SWEET HEART Read online

  SWEET HEART

  Yva Golden

  SWEET HEART

  Copyright © 2018 by Yva Golden

  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.

  This is dedicated to the women who’ve been dealt the worst cards in life but never gave up their fairy tales. You are stronger than you think. You are your own knight.

  Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Epilogue

  Introduction

  about this book

  NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  I have always loved the (now I consider classic) movie Pretty Woman, and this novella is hugely inspired by it— the billionaire and the hooker love story. However, the only scene I recreated here is the shopping scene in the boutique; spiced it up a little. I’m sure that has been recreated, too, in so many romance books today. But I gave my two main characters a life of their own in this story that’s far from the movie. Ashton is inspired by so many successful men today in the Tech industry, and Heart, for sure, many regular women can empathize with her too, in today’s landscape, especially in their desire to get a high education and be successful in a career. I hope you will love Ashton and Heart, as you loved Edward and Vivian, if you saw Pretty Woman. If you haven’t, you missed half of your romantic life! Watch it!

  ~Yva Golden

  BLURB

  Billionaire Ashton Blackstone is on top of his game. He's in Vegas to close a major deal, but he ends up dealing with something else, as well, a beautiful, young virgin. A gift. His would-be partners believe that sealing a billion-dollar deal with a virgin's blood brings them good luck. Well, he doesn't believe in that mumbo-jumbo. He made his first million through sheer hard work, cunning and determination and has never been superstitious. Until he lays eyes on his "gift". Maybe he's superstitious, after all.

  Corazon "Heart" Alvez has been dealt with bad cards all her life, but this time around, she has a trump card in her hands and she must win, if only to secure her future. She's sold her virginity to the highest bidder. But to be able to collect her money, she must make this man who bought her very happy. But Ashton Blackstone is not an ordinary man, not only because he's very wealthy. He's also devastatingly handsome with an aura that commands her into willing submission with just a look. She may end up losing not only her virginity but her heart, as well.

  WARNING! This author wants it sweet, hot and dirty. This novella contains graphic language; much older hero/young heroine; cherries and babies. No cheating! Definitely HEA. Enjoy!

  Chapter One

  HEART

  I HAVE DREAMS. Big dreams with fabulous happy endings.

  I wish I can just read my life like those fairy tale books. Once upon a time, there lived a girl who fought dragons. She slayed them all without the prince or the knight. And she lived happily ever after.

  I wish it were that simple. But my life is not a fairy tale. It’s a living nightmare. I’d need to sell my soul to the devil to achieve those dreams.

  When things are depressingly bad, the room to dream becomes smaller. It’s like a noose around your neck with a clock counting down how much time you have left. The bigger the dream, the tighter the rope gets, and you chase your breath, desperate to see another day while the perversities of fate is mercilessly choking the life out of you.

  That’s how my dreams feel lately. So vivid like the stars in that famous Van Gogh painting, and almost as elusive as that glowing unicorn in my childhood fantasies.

  I turned eighteen three months ago, but I feel like I’ve lived a dozen women’s lives deep in my soul. I’ve carried their unanswered prayers and broken dreams like an empath for years, and I feel weighed down and battered to my soul as though I’ve lived a thousand years.

  It’s so easy to just throw in the towel and give up, because my dreams are way out of my league. I’m way in over my head. But one thing I’m not is a quitter. I’ve developed nerves of steel through the years in order to survive.

  Luckily for me, the devil is not after my soul, only my body. My virginity to be exact.

  The devil wants my innocence. My purity. The only thing I have left of value in this material world, or in Vegas, at least. It hasn’t been named “Sin City” for nothing.

  Ironic isn’t it? I’m as pure as the driven snow, pun intended, and yet society has been looking down at me for as long as I can remember like I was the filthiest trash.

  But it doesn’t matter. I’ll roll my dice for a one-way ticket out of Vegas, my Alcatraz since I came to know that my mother was a whore and my father was a two-bit drug-dealer and a junkie.

  A whore and a cokehead— my beloved folks. A perfect combination of mayhem. It’s a wonder I turned out still a virgin with big dreams at eighteen amid the snorting and screwing laced with verbal and physical abuse that defined my existence for many agonizing years. That they are both dead now is immaterial in the grand scheme of things. They are old, kind of like Tarantino-inspired chapters of my life— violent and tragic. Done. So done. Finally.

  And with them both gone, I want a life. My own life. A new life away from their memories.

  That is the only reason I’m sitting in Jigger’s sorry excuse for an office in a back-alley in this seedy part of Vegas just a few blocks from the dump where I currently live in. I detest the man like the very plague, but he’s a necessary evil in my plans.

  Jigger is my mother’s long-time pimp. They had a love-hate relationship. Mostly hate. Me? I hate him. He’s the devil that deals the cards for these women so they get sold to the highest bidder.

  Prostitution is Jigger’s business and it’s the world I’ve woken up to. I’ve hated it since I started to understand what it really was, and there wasn’t a day that I didn’t wish for me and my mother to leave this place, find a new home somewhere where no one knew us. But my mother was so deep into that life she didn’t know how to escape. She’d accepted her fate with defeated spirit. Well, not me.

  “This man who bought me, what’s his name?”

  Jigger lazily blows rings of smoke in the air. I hate the smell of burning cigarette. I fan my face with my hand, giving him a hard look. He stinks like a whole container van full of stale weed and looks like an Elvis impersonator. His hair is sticky with some gel it could be used as a fly trap. He does think he looks groovy. The man is stuck in the sixties.

  “His name is Franco Bonatti.”

  I nearly fall from my seat. “Bonatti? The owner of The Acropolis?”

  “None other. I heard he no longer owns it though. Sold his shares to some rich-as-Croesus Asians. He’s just the General Manager now.”

  “But…” I try to recall what Franco Bonatti looks like. I think I’ve seen him before in some magazine. I’m almost certain he’s not bad-looking, and he’s not old. I feel kind of relieved. At least, I won’t be having sex with someone old enough to be my grandfather. The Bonattis are a household name in Vegas. They own hotels, casinos and amusement parks.

  “Is he married?”

  Jigger snorts. “Will that change your mind?”

  Maybe. I don’t know. I really didn’t think about it, that it would matter to me. Now I know it does.

  It’s probably fate that made California Dreaming suddenly play on Jigger’s surround speakers. The song promptly puts me back into pe
rspective. My dream is in California. Gotta be there. Fast. My future is waiting for me there.

  “Not that I know of,” Jigger is saying. “Haven’t seen him with the same woman in years. So, I guess not.”

  This relieves me immensely. I will sell my virginity to a person I’ve never even met, but I want him to be legally single, at least.

  “So, when will we…do it?”

  “Tomorrow night.”

  I gulp. “Okay. I want my money.”

  “He’ll give it to you when you see him. You can give me my share afterward. I will trust you on this, kid.” There’s a warning in his tone not to cross him. I hate the man, but I’m not a fool. I’ve heard of Jigger’s ruthlessness and cruelty.

  But what he said doesn’t sit well with me. “I told you to secure the payment first.”

  “You expected me to argue with Franco Bonatti? Be happy he likes your pictures at all. Moreover, be grateful he bought you for one hundred fucking grand. I won’t shell that kind of cash for a virgin.” He leers at me. As if I’d ever sell him anything.

  One hundred thousand dollars. That calms me down.

  Holy. Shit.

  Jigger told me he could sell me for fifty thousand dollars and he would take 20% commission. I told him if he could sell me for 100 grand, we could split it fifty-fifty. I wasn’t about to downgrade the value of my cherry. I managed to preserve it this long despite the environment I was in where men wanted to use me like they did my mother at every opportunity they could get. But really, it was a tough shot. How in hell was Jigger able to pull a premium price like that for my cherry, I have no idea. The man is really good at his business, I concede grudgingly.

  “I think Bonatti really likes you. He called me twice to make sure I won’t offer you to anybody else. He probably knew that rich-ass sheiks and South East Asian princes would snap you in a second. I actually offered you to him first when I got word he was looking for a virgin. He didn’t even blink when I told him how much you were worth.”

  Jigger asked for some pictures of me wearing a two-piece bikini last week. I took awkward shots of myself in a barely there bikini even if I was cringing at the thought that they would be used to peddle my flesh. I’m glad he didn’t have to send my pictures to a lot of men.

  “Okay, what time do I go meet him tomorrow?”

  “At ten in the morning.”

  “Got it. “ I stand up and gather my things.

  “Make sure you look presentable, okay?” He eyes my faded, baggy clothes with distaste.

  I roll my eyes. “I’ll wear my usual clothes, but I’ll bring the damn bikini. I’ll give him a wet look in his pool as foreplay,” I reply sarcastically.

  Jigger grunts and waves me off.

  “You told him my limits?” I remind him.

  I specifically told Jigger that I would have none of those hardcore stuff. Some people are into that lifestyle and, well, whatever floats their boat. But I’m not going to be a participant in any of that. The only holes I’m selling in my body are my mouth and my pussy, for straight sex, nothing kinky or violent. And the guy must use rubber. The latter is non-negotiable. I’ve been on the pill for the past week now to prepare myself for this.

  “If he wants to drill your virgin ass for fifty grand, would you say no?” Jigger counters, giving me an obscene look.

  I swallow. I want to run out of that place and forget about the whole thing. Almost.

  Jigger snickers. “I thought so. Go.”

  Without a word, I leave the room. I’ll just have to negotiate with Bonnati. If I’m going to get my hands on that money on my terms, I’d need to be my own pimp.

  I walk the Strip going to The Acropolis. It’s only nine in the morning but the heat is already sweltering. My appointment is still at 10 AM, but I came early to make sure I wouldn’t be late.

  I’ve been living in Vegas all my life, but I’ve avoided the Strip the past years. This was my mother’s turf, her work place.

  My chest constricts at the sad memories of the only person who meant everything to me. Despite her shortcomings, I loved my mother very much. That she died way before her time is something I’d probably ask God when I have a decent place to stay and I can finally breathe air that doesn’t stink of grief and judgment. It reminds me why I’m here, and it solidifies my decision even more. I have to get out of here. I’m done with the Sin City. It’s just so ironic that in order for me to leave Vegas, I have to become a whore myself. Once, at least.

  But I have to do this. I have no one to depend on to help me win this fight. There is certainly no hero who’d come to my rescue. I ceased believing in one a long time ago.

  Heroes prey on desperate souls like false hope. At first, they present themselves like a prettily wrapped gift, and they’d bring momentary light into the abyss of your darkness. They make you believe in fairies and heaven, and then they stick a jagged knife to your heart and viciously twist it. Just like my father did to me and my mother for years. He was a charming man, until he’d run out of drugs, and then he was a vicious monster.

  The pain of the betrayal would hurt like acid perpetually eating at your flesh, but you couldn’t die from the pain. And you’d wish for a memory reboot, to erase all the crappy episodes and put in new ones. Happy ones, for a change. One could only take rejection too much. Look what happened to my mother.

  It hurt because I cared. And I believed. I was a believer once, like my walking tragedy of a mother. But no more believing blindly. I’m done hoping and putting my happiness in another person’s hands.

  It’s time to take what I want. Wrest it from the hands of fate.

  I reach the hotel.

  The Acropolis is colossal and jaw-dropping in its grandeur. It brings back the glorious architecture of Ancient Greece. Thick and towering columns line the facade. Yes, I know some architecture from reading too much.

  I walk toward the main entrance and enter the revolving glass door. I stop long enough to admire the opulence of the lobby. This is the last time I’ll be in a five-star hotel in Vegas. By tomorrow, hopefully I’m already out of here.

  I walk over to the wide reception counter. “I’m looking for Mr. Franco Bonatti.”

  The receptionist’s eyes widen for a bit. She gives me a not so subtle once-over.

  I admit I’m not exactly looking like a guest who can afford a room in this hotel. I’m wearing a faded flannel shirt and tattered jeans. The holes on my knees are not hip designs like the ones that are fashionable nowadays. The threads just gave up from too much washing.

  “Just tell him Jigger sent me.”

  Spearing me with a look one would give a prostitute for daring to try her luck in the lobby of this place, like I’d be mistaken for one with the way I’m dressed, the receptionist picks up the phone and speaks to someone on the other line. She keeps darting glances at me as though I’d steal something from the counter. I fight to roll my eyes.

  After a few seconds, she finally addresses me again. “Wait for a bit. Someone will take you to Mr. Bonatti’s suite.”

  “Thank you, “ I mumble, but she’s already busy with something. I hate the way she’s treating me, like I’m dirt not even worthy to step her fancy shoes on. I wonder if there’s a sign on my forehead that says “whore’s daughter”. This has been my stigma all my life, no matter how I loved my mother.

  I inhale deeply to clear my mind of these resentments. I’ve developed a persecution complex and it’s not going to help me achieve my dreams. Nerves of steel, Heart. Nerves of steel.

  A man in a three-piece suit approaches me. He’s good-looking in a robotic way. I won’t be surprised if he’s hiding an automatic rifle inside his tailored suit. “Miss Alves?”

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  “Come with me. I’ll take you to Mr. Bonatti.”

  I follow him into the great hall. We pass through a series of thick ionic columns flanking designer shops selling brands made for the gods who have money to burn. A bag in that window of a famous label is
probably the sum total of my chastity. How inconsequential it is to the people who have money.

  Pity party again. Enough of that.

  We enter a smaller lobby. There’s a series of elevators there. We board one. I stare at the numbers on the control panel, my heart starting to race in my chest.

  The elevator stops on the fifty-third floor. We alight into a circular mini-lobby lit with a chandelier at the center. The carpet is so plush and luxurious I almost don’t want to step on it and get it dirty. I hate it that the grandness of this place is making me feel small. Do people actually live here? I may have lived all my life in Vegas but the Strip has never been my happy place. It represents my mother’s profession and our place in society—the bottom pit. But not for long. With the money I’d be getting out of this deal, I would make something out of my life if it’s the last thing I’d do.