by Shandi Boyes
I will admit, though, my initial assessment of this establishment was a little offtrack. I thought it would be a seedy establishment with dingy lighting and cracked vinyl booths. It isn’t. The owner has pumped some serious coin into this place, giving it a nightclub type of atmosphere.
The booths are high-end with varnished wood trim and black leather upholstery. The lighting setup is impressive with it being incorporated into the music pumping out of the speakers shackled to the ceiling. From the caliber of staff I’ve seen serving clients and dancing, the standard is high. Very high. It feels more like I’ve walked into the dressing room of a Miss Universe swimsuit competition than a seedy strip club.
My aimless wandering comes to a halt when I hear “Brax!” shouted by a profound voice in the distance.
Cranking my neck to the side, I spot Damon in one of the booths in the back corner. Surprisingly, he is alone. I dip my chin in greeting to numerous scantily clad women as I make my way across the room. The scent of sweat-slicked skin intensifies the closer I get to the back of the club. Damon stands from the booth and greets me with a slap on the back and a man hug. His face grimaces when I return his gesture.
“Sorry, still fresh?”
He nods. “I haven’t drunk enough whiskey to lessen the sting of my new ink yet,” he replies, laughing.
“Where’s your brother?”
Just as the final syllable escapes my lips, I spot Ryan making his way through the throng of people mingling in the vast space. A smirk etches onto my lips when I see the disappointing glare Ryan is directing at Damon. Ryan and Damon are brothers cut from two very different cloths. Ryan was born and raised in Ravenshoe. The week after he graduated high school, he applied to join the police force. He was immediately accepted. He has spent the last nine years working at the Ravenshoe Police Department.
Damon was also born and raised in Ravenshoe, but unlike Ryan, he left the instant he turned eighteen. Although it’s never been fully disclosed, there are rumors circulating that Damon and a certain member of the law enforcement office don’t see eye to eye. That may be the reason why this is Damon’s first visit home in over eight years.
My brows lower when Ryan and Damon greet with a shake of hands. Anyone would swear they were strangers meeting for the first time, not brothers.
While issuing my greeting to Ryan, I mutter into his ear, “It’s been eight years, man, time to let bygones be bygones.”
Ryan pulls back and peers into my eyes. “You know why he picked for us to meet here, don’t you?”
I smile. “Yeah, I know. But there is nothing wrong with an off-duty detective spending his weekend looking at some fine ladies.”
Damon picked this establishment as he knew Ryan would hesitate to show up here. Ryan works hard at keeping his reputation as an honest detective sparkling clean. It is a well-known fact that certain business entities in this area pay for the privilege of keeping their establishments off the local enforcement radar. I’m pretty sure this is one of the clubs that kept Ryan’s dad’s bank balance in the positive during his twenty-year stint with the Ravenshoe Police Department.
Within forty minutes, I’ve downed three overpriced whiskeys; Ryan and Damon haven’t spoken a word to each other, and Damon has secured himself not one, but two lap dances.
I nudge Ryan with my shoulder. “What’s the deal? Why is he back?” I gesture my head to Damon.
Although Damon and Ryan have personalities on opposite ends of the spectrum, their looks are nearly identical. Both have glacier blue eyes, cut facial features, and they're extremely popular with the ladies. I’ve never had any problems pulling in the ladies, but my looks are often referred to as laidback compared to Ryan’s. He has the cutthroat, businessman appearance with his attire of choice being suits and polished shoes, where my outfit selection rarely strays from ripped jeans and designer shirts.
Ryan tosses back a mouthful of the whiskey the waiter just sat in front of him before answering, “I don’t know. He sent Ma a message a few days ago saying he might head back this way in a few months. He turns up on her doorstep the very next day.”
My lips quirk. “You think he’s running from something?” I query, noticing a mask of concern slipping over Ryan’s face.
“Something or someone,” Ryan mutters before taking another gulp of his drink. He runs his hand over the back of his mouth before locking his blue eyes with mine. “So what’s the deal with you? I’ve seen you turn down three girls since I arrived. That’s not the Brax I know.”
Shaking my head in disgust, I down my entire nip of whiskey in one hit. “I think my cock is broken.”
Ryan coughs, splattering the countertop with the whiskey he was in the process of swallowing. “What?”
I nudge my head to the gorgeous blonde prowling past our booth for the fourth time the past three minutes. “Beautiful ass, a sinful body, and a rack I’d love to bury my face in.” I drop my eyes to the crotch of my jeans. “Nothing. Nada. It’s fucking broken.”
Ryan throws back his head and laughs. I'm glad he can find amusement in my life-threatening situation. I’ve never faced this type of issue before. Normally, I’d just mumble the word pussy and schwing! My cock is ready to pounce. But for the past two months, it’s like my cock packed up and went on holidays, no notice given to me or my lust-riddled brain.
Ryan signals to the waiter for another round before aligning his eyes with mine. “Maybe things have just gotten too easy for you?” he suggests, his voice more sincere than the leering expression he’s wearing. He runs his eyes over my face and shoulder-length brown hair. “You need to mess up that pretty face of yours. Make it more of a challenge. Your dick has gotten bored with the ease of the game.”
Rolling my eyes, I punch him in the arm. When he chuckles, I shake my head and turn my eyes back to the crowd to silently ponder.
There are beautiful women as far as my eye can see, yet my cock feels nothing. Not a twinge. Not even a slight fucking throb. As much as Ryan thinks I'm joking, I truly believe my cock is broken.
I’m twenty-eight for fuck’s sake; I’m not even close to the age most men need to seek aid with this type of situation. Maybe Ryan is right? Maybe the game has gotten too easy?
My wallowing over my broken appendage stops when Ryan asks, “You still buying into Inked?”
I nod, happy to change the course of our conversation. “Yeah. With everything going on with Ryder’s boy, he doesn’t want to spend as much time at the shop. It’s kind of a win-win situation. He gets time with his family; I get to dig my fingers into ownership.”
Ryder’s son, Slater, was admitted to rehab earlier this month. Slater’s band Rise Up started smashing the charts late last year with two singles off their debut album. The week following the band’s massive success, the band’s lead singer, Noah Taylor, was involved in a traffic accident which resulted in him spending three months in a coma at a local private hospital. Ryder was worried about his boy, but Slater seemed to be handling the situation well. . . until his friend recovered. Then it all went downhill.
Ryder was suspicious a few weeks before Slater’s best mate Marcus arrived at the shop, but he was giving his boy the benefit of the doubt. Once Ryder had solid proof Slater was dabbling in a wide-variety of recreational drugs, he dragged his son’s ass to rehab. After some heavy discussions with his misses, Ryder decided to put Inked on the market so he could spend more time with his family.
After losing their daughter a few years ago to leukemia, Ryder and Lucia weren’t going to sit back and watch another illness claim the life of their child. Although I have enough coin saved to fully buy Ryder out, the fifty percent buy-in I suggested is a better situation for us both. Inked gets to keep Ryder’s honorable name associated with it, and once Ryder’s boy gets his head back in the game, Ryder will have Inked to fall back on if his home life becomes too dull.
“So when will I make you a customer at Inked?” I arch my brow at Ryan.
He smiles against the rim o
f his glass. “When you stop accepting cash only for services.”
I laugh. “That will never happen.”
“Then I guess I won’t be under your inking gun any time soon.”
I waggle my brows. “You keep talking like that, and it won’t be an inking gun you’ll need to be worried about.”
Ryan chuckles. “Lucky I can handle myself,” he replies, his tone full of cockiness. “Because I'm not just a good detective. I’m the best—”
“Fucking detective Ravenshoe has ever seen,” I fill in.
I noogie Ryan’s head, messing up his hundred-dollar haircut. “Better watch out. Your head might not fit out the door with how fucking big it’s getting.”
Ryan grins a smile that causes the girls fluttering around our booth to move in closer. He gestures his head to the crotch of my jeans. “You better watch out or your severe case of blue balls might not fit in your jeans anymore.”
When my eyes narrow in on a pair of rich chocolate eyes emerging from a set of dark velvet curtains, any concerns about my blue ball status are on track to be decimated.
“I’ll catch you around,” I say to Ryan while nodding my head in agreement with Keke’s suggestive finger crook. “I’ve got some business to take care of.”
Ryan stands from the booth to say goodbye the same way he greeted me an hour ago. Noticing that Damon is indisposed with a pretty blonde, I issue him my farewell by paying for his tab before ambling to the door.
“My place or yours?” Keke interlocks her arm with mine when we emerge onto the bustling sidewalk outside the club.
My brisk pace falters.
“I’m just playing with you, Brax,” she purrs, her voice quickly reverting from French Madame to the Keke who only emerges behind closed doors. “I know you don’t take girls back to your place.”
She spins on her heels and walks backwards while undoing the buttons on her black trench coat. “Although, when you spot what I’m wearing underneath this coat, you may change your mind.”
When she does the quickest flash, exposing inches of a baby pink lace teddy she's wearing under her coat, I snap my eyes closed and send a prayer to God for leading me to Keke tonight. Because not only did my eyes bulge when Keke awarded me with her naughty little ensemble, so did my cock.
It’s back, baby! Primed and ready to go.
Chapter Two
One month later. . .
The annoying ringing of my cell phone wakes me from my slumbering state. Shifting my eyes to the alarm clock, a disgruntled groan rumbles from my parched lips. Who the fuck is calling me at 8 AM on a Monday? Sundays and Mondays are the days Inked’s doors remain closed. Although we could trade seven days a week, from day dot, Ryder has scheduled his staff on a five-day roster to ensure a good work/life balance.
Running my hand over my newly clipped hair, I snag my phone off the bedside table. My sleepy eyes pop open when I discover who was calling me. Fuck, what has she done now?
Dialing a number I know by heart, I press my cell close to my ear.
“Caramine Care, Daniel Beckett speaking.”
“Daniel, it’s Brax Anderson; I just missed your call. Is everything okay?”
He sighs down the line. “We had a few issues occur this week I'd like to discuss with you in person.”
Great.
“Alright.” I swing my legs off the bed. “I’ll be there in around forty minutes.”
Disconnecting the call, I pace into the bathroom attached to my room while my brain tracks the events that transpired since the last time I received this exact phone call.
Two hours later, I'm walking out of Daniel’s office.
“I’ll have a word with her before I leave, but I assure you the incident that occurred earlier this week won’t happen again.”
Daniel curtly nods before offering me his hand to shake. “She certainly keeps us on our toes. No one could ever accuse your grandmother of not having enough spirit.”
Laughing, I spin on my heels and stride down the hall. Lack of spirit is something my grandma could never be accused of. I’m not at all surprised when I walk into my grandma’s room at the assisted living home she's a resident of to find her going toe-to-toe with an orderly unpacking her recently packed suitcase.
“You better not steal any of my panties. I’ve had those panties for four years, and don’t want some young grub like you stealing them.”
She is aiming to be vicious, but I hear slight laughter in her words. The orderly—who would be in his mid-thirties—cranks his neck to my grandma. Shock and a slight bit of horror are marring his face.
“Don’t look at me like that, young man. I know all about men and their weird fetishes these days. My navy blue striped sailor boylegs vanished into thin air last month. Poof. Gone. Not seen hide nor hair of them in over a month.” Her words come out with a husky lisp since she doesn’t have her full set of dentures in.
“Grandma, stop giving the staff a hard time. You know as well as I do that you’ve never owned a pair of boyleg panties.” I pace deeper into the room.
She huffs, crosses her heavily wrinkled arms under her chest as her rheumy gaze strays to the gardens outside her window. “I'd own a pair if they let me out of this hell hole,” she mumbles under her breath.
Today has been my grandmother’s fourth attempt to break out of her assisted living facility the past three months. She only moved into this facility as the stairwell in my apartment became too much for her to handle. Although we did consider moving to a more suitable location, with me buying a share in Inked and the housing market rocketing in this area, we both agreed there was no other viable option than her moving into an assisted living facility.
We visited numerous aged care facilities the four weeks following our decision. Caramine Care was the last facility we visited. With its approach on free living, a bustling social calendar, and the fact it isn’t referred to as a facility for seniors, it seemed like the ideal residence for my grandma. Obviously, we were wrong.
After gesturing to the orderly that I will finish unpacking the suitcase, I span the distance between my grandma and me.
“What am I going to do with you, Grandma? Mr. Beckett said you nearly gave some of the other residents a coronary.” I crouch in front of her and peer into her shimmering blue eyes. “He said it took over two hours to get Mr. Peter’s heartrate back under control after the stunt you pulled earlier this week.”
She rolls her eyes but maintains her resilient stance, her lips as tight as her silver ringlet hair.
“Mr. Beckett would like me to inform you that although the hydrotherapy pool is set to a warm eighty-two-degree setting, it is not a bath.” I cough, clearing my throat. “Grandma, if you wish to remain living at Caramine Care, you must wear swimwear at all times while using the facilities.”
I try to keep my voice serious, but when the corners of my grandma’s red-painted lips curl into a cheeky smirk, any chances of me keeping this situation within chiding territory falters.
“If they don’t want their residents using the bathing facilities for their intended design, they should have clear signs displayed throughout the premises for old girls like me.”
Quirking my lips, I glare into my grandma’s mischief-filled eyes. She tries to use her age as an excuse for her erratic behavior, but I know her better than that. She might have Daniel believing her seventy-eight-year old brain thought the hydrotherapy pool was a bath, but I’m not at all convinced. Why? Because much to the horror of my neighbors, my grandma skinny dipped in the pool in my apartment building in January last year. Her excuse: “If the twenty-something-year-old residents of your apartment building can do it, why can’t I?”
“Besides. It wasn’t Mr. Peter’s heart that took two hours to control,” my grandma mumbles under her breath.
Ignoring my grandma’s snide comment for the fear of it giving me nightmares, I say, “Even if you didn’t realize the hydrotherapy pool required a swimsuit, what’s the deal with packing your bags? I t
hought your escapee days were over?”
Although she has tried to escape three times previously, those attempts were during her first two weeks of incarceration at Caramine Care. For the past two months, she seemed to have settled in nicely, so I’m somewhat surprised by her sudden attempt to flee.
Before my grandma gets the chance to answer my questions, a commotion at the door secures my attention. A pretty nurse in a tight white uniform and sheer black stockings stands in the entranceway of my grandmother’s room. She has platinum blonde hair, peachy painted lips, and an enticingly curvy body. The more the nurse’s eyes wander over my face, the more her pupils dilate. A smirk tugs my lips higher when her eyes lower to assess the entirety of my package. The routine never alters. Well, except that one time.
After the nurse has finished her avid assessment of my body, her green eyes connect with my grandmother. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Anderson, I didn’t realize you had company. I’ll come back later,” she says before spinning on her heels.
Her quick departure is halted when my grandma says, “No. It’s fine, Penny, come in and meet my grandson, Brax.”
My brow arches, surprised at the chirpiness of my grandma’s voice. She seems like a completely different lady compared to the one who was sparring up against the orderly mere minutes ago. The nurse hesitates for several seconds, unsure if she's coming or going. I stand from my crouched position when my grandma kicks me in the shins and nudges her head to the flustered nurse.
“Hi, I’m Brax, Grace’s grandson,” I greet, offering her my hand to shake.
A flash of heat creeps across Penny’s cheeks as she accepts my gesture. “Hi, Brax. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Your grandmother has been telling me a lot about you the past two weeks.”