Suddenly my desire for being around other people evaporates. I want to go home, bury myself in bed, and play The Office reruns for hours while eating a slab of chocolate cake.
Or you could get laid.
I lick my lips, thinking of the last time Brad and I fucked. God, I could use a hook-up. Someone who’ll make me feel wanted. Someone who’ll fuck me in positions besides missionary. Just a wild night of sweaty, dirty fun.
I’ve got too many bills, and the fifty-dollar increase in rent per month is going to kill me, and my boyfriend just left. It’s too much piled up at once, and I could use a good hard fucking.
Then a splash of something cold freezes my arm and chest. Beer. I can smell it all over my clothes.
The man who bumped into me gives a theatrical gasp. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry!”
He really does look sorry, but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m going to have to spend the next four hours smelling like a goddamn alcoholic.
“I’ll get you something to wipe it off.”
I look down. My shoes are covered in Anchor Steam. I just bought them.
Fuck. My. Life.
He disappears into the crowd, booking it before I can call the bouncer. My rage flames red-hot, and I retreat into the private oasis in my mind. The waters in the ocean aren’t calm, and the sky is scorched red. I shove toward the back of the bar, through the Employees Only door.
“Chrissy, you okay?”
My face must be twisted into something foul. I adjust it and pull my lips over my teeth in an attempt to smile. Janice winces in response. The pressure in my head doubles the moment I’m passed the door, and then I shoulder into the dingy bathroom and take one look at my reflection. My skin burns like the tight, red skin of a tomato. Half of my tank top is soaked. I grab a fistful of paper towels and dab at my heels, but it’s useless. The stain is already soaking through. Fat chance I’ll be able to find a hook-up smelling like a brewery.
I watch my shoulders curl forward, and then I grasp the sink as a sob works through my chest.
And I cry.
It’s like this every night. I come home stinking of this place to my empty apartment that no longer has Brad’s boxes. It’s expressionless, like a blank canvas. Nothing on the walls. I never had the time or the money to decorate it. Brad said I was too bland, which is really another word for boring.
You have five more minutes to feel sorry for yourself. Then you get your ass back out there.
Five minutes. I’ll settle for two.
The pain shifts to the front of my brain and pounds. I wipe the tears away furiously. I’m not crying over fucking Brad, who couldn’t even figure out how to work the laundry machine. Who, when prompted that it was his turn to clean the kitchen, would respond that he would “only make things worse.” He was a useless human being who didn’t even have the decency to tell me he was planning on moving out.
Get over it. So you had some beer spilled on you—big fucking deal. There are people living through a lot worse.
Yeah, a lot worse.
My eyes are red, but everyone will assume I’m just high. I lift my arms and pull the tank top from my head, wringing the alcohol from the fabric before holding it up to my nose. Damn it. Still reeks. I run it over the faucet quickly and squeeze out the yellow liquid. Then I pull it over my body again. It’s cold as hell and it makes my nipples hard. Whatever. It’s too dark in there anyway. I try to flatten my thick hair and make myself look presentable. I wipe a few stray tears from my eyes, and then I leave the bathroom to return to the bar.
Is it me, or has the mood changed?
It’s a bit more subdued. The drunken, rowdy laughter has dimmed down to a low murmur, but it’s not exactly a peaceful vibe. Sharp tones leaden with fear echo around me as heads turn toward the entrance of the bar where three men are standing. My eyes hook on one of them.
He’s one of them. A syndicate man.
It can’t be. What the hell would they want in this bar? But there’s no question he’s syndicate. He’s wearing the blood-red shirt, the black suit and tie, and there’s that air of maddening superiority from the way he bellies up to the bar. The people seated there immediately stand up, apologizing. He and his two other associates sit down. His hooded eyes scan the bar and fill me with dread as they lock on me.
And he doesn’t look away.
A long finger flicks toward himself as his stare penetrates me across the room.
Oh shit.
My legs hitch forward with difficulty as though frozen. Against every instinct, I obey. When they beckon, you come. That’s just the way it is.
My guts swirl as I press against the mass of bodies, carefully weaving through. This is the last place I’d expect one of them. It’s a shithole of a dive in the Mission. He’s dressed in an ink-black suit, the jacket hanging open to reveal his colors. He’s completely at odds with the plaid-flannel-shirt-wearing, bearded hipster fucks that frequent this place, like a peacock amid a flock of doves. Trendy LED lights glow blue under his spider-like hands on the bar countertop. He’s a big guy—almost too big to be allowed. Even when he’s seated, he looks like a giant with his head and shoulders towering above everyone else. Two other syndicate men flank him, and one of them leans close with an ingratiating smile. Sucking up. Not even trying to hide it. Are they his guards? They must be. It strikes me as unnecessary. That man looks like he has enough power in his finger to flick someone across the room. He’s obviously someone important in the syndicate, which makes it even less likely that I’ll be able to refuse whatever the fuck he wants.
Resentment boils like acid in my throat when I stop within a few feet of him. I don’t care how good-looking he is, I’m not going to like whatever it is he has to say. I won’t take in his thick chestnut hair, haphazardly swept back over his head or the fact that he’s probably the hottest man to step foot in this dump. My eyes rake over his hollowed cheeks, smoothly shaven, where I can just see myself bending to give him a kiss. Everything about him is the opposite of Brad, who was by no means overweight, but had never lifted a weight in his life. Syndicate man is angular and rough, Brad was soft. I always had to initiate sex with Brad, but this man is already fucking me with his eyes. They’re full of that swaggering arrogance I’ve come to expect from all the syndicate bastards. He looks at me as though he owns me already.
“Can I help you, sir?”
My voice rings out strongly, even though I can feel my heart trying to escape from my chest. His lips pull, carving deep dimples into his cheeks that I suddenly want to touch. My heart pounds as he lifts his finger and beckons me once more, and I can’t tell if it’s from the bass shaking my body or his smile.
Oh, Christ, no. What does this guy want? Probably nothing good, judging from the grin on his face. There’s no question that it’s a handsome face, but there’s no way in hell I’m touching that.
I squeeze myself closer, uncomfortably aware of the blush spreading across my cheeks as he watches me steadily. He’s loosened his black tie, and I study the muscles in his chest straining against his shirt. I wonder how he looks shirtless—probably like a god. He’s all muscle. I bet if I touched his legs I would feel rock. He looks at me for a few seconds, his gaze surprisingly soft.
“Did you need something?”
A blast of hot air hits my ear as he leans forward.
“I’m Thane.”
It’s almost enough to hear the deep baritone of his voice. I turn my head, narrowly missing his lips, and lean in to talk back into his ear.
“Christine.”
“What’s a girl like you doing in such a low-rent bar?”
“I was wondering the same about you.”
“I’m here on business,” and his deep voice pauses for a moment, “and a bit of pleasure.”
There’s no hint of innuendo in his eyes. Lust burns through them, scorching through the black tank top I wear to get bigger tips. In many ways it’s no different from the stares of other men I’ve learned to exploit.
The man is different. If you’re not careful, he’ll eat you alive and spit out your bones.
I swallow down that desperate urge stemming from the mountain of unpaid bills.
“I’m on the clock.”
I’m trapped in this intoxicating cloud wrapped around me. Then a firm hand closes over my wrist, and it’s as though fire spreads from the skin he touches all the way up my arm and cheeks. Thane’s other hand touches my back, pulling me into the circle of his arms.
I didn’t say you could touch me.
“Now you’re not.”
“Says who?”
“Me.”
I roll my eyes as a line of desire runes down my spine, glowing hot somewhere between my legs. They don’t make them like him in the city. His coal-like eyes shift, hot and cold as they track over my face, lingering over my lips, my neck.
Rob, the bartender, makes air-chopping motions while mouthing something: Get away from him.
Humor him. You’ll get a big tip.
But he’s not like the other jokers who empty their wallets and write their phone numbers on the bill. I’m reminded by that when his hand touches the small of my back, and when my thighs clench together when he breathes his name into my ear.
“Have a seat, Christine.”
His warm breath billows over my neck, breaking my train of thoughts. He stands up immediately, sweeping a broad hand to indicate that I should take his chair.
Holy shit, he’s tall.
“Please.”
Fine.
Ignoring a worried look from Rob, I sink down into the vinyl seat. Thane moves to my left side and leans on the countertop, flashing me a quick smile before catching Rob’s attention.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
I’m never going to hear the end of this.
“Sure. Gin and tonic.”
Rob shoots a disapproving glare aimed in my direction, and I return the look with interest. What does he expect me to do? Tell him no? He’s a fucking member.
“Whiskey sour.”
The bartender makes our drinks as Thane leans on the counter, facing me. Once again, my eyes unabashedly slide up his lean torso to the broad chest straining against his shirt. The first couple buttons are loose, revealing a sliver of hairless chest and a tease of something dark—like a tattoo. A primal urge strikes me as I stare at him, knowing he’s the promise of really good sex. Unlike Brad, he wouldn’t wait for me to make a move, he’d just take me, just as he takes everything. I want to use that tie like a leash and force his lips over mine. A thrill runs down my throat like a hot drop when one of his eyes closes in a sultry wink. Then he lifts his drink in the air. I mimic him as he delicately clinks his glass against mine.
“Cheers.”
I echo him, tipping back my glass to let the alcohol to burn through my lips. I let it fill my skin with heat and I feel it blazing over my wet tits like a warm hand. Thane watches me with the same eyes I see all the time. He wants me, and I fucking want him, but the haze of desire mingles with a dose of healthy fear.
He’s not a normal man.
“You’ve got a boyfriend?”
I laugh into my glass of booze, already tipsy. “Not anymore.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means he left me for some other floozy, and now I have to pay the rent by myself.” I swirl the contents of my glass as the booze punches my head.
“How much is your rent?”
I exhale a long sigh. The number is so depressing that I don’t even like to repeat it in my thoughts. “More than two legal jobs worth.”
“Maybe you should just move in with me.”
Perfect deadpan. I sputter in my drink, wondering for one crazy moment if he’s serious, but then his lips curve and I choke out a laugh. Jesus, he almost got me there.
“Maybe if I was a freeloader.”
“I wouldn’t see it that way,” he says, shrugging.
“Oh?”
“I think I’d see it as having my way with you whenever I want in exchange for taking care of you. Doesn’t seem like a bad deal to me.”
The drink almost slips from my hand.
He just said he wanted to fuck you.
“Are all syndicate men this forward?”
Thane touches my shoulder, his fingertips grazing my skin, and then his hand curls over my shoulder. For a moment the touch paralyzes me and I feel heat in my face.
“Don’t act like it doesn’t turn you on.”
It does. I’d be lying if I denied it.
“I take care of my woman, Christine. That’s all it is.”
The way he says my woman brings a flush of heat to my nipples. What would it be like to be his woman? To wear the silks and attend the parties and free drinks and great food and paraded around on his arm like an expensive cufflink? I’ve seen the girls who hook up with syndicate men, and they either get married to them, or they get tossed aside when their men get bored of them. I’ve never been a gold digger. Fuck that. I make my own living.
“I don’t need to be taken care of.”
“But it would be nice, wouldn’t it?”
Sure. It would be nice. Look, I’m not going to lie about the fact that not having to worry about the rent for just a few months would be pretty damn awesome. Sleeping through the night without waking up at five in the morning strung out with stress would also be great. Everyone likes to be taken care of once in a while. It doesn’t make you weak.
“Yeah, but then it’d end and I’m back to working my fingers to the bone.”
“You think I go back on my promises?”
“No, I’d just rather not get mixed up with men like you.”
“What’s wrong with me?”
“Oh please. You know damn well what’s wrong with you.”
Careful, Christine.
“You have no reason to be scared.”
“Half the bar fled when you entered.”
A shadow moves over his face like a passing cloud, and then he shrugs. “I want to fuck you, not hurt you.”
“Wow. That’s succinct.”
“But true. And I know you want me to fuck you.”
I think I’m addicted to the callous sound erupting from his mouth when he says, fuck. I don’t tolerate this shit. I’ve had men look at me like dogs drooling over a bone and tell me what they wanted from me. It’s always been nasty, and it made me feeling nothing but contempt for them. Thane’s no dog. He could tell me that he wanted to lick my pussy, and I’d squirm in my seat as a hot blush took over my face. If anything, he’s my bone.
He sits down, close enough so that his knee juts between my legs. Fuck. Rob’s standing nearby, I know he is. I need this job really fucking badly. I can’t get involved with an almost offensively hot syndicate man, no matter how many lewd things he whispers in my ear.
I feel his eyes all over my skin, and I’m tempted to shiver. Christ, he’s not going to let me go, is he? His fingers glide over my collarbone, rubbing the hard nub on my shoulder. They slip under the strap of my tank top. Then they stop.
“That’s why you’re letting me run my hands all over you.”
“I’m letting you do it because it feels good.”
“Come home with me, Christine. You know you want to.”
“I want candy, but that doesn’t mean I should eat it.”
“Too much candy is bad for you. There’s no such thing as too much sex.”
“One time with you would be too much.”
“Ouch.”
He’s driving me crazy with his hands, and I look away from his face, which is way too close to mine. So my gaze falls on his lap. Great, now it looks like I’m staring at his cock.
“The whole pretend-I’m-not-creaming-for-him act is really cute.”
“I’m not creaming for you.”
“Really? You’re staring at my dick.”
My face burns, and I meet his laughing gaze. “I’m not interested.”
Thane takes my ha
nd in his massive one. I look at it dumbly as he rotates a broad thumb between my knuckles. God, it feels good. I close my eyes for a few seconds, lost in the feeling of my heart hammering my chest and the pulsing ball between my legs.
“Life is short, Christine. Take it from me.”
I open my eyes and gaze into his deep ones. What a perfect thing to say. Life is short. Take a chance. Fuck the syndicate man.
“You don’t waste time, do you?”
“I like to seize every opportunity I get.”
“Is that what I am? An opportunity to get your dick wet?”
His shadow over the counter grows as he leans in, my hand still trapped in his. He squeezes possessively, and my abdominal muscles tighten as he whispers into my ear.
“You’re whatever the fuck I want you to be.”
Oh Jesus.
The growl reverberating from his voice seems to stroke me right between my legs. It’s been a while—two weeks since Brad left me—and this man is hot as fuck. What better way to get over an ex than to get under him? He’s so tall that his waist is nearly eye-level, and I can see the shadow of his cock against his leg. It’s thick and long. Damn, to have that thing buried inside me as his powerful body thrusts above me—
And I know he’s syndicate. I know this is a fantastically bad idea.
“Oh Christine. If I want you, I’ll just take you.”
What?
Thane’s charming smile hardens into a mask of brute force as he turns away from me to snap his fingers at Rob, who stops drying a glass to grab something under the counter.
“Pay the fuck up or I’ll take her.”
Maybe I’m drunk—maybe I misheard him. “What?”
“I told you that I don’t have the money.”
“Then I guess I’ll hold on to one of your waitresses for a while.”
I freeze as Thane’s warm hand encircles my arm. He looks at me with a dazzling smile. “Don’t worry, I’ll return you in one piece.”
Did he just say—?
Thane almost looks disappointed when Rob reaches somewhere under the bar and slides a thick, white envelope over the counter to Thane, who opens it and thumbs through its contents. My jaw drops. There are hundreds of twenty-dollars bills flipping across his finger. Protection money? Finally, Thane nods at Rob and stuffs the envelope inside his jacket.
His Secret Baby (A Bad Boy Romance) Page 2