This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Specific named locations, public names, and other specified elements are used for impact, but this novel’s story and characters are 100 percent fictitious. Certain long-standing institutions, agencies, and public offices are mentioned, but the characters involved are wholly imaginary. Resemblance to individuals, living or dead, or to events which have occurred is purely coincidental. And if your life happens to bear a strong resemblance to my imaginings, then well done and cheers to you! You’re a freaking rock star!
Introduction
Alter Ego is the prequel to The Alex Drake Series and takes place before Access and The Alex Drake Collection.
Enjoy!
xoxo, Lexxi
1
Paco
Manhattan
At nine thirty on the dot, Paco Robles laid two choppy knocks on the door of his boss’s office in the executive suite on the fifty-second floor before letting himself in.
Paco wasn’t the garden-variety employee at Drake Global Industries. Technically, he wasn’t on the books at all. His salary was completely under the table, and his access to offices, documents, and DGI’s high-powered CEO, Alex Drake, was absolute.
No one but Alex had a clue who Paco really was or what he did, and that was just the way he liked it. Despite his role being undefined, absolutely everyone knew he was as close to the top as you could get in the multibillion-dollar global corporation without actually body-snatching the boss.
At his knock, a gruff heave came from behind the door. The sound gave Paco the mistaken assurance he could enter.
Once he’d swiped his access card on the wall panel and stepped inside, he instantly realized the error of his ways.
There was Alex in all his ball-busting glory. Suit on from the waist up, five-thousand-dollar slacks pooled around his ankles, he was currently focusing all his efforts into pounding the well-rounded ass of his latest conquest.
Paco could have silently backed out, but a discontented huff escaped him as he checked his watch. You know the time, ass-wipe. You said nine thirty.
Without breaking the rhythm of his bucking thrusts, Alex looked up and gave Paco a boyishly innocent shrug intended to deflect the daggers of his best friend’s squint. And his ridiculous finger-shush was wholly unnecessary.
Paco rolled his eyes. Like I’d embarrass the girl. It’s bad enough she ended her day with you.
After a short exchange of a dozen choice expressions between them, he left.
This was the side of Alex Drake he loathed. He used to hate all sides of the bastard, but that was a long time ago. When a man has gone through hell and back, it’s easier to overlook his shortcomings.
All the world ever saw of Alex was the asshole side of him, but Paco knew the real him, the pieces that kept Alex from sleeping for days on end. And no matter how balls-deep he got inside a woman, no woman was getting close to him.
Or at least, not in a way that really mattered.
Twenty minutes later, a mildly sweaty and supremely apologetic Alex peeked his head into Paco’s office. “Hey. You, uh, wanted to see me?” His chuckle was contagious.
“Not that fucking much of you,” Paco blurted. But his jovial smile broke through as usual, despite his having to deal with the hellacious pain in the ass known as Alex Drake. Tonight was no different. “Let me guess. That would be Ms. Taylor.”
Yet again. Another young woman who happened to have the last name that haunted Alex. Haunted them both.
Blinking away the past, Paco refocused on the here and now.
Alex was dealing with things the way he always did . . . deliberately. Methodically. Redefining OCD by practically fucking his way through the phone book, one Ms. Taylor at a time.
Thankfully, Alex never outright asked Paco to find the woman he really wanted. And Paco never offered. Their understanding was unspoken, and neither seemed interested in crossing that invisible barbed wire of a line.
Defeated, Alex gave him a pathetic shrug, not bothering to verbally confirm what they both already knew. Instead, he changed the subject.
“Hey, you’re the one with unfettered access. What can I say? It’s a double-edged sword. Speaking of swords—”
With both elbows on his desk, Paco plopped his head in his hands, working his fingers into each temple. Frustrated, he suggested the only solution that would alleviate his oncoming headache.
“Look, I just need to kick your ass. It won’t take long, so I’ll make it quick. It won’t even muss up your hair any more than it already is, and I’ll hold back enough to keep you out of the ER.”
Laughing, Alex relaxed into the leather wingback chair opposite Paco’s desk. “Maybe later. But my comment was actually business related.” When Paco arched his brow with a stern glance of disbelief, Alex lifted a hand. “No, really. Charity called. We’ve got a bite.”
If the hooker to the elite was calling Alex Drake with intel on someone trying to get a piece of the megamogul, Paco was all ears.
“Well, this I’ve got to hear.”
2
Charity
With barely a glance in the mirror, Charity settled on her outfit. An oversized sweatshirt hung just over one shoulder, and her favorite athleisure leggings were too comfy to pass up. Sweeping her long honey-blond hair into a scrunchie, she topped off the look with a smirk that softened to a smile.
Good enough. Not exactly the picture of a kept woman.
Maybe that was painting her position a little too rosy. A hooker by any other name . . . would fuck as sweet. That is, if she were ever given the chance.
For the past eighteen months, Charity had been living the life—and a lie—all because Alex Drake had decided to keep her. And what a life and a lie it had been.
Like clockwork, money showed up in her account on the first of each month . . . the first bank account she’d ever had. Some might call the money an allowance. To Charity, it was a small fortune she’d use to make a better life.
Her apartment in the heart of New York City’s Upper East Side also came with the package. Its location on a quaint little street with classic brownstones sandwiched between chic high-rises placed her on an elite row.
Within walking distance of coffee shops and high-end shopping, the coveted location near Fifth Avenue was a hop, skip, and jump from priceless works of art on Museum Mile and the world-famous Met. A most unlikely home for a woman who’d spent years walking the streets and working the corners not too far from there.
With barely a penny to her name, Charity had been speechless a year and a half ago when she first stepped into the chic modern apartment. It boasted top-of-the-line stainless steel appliances and a kitchen island bigger than her bed. But nothing else. That is, until a designer showed up within minutes of her arrival. He asked about her preferences and showed her some photos and sketches. Within hours, truckloads of furnishings were unloaded and perfectly arranged to create an upscale apartment worthy of a home decor magazine layout.