Bringing Down the House Read online

  BRINGING DOWN THE HOUSE

  BAD LUCK CLUB SERIES

  A.R. CASELLA

  Copyright © 2022 by A.R. Casella

  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.

  Created with Vellum

  For Denise,

  For believing in me—

  and helping me believe in myself.

  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

  Epilogue

  A Borrowed Boyfriend

  Matchmaking a Billionaire

  Also by A.R. Casella

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  NICOLE

  My father always told me that if a man did you dirty, you should throw him into the French Broad River. I was only seven when he disappeared, young enough to assume my mother had taken him at his word and given him exactly what he deserved. Because even a seven-year-old could tell he’d been screwing around.

  It took my mom over a week to comment on the fact that he was gone, and each night I tossed and turned, worrying the cops would show up to arrest her. I’d watched enough TV to know that you weren’t supposed to kill someone just for being a liar and a cheat. But there were no late-night knocks on our front door, and then one day Mom took me out for a milkshake after school and explained that Daddy had run off with a hair colorist.

  Mom was a hairdresser, practically the same age then as I am now, and the woman he’d left her for worked at the same salon.

  “You mean you didn’t throw him in the river?” I asked.

  She heaved a sigh, stirring her milkshake. “Not yet, Nicole. Not yet. Give me time.”

  But she didn’t get the chance, because he never darkened our door again.

  Or, hell, maybe she really did throw him into the river.

  The next man in her life had an addiction to porn, discovered by yours truly when I opened his laptop to look for something on YouTube. The boyfriend who came after him had a taste for prostitutes. But my stepfather was the worst of all.

  On a family vacation when I was sixteen, the asshole tried to kiss me.

  I told my mother, and she beat him with a baseball bat when he was asleep, emptied their joint bank account, and then served him papers. Because, while she might have shit taste in men, she’s a damn good mother.

  After all of that, you’d think I would be suspicious of men. And I was—truly. But I was also foolish enough to fall for one. When I met David in college, I let myself believe my luck had turned around and I’d met the man who would treat me right. He was handsome and intelligent. He seemed caring. Whenever I said something suspicious or jealous, he would calmly suggest I was paranoid and, fool that I was, I believed him.

  A year and a half later, I found out he’d cheated on me with my best friend…and half a dozen other people.

  After everything I’d been through, who could blame me for having trust problems with men?

  Every. Other. Boyfriend. I’d. Ever. Had.

  Diego, my boyfriend of four months, had just dumped me for looking through his phone for compromising messages. I’d skipped work and was sitting by Lake Powhatan, sipping vodka from a water bottle and feeling sorry for myself, when my phone rang with a call from an unknown number.

  “What do you want?” I answered, picking it up. Maybe it would be Diego’s mistress, proving my suspicions weren’t so crazy.

  “Ms. Nicole Ricci?” a woman asked, and my back prickled. Son of a bitch. Maybe it was his mistress.

  “How’d you get this number?”

  “Um.” She sounded nervous now, and I was preparing to pounce when she said, “Um, I’m not supposed to say, but I have good news for you.”

  I laughed at that, actually laughed, because I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had any good news. Sure, I had a college education and a job with benefits, but working in HR wasn’t anyone’s idea of a good time.

  I took a glug of the vodka. “Well, let’s have it. Because I sure as hell could use some.”

  “I’m calling with a deal on cruise tickets,” she said in a burst of what seemed like false peppiness. “If you book now, you could be on the ocean in two weeks.”

  “You’re calling to sell me cruise tickets? I hate the water.” Not true, but something in me wanted to rile her, the same something that seemed to set in whenever I talked to anyone new.

  She cleared her throat. “Our cabins are top of the line. You could comfortably stay in your room the whole time.”

  “I’d just as soon throw myself off the deck. Cruises are breeding grounds for infectious diseases.” My voice hitched a little.

  Diego was a scientist who studied viruses, and he’d called me a virus.

  Worse: I was starting to think he might be right. That bothered me a hell of a lot more than losing him.

  “Um.” Then, like a shroud lifting, she asked in a warm, real voice, “Honey, are you okay?”

  Maybe it was the question—I couldn’t remember the last time someone had asked me that and meant it as something other than an insult—or maybe it was her caring tone, but just like that, it all came out, like a load of crap bubbling up from a clogged toilet.

  I told her about my dad and my stepfather. About David and Diego and all the others. About how I couldn’t trust anyone, men most of all.

  When I finished, there was a long pause, and I wondered if she was going to launch back into her cruise spiel to course-correct our conversation. Hell, I felt desperate enough that I might actually buy a ticket—anything to escape myself. But she didn’t. She just said, “My name’s Dee. Nicole, I want to help you. Are you free this Sunday at three p.m.? I’m in this club for people like us, people who are down on their luck.”

  That was about a year and a half ago, and I’m still in Bad Luck Club. Most people don’t stick around for that long. The purpose of Bad Luck Club, after all, is to turn your luck around, and here’s the thing—most people do. Dee left ages ago, and now she works at a doctor’s office and is married to a hunky bartender who gets panties thrown at him on the regular. But he doesn’t cheat on her. I know this because I wouldn’t let my girl marry a cheater. Before the wedding, I followed him around for a solid week to make sure. But the only flowers he buys are for her, and he wrote his own vows for their city hall wedding. It’s sweet enough to rot your teeth out. She deserves it, though, and I’m happy for her, even though I don’t see her as much anymore.

  The only other Bad Luck Club long-hauler is Harry, whose issues are the most like my own, except my paranoia is about relationships, and his is about everything. All of the other original members have moved on, other than a couple of people who got kicked out. Some dude whose name I don’t remember, and Augusta, a pathological narcissist who makes me look like a saint.

 
At each biweekly meeting we get a new challenge from our sponsor, something that’s meant to inspire us and help us kick our bad habits. Now that Dee’s off in loved-up land, my sponsor is Cal, the co-founder of the group. Cal and his dad started it together, presumably because they have a thing for losers, or maybe they just wanted to feel less shitty about their own problems by surrounding themselves with other messed-up people. Because, make no mistake, they are messed up. Cal’s a good-looking, reasonably intelligent guy, but he acts like he’s a ninety-year-old with a cane he thumps on his porch while complaining about millennials and ignoring the fact that he is one.

  My most recent challenge was to apply for a more interesting job, probably because Cal is sick as hell of hearing about my coworker, Bob, who I’m ninety-two percent sure is cheating on his wife. I’d love to get some proof, but Cal argues that my HR duties do not extend to policing employees’ personal lives. He has a limited imagination, but he is my sponsor, and I did agree to occasionally listen to him.

  That’s why I’m here, sitting in a rickety wooden chair across the desk from the director of a local theater company. Staring at the hand-painted figurines lined up on her desk.

  The position at Forest Theater doesn’t pay as well as my current HR job at a toy manufacturer, a gig that’s surprisingly lacking in joy, but it sounds more interesting. Besides, there’s a side bonus: I’ll be free to get the goods on Bob without fear of being fired.

  Okay, admittedly I’m not that worried about getting fired, but Cal would probably be bummed out if that happened, and part of me doesn’t want to disappoint him. He’s like the big brother I never wanted.

  The director, a middle-aged woman named Leaf, glances down at my resume, then up at me, as if struggling to relate one to the other. I get that a lot. When I started my job at J&M, I had long, dark hair and no visible tattoos or piercings. But one of Dee’s first challenges was for me to express myself more in my appearance. She probably thought I’d buy a crazy dress or a pair of platform shoes, but in the course of one weekend I’d gone from looking like a good little Italian girl to having a pierced nose and pink dreads. I’ve since swapped the dreads for a pink pixie cut. Truth be told, if my boss at J&M weren’t slightly afraid of me, I suspect she would have urged me to follow the company dress code, which prohibits anything “flashy,” like “wild” hair colors or clothing with “unusual patterns.” What’s more, it amuses me to lecture people like Bob, who every so often tries to wear a button-up shirt with rubber ducks on it, for not following it.

  Well, if these theater people don’t like a little color, they don’t belong here. I’ve become myself, and I’m not going to let anyone stuff me into another beige box.

  “Your experience is remarkable,” Leaf mutters as she gives me another glance, just as probing as the first. She rearranges one of the little figurines so it’s facing another, only the first is bent over and the second is lunging forward. It looks like they’re about to screw, and I bite back a laugh.

  “How good are you at dealing with difficult personalities?” she asks.

  A teeth-baring grin stretches across my face. “I’d say it’s my specialty.”

  Another rearrangement. She’s nervous, I realize.

  “The thing is, Nicole,” she says. “Theater people are known for their…intensity. It helps add nuance and depth to their roles, but it can make them difficult to work with. They often have difficulty working with each other. We need a real…people person.”

  I almost laugh. No one’s ever accused me of being a people person. I fell into working in HR the way some people fall into a life of crime. It was the first job I got offered after college graduation, and it turns out there’s not much you can do with a liberal arts degree unless you feel like going to school for another four years. But the paycheck’s fine, and the work is so easy you can spend the majority of your day researching other, more interesting jobs.

  So no, I’m not a people person. No one comes to me for tea and sympathy. But if you need help controlling difficult people? Call me Machiavelli.

  “I think you’ll find I’m not easily sweet-talked,” I say. “And I don’t take bullshit.”

  Leaf nods like one of those woodpecker water toys. “Good, good. And you know you’d be the only HR person on staff, correct?”

  “Yes.” It greatly adds to the job’s appeal, although a people person wouldn’t say so.

  “We’re a family around here. So even though your job title would be HR, you’d be expected to help out with other things.” She laughs, a tinny, anxious sound. “I’ve painted half the sets myself. We all pitch in when the going gets tough.”

  “How tough can it get in theater?” I ask, more curious than nervous.

  Her skin blanches. “Oh, it can get bad. Last year, someone struck our lead actress, Amber, in the knee with a sword because she wanted to steal her role.” She shook her head sadly. “I guess she watched that movie about Tonya Harding and took away the wrong message. Luckily, it was a plastic weapon we used as a prop, and the worst she got was a bad bruise. Needless to say, the other woman is banned for life.”

  Huh. Theater is interesting. Go figure.

  “I was raised by a single mother,” I say truthfully. “I’m used to pitching in. I was making dinner for us by the time I hit eleven.”

  Sure, I nearly burned the house down at least twice, and my abilities still don’t extend much past boiling water, but she doesn’t need to know that.

  She nods twice and moves a dog figurine around so it looks like it’s biting the horny man in the ass.

  And then I say the magic words. “Nice figurines. You paint them yourself?”

  When I step out of her office and shut the door behind me, having secured a job offer and more information than anyone could want to know about her painted miniatures—Cal would be proud of me for listening without interrupting—I notice a tall man pacing in the open area at the other end of the small hallway. There’s an exit behind him and, to his right, another hallway branches off. It would be wasted space, a bubble that’s larger than it needs to be, only it’s packed full of random set pieces—a shoulder-high wooden ant, a badly painted mailbox, half a dozen plastic flamingos, and a piece constructed to look like a trash can. Actually, maybe that’s just a trash can.

  The man practically bristles with anger, with intensity, and something inside me stirs. He is dangerously attractive. Golden brown skin, a perfect five o’clock shadow, a head of beautiful black curls, and light eyes of indeterminate color. The only imperfection, which isn’t really an imperfection, is a thin scar slicing one eyebrow.

  He looks at me for a moment, his gaze direct and…surprised?

  I move toward him, both because he’s standing in my way and, hell, he’s pretty to look at. My last boyfriend, Ian, lasted all of a month before I caught him having lunch with another woman. I grabbed his full beer and threw it on both of them.

  I’d been doing pretty well before that—the Ian thing was what Cal called a “regression.” I figure it’s mostly Ian’s fault for having such a hot sister. Also, they called each other “sweetie” in their texts, so maybe they’re the ones who need therapy.

  Anyway, as penance, I’m supposed to be on a man-free diet. One month.

  It was the challenge Cal gave me at the meeting before last, which means I have one week left. So I should really squeeze past this man and forget him. Then again, if I’d been any good at following the rules, I probably would have graduated from the club in a reasonable amount of time, like Dee and everyone else who’s come and gone.

  “Who are you?” Hot Stuff asks. “I haven’t seen you before.”

  “I’m new, and you’re in my way,” I say. “Move it, or I walk through you.”

  You’re welcome, Cal.

  A smirk plays on the man’s full lips. “I’d like to see you try.” He eyes me again, his gaze lingering on my breasts. “I’d really like to see you try.”

  “Don’t blame me if your dick gets in t
he way of my shoe.”

  His eyes twinkling, he says, “Depending on the context, I might not mind.”

  A wave of attraction washes through me, pooling down low, and shit, part of me wants to pull this cocky bastard into my new office to see if he can do other interesting things with his mouth.

  Huh. Do I get an office?

  “Look,” he says, his expression turning conspiratorial, “I thought someone else was in there with Leaf. I heard she was trying to trick someone into taking the HR position.”

  Interesting. Apparently, he shares my soon-to-be ex-employer’s take on what an HR professional should look like. I.e., not me. I feel a new swell of appreciation for Leaf, who’s so desperate to hire someone she apparently doesn’t give a shit.

  “Yeah,” I say, “you’re not wrong. She said the same thing to me.”

  “Shit,” he says, kicking what looks like a ship anchor. He must have wrongly assumed it was a plastic prop, because the next thing I know, he’s swearing up a blue streak and hopping on one foot.

  It’s so delightfully absurd I have to laugh.

  “You try kicking it,” he mutters, giving me a dark look.

  “No, thanks. I have a history of foot injuries from kicking inappropriate things. Besides, I need to save strength for kicking you in the dick, remember?”

  “Right,” he says, one corner of his mouth lifting in that devastating smirk. Taking in my pink hair and nose ring, he says, “I’ll bet she brought you in to help with the set pieces, huh?”