by Xavier Neal
Irritation over French preventing me from doing what I feel obligated to do most, stings the back of my throat. “Did you figure out how he got in?”
“Avoiding the cameras,” she sighs in frustration. “Apparently it’s time to revamp security protocol. From this point forward, no woman walks to her vehicle alone. Period. She is to be escorted by a Prince or my security detail.”
“We should’ve been doing that shit a long time ago.”
Suddenly, she appears in the doorway to the bathroom, directly across from me, in nothing but a matching black lace bra and thong. “Well, fuck me for not liking the message that women are inferior to men. That we can’t walk from point A to point B without needing them to ‘rescue’ us.”
My eyes do their best not to be distracted by the intoxicating sight.
Fuck. Serious topic, I know, but how the fuck can I focus with her nipples pointing at me and pussy whispering for my attention.
I groan my sexual grievances, adjust my cock, and argue, “You aren’t. You’re implying that their lives are more valuable not less. Additional protective measures provided for those harder to replace. And for what it’s fucking worth, men typically are more intimidated by other men than they are by women, even women who can clearly handle themselves, like my long-legged girlfriend who once used her heel to break a man’s thumb.”
“He shouldn’t have touched my ass.”
“I definitely fucking agree.”
She offers me a smile before she returns to changing.
“Did you catch whoever it was?”
“We did.”
“And?”
There’s a pause much too long for my liking. “Just some asshole who had no idea who he’s really dealing with.”
Sounds a little suspicious to me…Do you know something?
“Aside from the no woman walks alone, I have hired a gate guard to watch those coming and going from the parking garage itself. A security patrol officer for the garage itself, along with two plain clothes security guards to watch the perimeters of this building. One will be stationed across the street at the café while the other is disguised as a homeless man on the opposite side. Both working twelve hour shifts. I also added sixteen new cameras variously positioned around the exterior. The last of them should’ve been installed today.”
That alone should prove to you if you haven’t already got it, she does nothing small and always goes the extra distance for security.
“You should hire four more and put them on four hours shifts a piece, with an unpredictable pattern switch. If you change the faces and positions more often it’ll make it more difficult to spot the routine. Plus, two men on twelve hours shifts run ragged much fucking faster and miss crucial shit versus several men who only have to be alert for a fraction of the time.”
All of a sudden, French strolls back to the doorway now in low rise jeans and a strapless lace black shirt that flares at the end of it. Her long hair is pulled to one side of her tilted face, exposing the subtle gold choker around her neck. My tongue thickens as does my cock.
Fuck…I can’t even remember the last time I saw this French. See…this was my French. The one I danced with. The one who fed me and never looked down on me. The one that taught me confidence was silent and insecurities were loud. The one who confided in me her love of waffles but fear of becoming fat from them. The one who filled the holes to my darkest depths and kept me from trying to dig them back up. This is what the real French looks like. No high dollar dresses. No outrageously high heels. Less make up. Less intimidation. Not a mythical all-powerful creature prepared to grant or beseech. Just…human. A beautiful, bright, brilliant…human. One who is all fucking mine from now until our corpses are sharing a casket. Q’s so fucking wrong about her. I’m not some fucking fill in while she waits for some asshole in an Audi to swoop in. I’m the one who keeps her grounded. Let’s her have moments like these. Moments I know she secretly misses.
As if completely unaware of the spell she’s pulled me under, she shrugs. “Fine. I’ll have files pulled for you to start sorting through tomorrow. You’re only on deck Friday, so unless you’re requested for one of the VIP rooms you should have plenty of time to do thorough research.”
Fucking, VIP rooms. Hate that shit almost as much as I hate bachelorette parties. Thankfully, French keeps my limit to having to fill the request of a private dance to three a month. That’s as low as she could go without showing noticeable favoritism.
I swallow the ball of temptation to blow off the evening I have planned for us. “Agreed.”
“Good,” she hums and swiftly approaches. “Now will you tie my shirt in the back, so you can drag me off to whatever misery you have waiting?”
Once she’s arrived in front of me and turned so I can do what she asked, I question, “Why do you assume it’s going to be miserable?”
“Because it’s not us at home, naked on the couch or the kitchen floor or the hot tub…”
My dick knocks against her ass in agreement while my fingers slip off the now tied bow. Slowly, I run my fingers across the intricate red rose tattoo that starts at her left shoulder and flows flawlessly to the small of her back. French hums as my fingertips caress the petals of the first flower followed by the leaves and thorns that disappear underneath her shirt where the other roses lay.
She got them with the thorns as her own reminder that with beauty often comes pain. I got my cock pierced at the time. It was a reminder I couldn’t wait to use on her, that pain can be mixed with pleasure. Yeah. I fucking know. My whole fucking life revolves around this woman. She seems to be the only one who doesn’t fucking get it.
I lean down and knock my lips against her ear. “I’ll never cause you misery, baby. I swear.”
She brushes her plump behind against my crotch at the same time she shoots me a seductive look over her shoulder. “So, we’re staying in?”
With a shake of the head, I give her ass a good squeeze. “Get your fucking shoes.”
French scowls, huffs, and pulls away from me to do as instructed.
Always so fucking difficult…What? No. I’m not smiling. Just…shut up.
After a short drive, filled with bitching about my road rage and complaints about her suggestions for dinner, we arrive outside the first of my two intended destinations for the night.
Nah. You don’t get a head’s up either. Just enjoy the fucking surprises.
I shut my SUV off and give her a crooked grin. “Will this do?”
French stares at the small brick building wedged between an all-night burger joint and a dive bar. She does her best to hold in her approval yet her eyes betray her. “We haven’t been here in years.”
“Your fault.”
Her head snaps my direction. “Excuse me?”
“Your fault,” I repeat. “You had a pool table put in your penthouse. It made coming here to blow off steam…unnecessary. You put every reason that could make you leave The Castle for fun inside of it. Your. Fault.”
She doesn’t disagree.
‘Cause she fucking can’t.
My hand drops down to the top of her thigh. “I figured after the rough week you were having, some fresh air might be good. Got to thinking ‘bout this place last week when you bandaged my hand. It reminded me of the first time you ever…patched me up.”
French lightly laughs. “Patched you up? Brock the first time I ‘patched you up’ was after bailing your ass out of jail over a fucking bar fight you started here, which almost got us banned.”
“Yeah, well, that asshole learned, you don’t come within five feet of what’s fucking mine.”
“I wasn’t yours yet!”
“You’ve always been mine even if you didn’t have the balls to admit it.”
She glances away at the second nerve hit.
Again, she can’t fucking deny it.
I attempt to lighten the situation, “I did learn that next morning your lack of sympathy was high.”
“Your
stupidity cost you a few injuries. It’s not my job to baby that,” she playfully snips. “And speaking of being a baby, it was like you had never had cuts cleaned before!”
“That shit burns!”
“Cry baby.”
“Fuck you.”
“Tried to suggest that already, but we’re gonna play pool,” she teases with a chuckle. “Come on. Let’s go have me kick your ass for old time’s sake.”
I grunt, “You’re really not that good, baby. Been letting you win since day one.”
She gives me a mocking look. “Awe…I bet your ego believes that’s really true.”
A small chortle leaves me as I shake my head. “You’re in for a rude fucking awakening.”
The two of us exit my Escalade and head for the doors of the pool hall. I hold the door open for her and immediately link her hand with mine the moment we’re both inside of Stickz. Together we observe how this place hasn’t changed much in years. It still has a slightly sleazy feeling though less bikers are crowding the place on a Wednesday than they used too. The ground is now stained concrete instead of stained gray carpet. While the small bar area is to the left, shaped to look like a pool table with the green top, and wooden structure, the actual tables themselves are to the right and centered, with high top bar tables outlining the rest of the place. I helplessly grin at the faded beer posters and blinking neon signs still on the walls.
Doesn’t look like shit, but the memories we made here were anything but.
“Let’s get this ass kicking underway,” French says with a smirk.
I pay for a spot, order us a couple of beers, and we quickly start a game at a back table. The shit talking is immediate and consistent through our first round. It goes faster than expected, resulting in a loss for me, and an obnoxious victory dance for her.
About half way through the second game, I’m losing again, and in disbelief she isn’t fucking cheating.
“Stop glaring,” she coos as she circles the table looking for her next shot. “I told you. I’m just that good.”
“Pool shark.”
“I was,” French hums and leans over the table to make her move. “Hustling pool helped me buy my first car at 16.”
Still surprised to learn shit about her after all these years, I ask, “How long did that take?”
“Three months.” The ball sinks into the spot right in front of me. She cocks a wide grin at me and mocks, “Oh…did you wanna play?”
I flash her my middle finger.
Love of my fucking life…Ridiculous.
She takes a couple steps around to set up for her next shot. “What about you? When’d you get your first car?”
“When you bought it.”
My answer causes her to miss the shot.
Not intended, but at this fucking point I’ll take what I can get.
She doesn’t seem irritated by the loss of her turn, but by my response. “You said you had a car before.”
“Never said it was mine.”
Her eyes stay pasted on me while I prepare my shot. “Joyrides?”
“Until it wasn’t joyful anymore.” I hit the ball. “Got me kicked out of my foster home, again.”
French doesn’t lecture or judge, just curiously questions, “Where were you going?”
“Anywhere I could be someone else,” my quiet confession is proceeded with a hard grumble for missing another shot. “Fuck…”
At that point, she struts over, and instructs, “Let me show you what you keep fucking up.”
Her hands slowly graze my body as she repositions me, taking my head back to the first time she taught me the basic rules to the perfect lap dance. The pressure to pleasure ratio. The tease to touch to torture trifecta. While I know I should be focused on the words rolling off her tongue, I’m lost to the incredible feeling of her having her skin burn against mine.
She blurs my ability to think when she’s this fucking close. Is that a normal fucking thing or am I extra fucking whipped?
“And then release,” she quietly instructs, forcing my hand to do it. After the ball lands in the hole, I turn around to face her. French folds her arms firmly across her chest. “You weren’t listening to a fucking word, were you?”
I shrug. “Not really.”
She snickers, snatches my black hat off my head, and places it on hers, “Loser buys this round of onion rings. Extra ranch.”
The sight of her in my hat pummels the pandemonium of my past and promptly realigns my present. In a definitive tone, I state, “You should always wear my shit.”
French leans against the edge of the pool table. “I do look fucking fantastic in it.”
A grin grows on my face seconds before I lean into hers. “You look the most fucking fantastic when the whole world can see you belong to me.”
She tugs at the bottom of my black t-shirt and counters, “But how will they know you belong to me?”
“From simply watching me,” I thoughtlessly reply. “I haven’t looked anywhere else in ten fucking years, baby. My whole fucking life is you.”
French whimpers, “Take me home…”
Her request receives an immediate yes from the more than willing participant in my pants.
He’s like her. We’d never leave the fucking penthouse if he had it his way.
“Not yet.” I thumb her bottom lip. “One more stop.”
**
French thanks the waitress at The Den for her glass of champagne while I give her a nod in the same regard for my glass of water.
She had one beer while we played pool and water while we grabbed burgers from the place next door. She tolerates beer…I think mostly for me. But I’ve had all I’m going to have tonight. Hate drunk driving fucking morons. Not just for risking their lives but also fucking over others. And me? I’m willing to put my life on the line to protect French, not be the reason she needs protecting. Why the fuck are you looking at me like that?
Her eyes glance around the posh yet modernly decorated piano bar. “Good to occasionally see up close one of my investments flourishing.”
Are you really surprised she owns this place? She’s like Mrs. Monopoly but fucking sexy…
“The dim lighting goes well with the hardwood floors,” she hums between sips. “They took my suggestion.”
“Was it an actual fucking suggestion or more like an implied command?”
Her eyes lift to mine, dancing with mirth. “Didn’t realize there was a difference.”
The guy behind the piano announces it will be his last song, which causes me to grunt my relief.
Of course there’s a fucking reason we’re here and that dickhead isn’t it. In fact he’s wasting time I could be balls deep in paradise. His set was supposed to end when we got here ten minutes ago. You’ve figured out why we’re here, haven’t you?
“I fucking hate this song,” I grumble under my breath as I scoot closer to her.
“Why?” She asks, crossing her legs. “Because it’s not an Usher song?”
“Hey, don’t fucking knock the prolific son of R&B.”
“Wow…I don’t know what fucks me up more. The fact you called him the prolific son or that you know what that is.”
My eyes narrow. “You know I’m not a fucking idiot.”
Hate how the entire fucking world assumes because I grew up with a shit life and shit circumstances I don’t possess the capability of being a fucking intelligent adult.
She hits me with a similar stare. “I was kidding. Well, about the knowing what that means part. I’m well versed in your obsession with 90s R&B and rap.”
“They don’t fucking make music like that anymore.”
“Of course they fucking don’t!” She says on a small laugh. “Music like most forms of art are about progression. What’s happening now. What’s happening next. And 90s R&B while well respected by myself-”
“See.”
“-and many others born near or around the time period, people want different shit to put them in the mo
od nowadays. They want their ass smacked and hair pulled. They wanna hear that shit and let it be an okay thing for them to be into for four minutes while a song plays. They want their dirtiest fantasies to be able flash freely even if it’s just a fraction of a song in an overcrowded night club.”
Her logical take from what most people never give a second thought to causes me to smile.
“All I’m saying is while you worship at the alter of Usher there are others who have come out more recently that aren’t…terrible.”