gone, baby. Now Jace is out to play."

It was so bizarre I didn’t know what to day.

’Jace’?

Andrew’s hiding – he always does when things get too real. But me? I’m not scared of anything.

Before I could say a word, he slid over onto the couch next to me, draping his arm over the back, his eyes locked onto me.

"And I’m definitely not scared of a total babe like you."

As weird as what was going down might’ve been, it took a lot of restraint not to break out in laughter. Jace, Andrew’s badass alter ego, wasn’t so much cool as "what a nerdy guy would think was cool." And he was laying the moves on thick.

Well, that’s great, Jace. It’s good that you’re around to help out Andrew when the going gets tough. But it’s not a good idea for you to just shove him aside like this. You guys need to work together, right?

I’d worked with plenty of people with this sort of condition, a personality that represented their innermost desires. The best way to handle them was to engage, to take their other side seriously, but to encourage them to incorporate this other side back into their main personality.

He let out a dismissive snort. "Please. Working together’s for total losers. The only kind of working I’m interested in is me and you...if you get what I’m saying."

I scooted back, putting some distance between us.

I get what you’re saying, Jace. And I should point out that this is most definitely a breech of professional ethics.

He grinned, scooching over and closing the distance.

And that’s what makes it even hotter.

Alright, alright, I said, getting up. That’s enough. We’re just about out of time, anyway.

He stood up, and even with his dress shoes on he wasn’t quite as tall as me.

"Please. As if you wouldn’t make time for this." As he said the word, he put his hands back on his hips and thrust forward.

"Mr. Simmons!"

I said the word in a raised tone of voice, and this seemed to snap him back into reality. His eyes went wide, and his normal look returned.

Wait, he said. What happened?

What happened was your little friend came out to play.

"Oh no, he said, shaking his head. Jace! You...you jerk! He didn’t say anything, did he?"

Nothing you need to worry about.

What do I do, Dr. Quinn? he asked. How do I- there was clumsy, anxious panic to his voice.

"It’s fine, I said. We’re out of time for this week, but I’m sure with a little work, we can take care of your Jace problem. He’s there because you’re suppressing a part of you that needs to come out. And until you do, he’s going to be, um, emerging like this."

He nodded, looking aside. Alright. Then let’s do the work.

Perfect. I’ll see you later, Mr. Simmons.

With one more hesitant look, he left the room. And total relief washed over me the moment he was gone.

Eddie, the tall, towering security guard poked his head into my doorway seconds later. The sight of him brought instant relief.

Everything cool in here, Jenna?

Everything’s cool, Eddie, I said. And thanks. Just another day as a therapist.

He grinned before leaving. When he was gone I dropped onto the couch, letting out a sigh.

I loved my work – I really did. But when I’d imagined becoming a therapist, I’d never pictured having to talk down businessmen with badass, rock-star altar egos. It made for interesting work, sure, but man, was it draining.

It was times like this that made me think about Dr. Michelle Willard, my mentor and the woman who’d gotten me into the therapy profession to begin with.

I checked my watch, seeing that it was almost five – the end of the day. And I didn’t get a minute of relaxing before my phone buzzed with a text.

It was Gabriella, one of my best friends.

Yo! You still on for tonight? Let me rephrase – you’re still on for tonight.

I sighed and smiled. Part of me wanted to go home and spend my Friday evening with a glass of wine and some trashy TV. But I knew Gabriella well enough to understand she wasn’t going to let me off the hook that easily.

I’m on, I’m on. Just need to go home and change.

That’s *right* you’re still on. Get your sexy ass home and throw on something hot. Me and Mena are gonna be at seven. Be ready! Tonight’s the night we’re going to *finally* get you laid!

I grinned. Thing about my career, as well as it paid and as much as I loved it, was that it didn’t exactly leave much room for a dating life. I was crazy-busy all through the week, and by the time the weekend rolled around I was usually too fried to even think about dating.

Gabriella, however, had made it her person quest to find Mr. Right for me. Or, at the very least, Mr. Right-for-that-evening.

I grabbed my things and locked up, stepping out into the mild LA evening. The weather was perfect, the sky a faded orange as the sun set – a lovely California day.

I hurried to my car, hoping to beat the rush hour traffic and make it back to my apartment in Silver Lake before I got stuck in some LA-standard bumper-to-bumper. I was lucky, and thirty minutes later I stepped over the threshold to my apartment, taking off my suit jacket and letting my purse fall off my arm and onto the nearest chair.

My place was cute and comfy. A two-bedroom, which was pretty damn big by LA standards, and jus toff Sunset Boulevard.

I made myself a cup of coffee, knowing I’d need the energy for that night. But the evening flew past, and by the time I was changed and ready to go, it was already seven.

We’re coming now! read the text from Gabriella. Hope you’re ready!

Moments later, a car horn honked outside my apartment. I stuck my head out the window to see Gabriella and Mena, both tall and leggy and blonde, dressed in tight skirts that made my going-out outfit look more suitable for a convent. They woo’d and waved as the spotted me.

Coming! I shouted down to them.

I grabbed my purse and stepped into my heels and hurried down the stairs and outside. It was evening by that point, and in spite of my usual desire to stay in, I was feeling the energy that only a Friday night in LA could offer.

There’s our sexy doctor, said Gabriella as I slid into the back of the car. How as your week of fixing the brains of LA’s elite?

Enough to make me want to drink and drink and drink, I said.

Gabriella peeled off, taking us onto Sunset Boulevard.

The city lights streamed passed us, the cool evening breeze blowing through my hair.

So, ladies, I asked. What’s the plan for tonight?

The plan, said Mena, turning around and flashing me the devilish grin that always appeared on her face when she wanted to get up to no good. Is that we hit up this new Chilean place that opened in Hollywood.

Wait, are you talking about Del Sol? How the hell did you get a table there?

You know that guy I’ve been seeing? asked Mena.

Which one? I asked with a smirk.

Ha, ha. Mena was the wildest among us, an Instagram-famous fitness model who never hurt for dude-attention. But the one who works in finance. He knows the owner of the place, and when I oh-so-nicely asked if he could swing us a table for three tonight, he was more than happy to oblige.

Very nice, said Gabriella, turning back to me.

Hey, eyes on the road, I said, pointing at the traffic ahead.

Yeah, yeah, she said, whipping her hair around and facing forward.

"Then we’re going to Eclipse for some drinks and...fun."

When Mena said fun like that, I knew what she meant.

Now wait, I said. Isn’t this finance guy going to be a little miffed that the night of the reservation you’re going out to chase dudes?

She laughed. If he doesn’t like it, he can find someone else. Not likely.

See, said Gabriella. "This is the exact sort of mindset you have to get out of if you want to land a guy. You can’t be thinking about ‘hurting feelings’ or ‘doing the nice-girl’ thing. You have to figure out what you want and take it!"

But what if ‘what I want’ is to have a, you know, normal relationship?

They both laughed.

Babe, said Mena. No one has ‘normal relationships’ anymore. It’s all about getting what you want and getting out before you catch feelings. Now, stow that happily-ever-after BS and let’s have some fun!

With that, the night was on. But as we ate at Del Sol, doing our best not to freak out at the sight of all the celebrities who were there to be seen that night, I thought about my friends’ words.

Was I really that naïve for wanting a normal, happy romance? I was a therapist, after all – it was my job to spot bad thinking and correct it, to guide my patients into being realistic with their hopes and dreams.

But was I missing it with myself? Was I being totally deluded?

We finished up at Del Sol and went off to the Warwick. The moment we were in Eclipse, the music thumping and the lights flashing, Mena and Gabriella hurried off to find the cutest guys there and dance.

I’d always felt out of place at clubs like that. Not sure what else to do, I sidled up to the bar and ordered a vodka cranberry.

Great minds think alike.

I turned in the direction of the voice to see a tall, handsome man with short, black hair and dark, green eyes. He smiled, raising his drink – a vodka cranberry.

I laughed. Not the manliest choice, got to say.

Nothing wrong with a guy enjoying the interplay of cranberry and vodka. It’s a high-level flavor profile. And a chef like me needs to stay on top of those things.

The bartender placed the drink in front of me, and before I could say a word, the man slipped him a twenty.

It’s on me, he said. If you don’t mind, that is.

The guy was a little cocky, but...he was cute. Maybe this was the night I’d finally let loose, finally toss my inhibitions aside.

And maybe, just maybe, this handsome chef with the great taste in drinks was the one?

Sure, I said. I’d like that.

Perfect. I’ve got a booth over here-

He started off, but before we could get moving my phone buzzed in my purse.

One sec, I said.

I slipped out my phone and checked the screen.

It was an email – one from my high school about the upcoming reunion. I snorted, shaking my head as I swiped the alert off the screen and dropped my phone back into my purse.

All good? he asked.

All good, I said with a smile.

With that, we were off.

A high school reunion? Who the hell would go to anything like that? High school was in the past. And for me, I was all about the future, whatever it might hold.

2

S

HANE

The grin of a man who knew exactly what he was doing was plastered on my face. Leather gloves on my hands, I gripped the wheel of the jet-black Lamborghini Roadster that I was in the process of whipping down the racetrack.

I pulled into the turn, the car flowing around the curve like melted butter. I was in the zone.

The engine roared, and I gunned it a little harder for show as I passed the stands full of people watching the race between me and Drake Ford, by best friend. The stood and cheered wildly, only appearing in my periphery for a brief few moments as I pulled into the next lap.

Drake was close being, driving his deep blue muscle car, his engine growling like the locomotive of a freight train. He was all bulk