Declan's Demand

by M. C. Cerny

  We are worlds apart.

  “Your address?” the one with the bald shiny head asks, holding open the door while the other—with closely cropped hair—is texting on his cellphone.

  Sighing, I get in the car. If they were going to hurt me, they would have done so already—or at least that’s what my instincts tell me. It’s strange how I feel less anxious around them than I do their boss—alone, outside his club in a bad part of town.

  “Doesn’t your boss already know?” Snapping my seatbelt, I cross my arms over my chest and stare out the window, letting my face scrunch up into a petulant expression.

  Both men crack a smile, eyeballing each other. Baldy drives and they leave me to my own thoughts. I look around; at least the car is clean.

  I don’t ask their names because I don’t want to care.

  Barely any time passes when they pull up to my building. It’s a bit run-down looking, but its home and it’s not my dad’s house. I’m able to lock my doors at night and feel as safe as can be without having to worry about who is going to break down my door when the day comes to collect my dad’s debts. I’m a good daughter, a dutiful one, but I’m not sticking around to be someone’s punching bag. I’m desperate to help him because I love him, but I’d like to think I’m not stupid, either. That’s how I came to be working a crappy low-wage job, living in an apartment to preserve the last of my sanity.

  I thought Declan Natas could help me—give me a job, anything to get this albatross from hanging around our necks. There are plenty of things I can do while willingly subjecting my moral compass to a downward spiral trying to pay back a hundred thousand dollars. Instead he turned me down flat without listening to me, barely glancing in my direction. Worry motivates me, and my lack of experience in the real world make problem-solving Dad’s gambling debts difficult. Who do you ask to legitimately borrow a large sum of money from when you have no collateral?

  I need to get Declan’s attention, but how?

  He didn’t seem fazed by me, except for his dirty-talking mouth and near-promises to have sex with me if I overstayed my welcome. My co-worker and the few friends I have—including my roommate—told me I was naïve with men, but even I know one thing speaks universally: sex. Unless of course Mr. Natas is gay, but I doubt that by the way he’d bit his bottom lip unconsciously and the way his dark eyes had seemed to get larger with each angry word spewed in my general direction that lacked any violence. The girls in his club during the off hours on a weekday were bubbly, happy, and thick with eyeliner, hanging out for the first barfly willing to seek their sugar. Maybe I need to take a note from the pros?

  I don’t know the first thing about sex, being a twenty-year-old virgin whose closest female relative died before I had taken notice of boys my age. I’m not against sex; I’ve kissed a few frogs and had a few dates. I’ve seen a penis—once. Of course that dated ended prematurely, when he came too quickly after rubbing against me, as embarrassing as that had been—messy, too.

  I know my roommate loves it, based on the sounds coming from her door at night. Well, at least on the occasions she decides to actually stay at the apartment. Stacy is a nice girl and pays her portion of the rent on time. I hate being judgy, but she has more hook ups then a metered parking spot.

  My reservations come out of my own lack of self-confidence. I have no idea where to meet guys that aren’t cheap and looking for an easy girl, but I’m sure the owner of a seedy club has sex all the time, probably in some dirty back office. If I could fool him, maybe I could save my dad, get his debts paid, and live happily ever after with my own shame and guilt or whatever that looked like on a Thursday afternoon in hell. I don’t even know what I would fool him with.

  So far it isn’t looking good.

  Declan’s henchmen drive down my street. The sun has set and the landscape looks different from inside the confines of the SUV’s tinted windows. It’s darker and a chill rakes over my body as I notice the nuances of my lackluster neighborhood. Rough-looking kids hang out on the corner tossing a hacky sack, and the homeless guy is tucked in between the stoops of the next apartment building. Part of me hopes my roommate is home and not out with whomever she’s dating this week. Another part of me wants to sneak inside, shut the door, and pretend that none of this is happening.

  “Miss Meadows,” the driver states, and I scurry to hop out before either one can try and open the door for me.

  “Thanks for the ride,” I call out to Thug One and Thug Two from my stoop with my hand on the door.

  Number Two lifts his hand, waving two fingers at me in an odd sort of salute as I slip inside. I wait until they pull away before shutting the door behind me with a slam. Five solid minutes later and my heartbeat only a fraction calmer, I peer out the peephole. It seems all clear and I don’t look back and bound down the steps to the coffee shop where I work between the exceedingly part-time classes I attend at the community college.

  The coffee shop has a few stragglers and students studying at this time of night. I see my gorgeous co-worker behind the counter, flirting with a customer, and she winks at me as I make my way to the back office. I feel better being in the presence of people—even strangers.

  Discretely, I pull up a few internet searches with our office computer and free wi-fi. The internet is full of articles speculating about the young entrepreneur Declan Natas. He remains a widely discussed mystery, from his beautiful house to his business holdings, and scores of photographs taken with a different beautiful women nearly each night of the week. Declan appears to be quite the ladies’ man with his collection of ladies fawning over him like a stable of fillies. My stomach does a familiar flip when I take in his angular face. He’s much larger in person, and the camera doesn’t do his intimating looks any justice. It’s almost a crime to not get the warning he should come with.

  I search the most recent website entry for his club and social media. Everyone who is anyone is on social media these days. The club he owns, aptly named Natas, advertises Friday night as ladies’ night in the club. Free drinks, dancing, and music all night long made it sound like a gathering for wannabe vampires, considering I was usually in bed before eleven each night between my singular class this semester and my job brewing coffee.

  A mental review of my closet leaves me feeling hopeless. I don’t even own anything sexy enough to wear to one of these parties. My one staple black skirt reaches my knees, and I have nothing to show my cleavage off. He would probably kick me out again, embarrassing me because I didn’t meet the slutty dress code. After forcing a meeting with him tonight, is there anything left of my dignity to be embarrassed over?

  Probably not, although I have a feeling Declan Natas could find something to bring me down a peg or two, because being mean is his style.

  I go to the bathroom and check myself over in the mirror and dim yellow lighting. The reflection shows I’m slim with small boobs and a narrow waist under my jacket. At least I have thick shiny hair and clear skin. I need makeup to bring out my eyes. My mind skims my small makeup bag, and I probably have eyeliner left over from last year’s Halloween party and cherry ChapStick. I definitely need something much more revealing to wear if I’m going to pay him another visit. I didn’t want to blow what might be my last chance to convince him to help me. Heck, I don’t even know what I’m really offering, but I want another chance to try and convince him to help me.

  I steady my breath and call out, “Selma, I need a dress for Friday.”

  My co-worker pops her head into the bathroom, eying me up and down in an appreciative way.

  “Really?” She bounces against the doorframe, smiling. Selma is one of those lucky girls with stunning features. She gets customers to buy her drinks, and she works here at a coffee shop. One time a customer brought her takeout lunch from a swanky place across the city. She could only eat it on break, but the dessert easily cost more than my tome of English lit for the semester.

  “Yes.”

  “What do you need?” Selma also
has this amazing closet of clothes. I don’t know where they come from, but I’ve seen that some of the dresses still have price tags on them.

  “I’m not sure—something sexy. I need heels.” I smooth out my brow in the mirror and trace my lips with my finger. They feel small and thin compared to Declan’s full mouth.

  “So you’re going to go out with Jason?” She looks hopeful, almost too hopeful that I might consider breaking the dry spell of my dating life.

  “Jason?” I turn looking at Selma, who is smiling herself.

  Jason is the guy with soulful green eyes who has been coming into the shop for a month, asking me out between his order of coffee and chocolate chip scone. I decline him each time he comes in because I don’t want him involved in my mess. This situation with Dad needs to be resolved before anyone gets hurt.

  “Not Jason, no,” I tell her. I have to give her credit for trying to look disappointed.

  “Can you break it to him easy so he can ask me out instead?” She bats her eyelashes coyly, making me laugh. Selma shouldn’t have any problem courting Jason’s attention, with her sexy curves. Commanding a fair amount of attention all on her own, she’s not at a loss for dates on Friday nights. Jason’s interest in me is surprising, but I don’t have time in my life for a boyfriend. Apparently I’m in the market for a sugar daddy, despite my reservations.

  “How about this: I’ll tell Jason you’re interested next time he comes in, but I need the dress and shoes for Friday.”

  “You’d look good in blue—maybe navy?” She taps her chin.

  I shrug. “I’m not picky, Selma.”

  “Anything for my girl.” Winking, she leaves.

  Husking a deep breath into my chest, I resign myself to do this. The house is mortgaged to the hilt and I don’t even own a car. I should tell Declan that you get what you get and you don’t get upset, like I told the kids I used to babysit. I don’t know where the maudlin thought comes from; I doubt their mother would want me as a babysitter now, but I chuckle into the mirror.

  I’m going to offer up my body for my father’s debts.

  Chapter Three

  Declan

  A tapping nail pulls my attention upward from the stack of contracts I’m reading. A headache is throbbing in my head, and if I can leave early tonight, I will.

  “Your stray returned.”

  I look up, stretching my neck lazily and pretending to not look.

  Tabby nods to the stairs leading down into the club pumping with music. The week has come and gone, keeping me busy checking shipments and working between the office here and the one from home in Back Bay. I’m looking forward to a quiet evening of drinking, and maybe fucking a girl who knows the deal and won’t expect platitudes and presents afterward. I like to think my prowess between the sheets is gift enough.

  Rolling my eyes, I finish my shot of tequila, letting the alcohol scorch a smooth hurt down my throat and then slamming the glass on the counter. Somehow I think I knew whiskey wasn’t strong enough for tonight. Glancing at the prey holding a tentative court at the top of the staircase, I look around at the men who see her. What the hell is Sydney doing back here? I doubt ignoring her presence will make her go away. She’s a persistent little thing, and punishing her torments me. I can tell a few men have ideas of their own, and I don’t like it.

  Muttering “bloody hell,” I stalk off to my lounge, disregarding the interloper. If she wants me so bad, she can work for it. I’ll let her run the gauntlet of lecherous stares and groping hands, as much as it bothers me to grin and bear it. The temptation to throw her out increases with each passing minute. She doesn’t belong here, but the need to see how far she will take things wins out, pinning me to my seat. Besides, I have the enjoyment of advising Neil that he’s lost his bet with Tabby.

  “Dec.” Joining me, Neil salutes me with a drink and I follow with another. He hasn’t seen Miss Meadows yet, and a smile cracks my face for a change. I’m going to enjoy telling him, and follow it by consuming copious amounts of alcohol. Other women are the last thing on my mind after seeing Sydney here in my space.

  I point in her direction, speaking. “Thought you should know you lost your bet with Tabby.”

  Neil’s brow furrows and he turns half around watching the delectable Miss Meadows nearly stumble down the club steps in her too-tall heels, body encased in a short navy trench coat that leaves little to the imagination.

  God, I want to tear it off her like an orange peel and stab my fingers deep into the layer of dark, stiff cotton, hearing the organic material rend. The need to rip it off, not caring how it ends up torn on the floor, overwhelms me.

  Neil grunts. “You seem pleased by this, Dec. I thought you said she wouldn’t be back. Like ever, if memory serves me correctly.”

  “Yes, and I also heard it’s a virtue admitting when you’re wrong.” I’m rarely wrong, but in this case I set myself up for failure miscalculating her moves.

  Neil watches her descent into the club. His eyes follow her, as do mine. It pisses me off—Neil ogling her barely covered ass and shapely legs.

  “So what are you going to do now?” he asks.

  I raise my arms behind my head, feigning a relaxed pose. “I’m going to enjoy the show.”

  He fiddles with his phone, taking a drink, but I see his eyes stray in her direction. He’s doing it to test me, not because he’s genuinely interested in her, and he’s lucky I know he wouldn’t poach.

  “I bet you are, Dec.”

  I growl, “Stop staring at her.”

  Neil snickers. “You and every other man in here are looking her over.”

  “Well knock it off.”

  “Are you staking a claim?” He smiles and I sigh.

  “As if you didn’t know.”

  Neil barks with laughter and several heads turn to stare at us.

  “Easy, brother. I don’t want the delectable Miss Meadows, but you might want to let the rest of them know that.” He points to where she’s shyly making her way into the center of the club.

  “I imagine that’s why she came, but not for you, so stop staring.” Sitting up, I settle into my seat, spreading my legs out and casually adjusting myself. Ladies pass by and offer their services to entertain me, but I brush them off with lame excuses. I’m too interested to see what Miss Meadows hides underneath her pretentious little coat. Under the lights the navy looks black, same as my suit, and oh so fitting. We are both a metaphor in disguise, one pure as snow and one dark as sin.

  I would love to teach her to sin; but it isn’t my place to sully her, despite how much I want to. Girls like her should be avoided at all costs. She might legally be adult, but in my head I know she doesn’t have the experience a woman of my acquaintance would—and that’s not putting her down, it’s the truth. My women are lionesses, scheming and seductive. Sydney is a fluffy little kitten with too-big eyes and a heart of gold, sadly misguided in thinking she can save her father from further ruin and destruction. Someone ought to tell the angel that he’s beyond redemption. And who better than a man coated in sin and on a first-name basis with the devil?

  It’s tempting, that’s for sure, but I have no allowance for projects like this that could take up my time from legitimate business and whoever is fucking up my shipments. If I have to guess, it’s LeHavre, and right now I don’t have the trusted manpower to keep tabs on him and watch out for Sydney. Stevens and Rhodes already have enough to do without devoting time following Sydney around.

  My eyes hover over the last sip of alcohol in my glass, watching her sneak around the corner. On shaky legs she climbs up to the dais, leaning down into my piano player’s ear and catching his attention. The grand piano sits in the center of the club, with spotlights illuminating the shiny black lacquer. The piano lounge is something else I inherited, and with a few upgrades I made the place a real money-maker, eliminating my need to launder funds—because shit, alcohol and sex are an easy cash cow.

  She whispers in Rob’s ear, fueling my ange
r with irrational jealous feelings with each passing minute. Her hands fidget on her tied belt. What is Sydney doing? The anticipation of waiting for her to loosen the belt has me zoning out from the background noise of the club. I want her to do it. I want her to pull the belt loop loose, but I wait.

  Rob gets up from the instrument, patting the seat for Sydney to sit down. Her hair is pulled back from her face in a tight bun as severe as the cinching belt around her waist, giving her an hourglass figure. The music from the bar behind me mutes to a whisper, and her fingers strike the pale keys with skill that surprises me. Shocks me, really. She plays as if classically trained, fingers stumbling on the keys but once, and the tune resembles the original song—only with a jazzy twist. It’s Bob Dylan’s “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door” and if she thought temptation with a song about a dying deputy was going to sway me, she’s wrong. Her father made his own fucking mess, and he should fix it himself instead of relying on her to do it. She relinquishes the piano back to Rob, who gives her a little bow. Confusion churns in the pit of my stomach as I scan the number of eyes focused on her. She moves to the pole strategically placed next to the piano, and Rob returns, picking up the song where she left off in a haunting melody.

  Her legs sway a bit and she reaches up to let her hair loose. Pins scatter to the floor in little black bouncing pings, and locks of hair curl in delicious waves, taunting me to grab them. I wonder if girls learn to do that trick early on to wrap us around their little fingers. It’s obviously working, because men in the club whistle and I look around to see who is watching her declaration of war on my senses. If baby doll wants to play, baby doll is going to have to pay. They’re all watching and it’s pissing me off.

  Her hair tumbles free in waves, releasing her floral scent into the air. Slender fingers tug at the belt loop, unraveling the knot. Her jacket slowly opens to reveal the present underneath. I wouldn’t mind a private show—except she’s showing everyone, and my ire magnifies tenfold. My fists clench, short nails biting into my palm, and I want to grab her hair up and wrap it around my hand, back into a bun. I want to button and cinch her jacket up tight from her knees to her neck so only my eyes have seen her offering. Mostly I want to spank her ass until it’s pink and raw and she’s unable to sit down for a week for this display she’s putting on right now in my club, uninvited.