by Piper Lawson
“She owes me,” I say at last, my voice gravel. “And even queens must pay their debts.”
I see why she was on the rise before imploding. She’s mesmerizing.
This arrangement is supposed to be strictly business, but the idea of seeing her admit she can’t fight me is oddly appealing.
Fuck. I need to get laid if a naïve young American hurling insults at my decency and my empire makes my cock hard.
But I’m still watching her, trapped in the limbo she creates with her energy, her music, leaning in like a shameless voyeur.
She’s the rebel girl every horny teenage boy at boarding school badmouthed, then secretly fucked his hand to at night while wishing it was her pussy instead.
I’ve always preferred women as careless as they are beautiful. But there’s something about her that makes it impossible to look away.
I expect my brother to rip into me for being soulless. When I finally force my attention to him, he’s watching her, as entranced as every one of the drunk and high patrons below.
“She’s pretty.”
Alarm coils in my gut. Before I can snap a response, or even decipher the layers of my reaction, the track changes.
Boys want a fight
Want to prove they’re right
Let them scratch and hiss
Circle when they piss—
The words seep into my skin.
My gaze narrows on the DJ, and as if she senses it, she looks up toward our booth.
And in a move as graceful as it is deliberate, she flips both middle fingers.
Ash barks out a laugh, the genuine kind I haven’t heard in far too long. “Fuck, Harry. I think I’m in love.”
5
Rae
“Hello, American,” a male voice whisper-shouts as I yank off my headphones at the end of my set.
The man standing within earshot is my age and the kind of preppy handsome that sells Ralph Lauren campaigns.
I look at the security guard, who is facing the other way. Not again.
“Hey!” I shout at the guard, who finally turns back, spotting the man next to me.
“He’s a VIP,” the guard mouths.
Perfect. I should’ve known Debajo would be one of those places where VIPs get whatever they want.
“Don’t worry. We’re going to be friends.” The man who approached me offers a blinding grin that’s familiar and not. “That was quite the set. Have a drink with me.”
“I’m not sticking around.”
“Please?”
What the hell? I could use a drink. Plus, I won’t be able to sleep for hours.
With luck, I’ll get to bed by six o’clock in the morning, stare at the ceiling for a few hours while waiting for a response from my lawyer, then drag myself out of bed midafternoon to do a little sightseeing and get my bag before catching a flight out of here.
“You’re buying,” I inform him.
Before heading to the bar, I stop in the bathroom, pop two ibuprofen, and wipe the sweat from my face and neck.
My new friend meets me outside. “Not going to lose this wig?”
I hold a strand up. “This is my natural hair color.”
He grins. “I’m Ash. Now is when you tell me your real name.”
“I don’t think so.” I settle in next to him as we head through the private backstage halls. Security lets us pass without comment.
“Damn it. It was going to seem natural when I called you Raegan, but I guess I can’t say you told me.”
I stop abruptly. “How did you—”
“Come on, blondie.” He grabs my wrist and tugs me after him.
I reluctantly follow.
My real name might be on every contract, but I keep my personal life separate where I can. It’s strange hearing not only my nickname, which all my friends use, but my full name.
“Wish I could hide out for privacy,” he says, reading my mind. “I play pro football.”
I scan his lean form. “Quarterback?”
He scoffs. “Proper football.”
It suits him, being an athlete. He carries himself as though he uses his body for a living.
He holds the door for me, and I walk through into another world. There’s a private bar, beautiful people lounging at tables, a poker game in one corner. The veneer of casual exclusivity is impossible to miss. Diamonds against crushed velvet. Wool suiting on faded leather stools.
My gaze lands on the table of men playing cards. One in particular has me stiffening.
Harrison King is wearing a suit tonight. He’s impeccable. Not runway-model beautiful, but mafia-don ruthless. Sharp angles and unyielding planes. His strong face is sculpted into an intense study of the cards in front of him, the ones on the table.
Ash follows my gaze and snorts. “Don’t let him ruin your fun. Just because he’s a prick and he owns the place…”
“I’m glad I’m not the only one who thinks so.”
We head for the bar, and he orders me a cocktail.
“Harrison King stole my belongings,” Ash goes on after. “Held my head underwater until I conceded. Told on me.” There’s a long pause as I process each of these transgressions.
Finally, Ash raises his glass, grinning. “He’s my older brother.”
I shouldn’t be talking to anyone who shares an ounce of DNA with the man I loathe.
“So, he sent you to make nice.”
“Hardly. He’ll be upset I’m talking to you.”
I clink my glass against his before taking a sip. The vodka soda is clean on my tongue, in my throat, as music from the afterparty outside drifts in. “Then by all means, continue.”
Ash barks out a laugh, blue eyes warmer than his brother’s. “If you hate him, why are you playing his club?”
“A mistake. One I’m going to fix in the morning so I can get out of here.”
“That’s unfortunate. You should stay.”
“Help the man I hate make money?” I scoff.
“I’m going to tell you a secret. You’re making money too, Raegan.”
“Rae,” I correct, not because we’re friends but because hearing my full name weirds me out. “Why do you care?”
He turns the glass in his hands. “Women have followed him willingly all his life. I think you’d show him there’s another way.”
“He wouldn’t appreciate another way. The man treats women like disposable napkins.” I think of how abruptly he silenced his club manager earlier today.
“He proposed to the last woman he dated. They were engaged, until she ended it.”
I cut Ash a surprised look. The idea of Harrison King having a softer side, of wanting to spend his life with another person, is hard to picture.
“I can’t imagine what he did to deserve to get dumped.” I don’t hide the sarcasm, but I’m still processing the “engaged” part.
“He trusted her too much.” My new companion’s voice softens with what sounds like empathy. “We date the people we think we deserve. Though he’d never admit it, my brother doesn’t think he’s worthy of better.”
My attention drags across the room to the man in question, hating that those words make me question Harrison King’s spot in hell.
I realize my mistake too late, because he’s spotted me.
Harrison King rises from the table with the grace of a shadow. Now, he’s headed this way.
Even as my stomach knots, I can’t help comparing the two men. Their coloring is similar, a faint tan from the sun under dirty-blond hair. The same magnetic blue eyes. But where Ash’s friendly, Harrison is cold. Cut from marble.
“Brother,” Ash greets him as he arrives. “You’re the only person in a suit at this hour.” He nods to the rest of the room, where every other man has long since stripped his jacket off.
“I wear one because it’s my club,” Harrison replies.
I take a drink. “There are other options to hide the stick up your ass besides Hugo Boss.”
Ash cackles in delight, a re
action that has Harrison’s nostrils flaring with irritation.
“It’s Brioni.”
Ash smirks. “I was telling our little queen how exceptional she was tonight.”
“When my club is full, I’ll praise her,” Harrison states.
Ash turns back to greet a friend, leaving me and Harrison at the bar.
“Unfortunately, this was a one-night-only performance.” I shift off the stool. “But I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“Not half as much as you did.” He blocks my path. “I saw the way you lose yourself up there. In my club, which you seem intent on despising.”
Anyone in the crowd could tell I was having a good time. But the way this man watched me, the way he’s watching me now, feels as if he sees under my clothes.
Under my skin.
My body tingles, from his closeness and the intimacy of his words.
“It’s a persona. Not me.”
“You can’t hide how it makes you feel. You’ve had orgasms less satisfying than what you experienced tonight.”
The thrumming in my stomach streaks lower, between my thighs.
Laughter goes up from across the room, but I can’t look away from Harrison King.
“You know nothing about my orgasms.”
His gaze drags down me, and I will my body not to respond. I’m hot, and I pull the hair over one shoulder to leave the other bare. He follows the movement, attention lingering on my exposed skin and heating it like a filthy kiss.
“You told Leni this afternoon that you hated me no matter how pretty I was or how big my cock is. Which means you’ve considered both. That’s why you’re angry,” he continues. “You know you should hate me, but the thought of me gets you off. Am I the villain who slinks into your room at night and makes you come?”
The man is a ruthless billionaire. Incapable of compromise. Incapable of love.
But his voice turns me on, that decadent accent he deploys like a weapon.
It’s obscene.
“The only thing I’ve thought about,” I say, nodding to his belt, “is how you must be compensating for something to be this much of an asshole.”
When my attention drags back up to his face, the expression scorches me alive.
A cheer goes up from behind us, and we turn to see Leni come in the door, lifting her hands. “You were great,” she informs me with a grin, offering a high five. “See you back here Monday?” She looks between Harrison and me. “Unless the boss eats you first.”
The man at my side growls, and Leni laughs.
I’m mystified by the dynamic, still remembering the way he shut her up without a word earlier.
Not my problem, I remind myself.
When I reach for my phone, Harrison frowns.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling Toro for a ride.”
“He’s an old man who needs his sleep.” He jerks his head at one of the bartenders, who reaches for a house phone on the wall. “A car will be here in five minutes.”
He gestures toward the hallway, then follows me out.
He might be a villain to me, but he’s not to Leni. To Toro. To his brother.
I have a handful of friends now, but a network of people I go back with? People I trust and who trust me?
That sounds like make believe.
Security holds the outside door for us, the guard already nodding to me with familiarity. “Mr. King. Miss… Queen.”
A half laugh is out of my lips before I step out into the cool evening. Harrison cocks his head.
“Cute couple,” I drawl.
I catch his eye over my shoulder, and he huffs out a breath when he realizes I’m trying to piss him off.
I may not know how I’m going to win the war, but the battle?
This round is mine.
We stand in silence a moment before he breaks it.
“You’re the one making this hard.”
I rub my hands over my skin in response to the sudden chill—of the night air or his words. “Hard’s the only way I know.”
He strips off his jacket, and my gaze is drawn to the muscles of his shoulders and chest through the shirt beneath.
I’m distracted enough it takes me a moment to realize his intention as he closes the distance between us.
“No. Don’t—”
I lift both hands defensively, but he drapes the expensive fabric around my shoulders and pulls the lapels closed over my chest before I can stop him.
“You’d probably like to freeze to death your first night.” His closeness invades my senses, makes it hard to think. “If only to leave me in a jam.”
“I told you, I’m leaving in the morning.” Which means I won’t see him to return the jacket.
I start to shrug out of the coat, but he stops me.
“Keep it.”
What kind of a man is fastidious enough to wear designer suits but doesn’t care about giving one away to spare me a few moments’ chill? Before I find a good answer, the cab pulls up.
As I drive away from Harrison King for the second time today, I finger the edge of the jacket.
I’m alone again.
The rush of relief I expected doesn’t come.
6
Rae
“Have you found my bag?” I press a hand to my face to stifle the yawn. It’s noon, and I managed two hours of fitful sleep in the luxurious bed at the villa.
“Unfortunately not.” The woman at the airline repeats the words I heard yesterday about reimbursement as I flop onto the bed and drop the phone next to me.
I stare longingly at the bedside table, where my bottle of pills would typically be. Instead of my belongings, the only way I’ve personalized this room is by throwing Harrison’s suit jacket over the lampshade until I can figure out what to do with it.
After, I make a call to my attorney, who says there’s no clear loophole to get me out of this contract and avoid the damages written in—which I never thought I’d be in a position to consider.
My options are already thin. To add insult to injury, my suitcase might be lost for good.
I’m stranded in Ibiza without options, my pills… even a damned razor.
The jet lag is messing with my head.
My workout clothes were in my checked bag, so I pull on my sneakers and the skinny jeans from yesterday.
One glance in the mirror over the dresser shows my hair is a mess of craziness. I yank it all up into a ponytail before I peer out into the hall. No sign of anyone.
When I reach the top of the stairs, rapid shouting in Spanish comes from below, ending with, “Get back here!”
Then I’m attacked.
A big, black dog with brown eyes barrels toward me, leaping. His paws hit my thighs, his lolling tongue licking at my arms.
I catch him awkwardly.
“My apologies, señorita. He loves people,” Natalia calls up the stairs from the doorway of the kitchen.
The creature lets me set his paws back on the ground but continues to eye me as if I’m the only thing he’s wanted his whole life.
“His master hasn’t had time to take him out for his walk today. I was late finishing my errands yesterday, and…”
Probably because she went to get me clothes.
“Are you going for a walk? Would you take him? He’s no trouble.”
Guilt has me saying, “Ah, sure.”
We never had pets growing up. My parents are both in tech—my dad left Tehran for computer engineering at UCLA. They’ve always kept long hours, and though their careers meant my brothers and I never suffered materially, a dog would’ve been one too many interruptions for their goals. My mom used to say, “At least you kids clean up after yourselves when you’re old enough.”
Sometimes, we were better at that than other times.
I take the stairs down as Natalia gets the dog’s leash and fastens it on, meeting me at the front door with a grateful smile.
“You would like breakfast when you return?” Natalia gestur
es toward the kitchen. “And tea?”
I’m not used to being served by anyone, but my stomach growls—probably because I haven’t eaten in almost twenty-four hours. “Coffee would be great.”
I take the dog out and let the sea breeze go to work on my brain.
Telemanco, where the villa is, isn’t as busy as Ibiza Town. It’s relaxed and stunning, and I could totally take a vacation here if I had the money.
No matter what Ash says, I can’t stay, can’t do my best work knowing I’m making money for a man I hate.
Which means I need to find Harrison’s weaknesses.
As I walk, I use my phone to read articles about Harrison King and Echo Entertainment. Avoiding the personal stuff is hard. Search engines keep insisting I want to know about his travels with his ex-fiancée, model Eva Nilsson. There are photos of them in cafés, on the red carpet, at charity galas, and even on the beach.
She’s stunning, and I can’t help noticing the way she beams at him.
Maybe Ash is full of shit. I don’t see a woman who would’ve left. She looks utterly devoted.
Not that there’s nothing to respect about Harrison King. He relentlessly built an entertainment empire, so he’s clearly focused. But he’s soulless.
It was easy to forget when those bottomless blue eyes were boring into me last night in the VIP room. For a moment, I couldn’t help wondering how deep you’d have to fall to find something more in him, and whether it might be worth it.
A grinning old man descends on us, speaking to the dog. “His name?” he asks me after a moment.
I tuck the phone away, stalling. “Licorice.”
The man looks surprised, but the dog barks agreeably. After a few more pets, we continue on our way.
“That was embarrassing,” I inform the dog.
He cocks his head, lifting both ears.
After we’re interrupted another few times, I realize walking the dog is not a way to get quiet time to myself. Everyone wants to interact with him.
So, I make a game of it and give him a new name every time.
“Costas.”
“Siegfried.”
“Roy.”
I wind “Bowie’s” leash tighter to rein him in as I scroll through my banking information on my phone.