by Anne Conley
But Ginger was an appealing distraction. That was for damn sure.
She was taller than most women, and that was attractive to him. Being a tall guy himself, he didn’t like stooping too much to kiss a woman. And this woman’s lips were insane. All lush, plump, soft … Fuck.
Her eyes were hazel—a mix of brown and green, clear and bright, like lagoons of color splashed onto her face. They showed a depth and defiance that made his cock hard. Not at all like the vapid whores Cecil kept around at the club.
No, Ginger was different. But he had to put a lid on that. He’d meant what he said about waiting until he got his shit straightened out before they started something. But they would start something. He was sure of it.
His cock twitched as he looked over at her apartment. She was snuggled on her couch with her laptop on her legs, munching out of a bowl next to her, deep in thought.
Adjusting the tightness in his jeans, he reminded himself he had shit to do before he could go after her. He had to clean up some garbage.
Like the fact he’d borrowed ten grand from his boss to help his mom out of a jam, and now his mom had stolen the money he was supposed to pay his boss back with.
Clenching his fists, Slade grabbed his jacket and left without another glance at the beguiling woman with the amazing mouth across the way.
Ignite was an old club on Sixth Street and had come under new management. Cecil took over when his Uncle died under suspicious circumstances which nobody talked about. Cecil came in with a balls-to-the-wall attitude and fired anyone who second-guessed his decisions.
Slade was parking around back, the weighty dance beat already pumping in his ears as he tried to figure out exactly what he would say to Cecil. It had been made clear to him he was to repay the money tonight, or it would be considered an advance on his paycheck. He didn’t want an advance from Cecil. He didn’t want to have to borrow the money in the first place, but an advance was bad. It meant Cecil owned him for at least six weeks.
And nobody owned Slade. Especially not Cecil.
Bile rose in his throat as he pushed through the doors to the club. Heavy music was pumping through the loudspeakers, but nobody was there to dance yet. He wished like hell he didn’t owe Cecil a damn thing. Cecil wasn’t the type of guy anyone wanted to owe.
He found the rest of the security guys huddled around the bar, discussing assignments for the night. Austin, Sergie, and Cole were all wearing the standard uniform of black pants and black t-shirt with Ignite’s logo on the front, looking over a clipboard.
“Slade, you’re on patrol tonight, man,” Austin called as Slade approached the group.
He nodded. Patrol was good. It meant he walked around the club looking for trouble, and he could duck out of the way of Cecil and be harder to find. He could handle patrol.
A small group of people came into the club. There was a small segment of the population who came in early, got their drink on, danced a little, and left to go home to Netflix. Slade loved those people. They rarely made his job difficult. It was the serious partiers who came in a little later who made his life hell. Occasionally, some of the early birds would try to hang with the partiers, and that was a recipe for disaster. Drinking from when the bar opened until it shut down was never a good idea.
“Slade.” The voice from the stairs in the back sent a lead ball crashing to the pit of his stomach.
“Sir.” Slade turned to see Cecil standing there—in all his shaved, bald-headed glory—staring at him. The man jerked his chin, beckoning Slade over to him. Cecil turned and walked up the stairs, and with a heavy sigh, Slade followed.
He knew what was coming, and it pissed him off. Ten thousand dollars wasn’t worth this. He was going to kill his mother. Lots of people had ten thousand dollars lying around for emergencies, in savings, or a retirement fund at least. Not Slade. His mother made sure every cushion he’d ever had was wiped out for one thing or another—car trouble, hospital bills, new emergency wardrobes, tires—just bullshit. Slade had nothing to show for the work he’d done. And now, he was going to be working for nothing.
“Slade,” Cecil said his name again as Slade entered the office overlooking the club. Where Ignite was furnished and decorated with money, the office space was even more—ten-fold. Leather seats and sofas lined the room, an enormous burled wood desk in some French-looking style dominated one end, and the carpet was a thicker pile here than anywhere else, with plastic over the high traffic areas. Slade had never allowed himself to think on the plastic too hard. “Close the door behind you.” His boss’s voice was affable, almost friendly, and Slade didn’t like that.
“Yes, sir,” Slade answered as he shut the office door firmly and crossed his arms over his chest. It made his biceps look bigger, and at the moment, it was a reminder of the fact he could kick Cecil’s ass if he wanted.
Cecil would have him killed for it. That idea seeded in his brain and took root, wilting his cockiness a tad.
Cecil smiled, a predatory gleam in his eyes. The leather in his chair squeaked as he propped his white alligator-skin boots on the top of the desk. Leaning forward, he made a show of ritualistically selecting a cigar from the box on the desk, clipping the end, wetting it with his mouth, lighting it with an expensive lighter, etc., etc., ad nauseam. It was one of his power plays, a way of showing supremacy to his underlings.
When he was finished, he was puffing huge clouds of thick smoke into the air, and Slade was trying not to choke. Cecil was weakening him, physically, probably pissed at his gun show.
“I don’t have your money, sir.” Slade decided to just get it out there, maybe they could just skip the bullshit for once.
“Where is it?” Cecil’s eyebrows were raised, as if he were genuinely curious, but Slade knew he was just playing games.
Slade wasn’t going to get into the whole “my mom stole it from me” story. It would make him look weak, for one, and for the other, his mother was embarrassing, to say the least.
“It don’t really matter, does it? I don’t have it, sir.” Slade had no idea why he dumbed down his speech for this asshole, but realized how petulant it made him sound. He straightened his mouth into a grim line, to harden his features, hoping that would help him be taken seriously.
“Well, that changes things, doesn’t it, Slade?”
Slade didn’t have an answer. Of course it fucking changed things. The heavy dance beat filtered into the room through the floor, and Slade had a sudden desire to float up with it, through the roof and away from this place. But he couldn’t do that. He was stuck here.
Cecil got up from his seat, the leather squeaking ominously, and walked around to the front of his desk. Leaning on it, he puffed on his cigar thoughtfully, scrutinizing Slade.
Slade refused to look at the plastic he was standing on. It was conspicuously there to protect the expensive carpet, but it would handily keep blood off of it when Cecil put a bullet through his head.
“You borrowed money from me with the promise of paying it back. Plus interest.” His voice was menacingly low, and Slade could only nod, a sickening sense of dread settling in his gut. “I work hard for my money, boy. To run a clean operation.”
Slade managed to keep a straight face, knowing there was prostitution, gambling, and drug-dealing going on in the back rooms. And that was only what he was aware of. He suspected there was something to do with guns as well, but he hadn’t been privy to that, yet. Slade swallowed, and it sounded thick in his ears. He hated that sign of weakness. But he was over a barrel at the moment; he was the one standing on the plastic.
“You don’t borrow money from me and not pay me back, Slade.” Another puff of the cigar, more clouds of sickening smoke.
He was at Cecil’s mercy, and if the man moved fast enough, Cecil could have him pinned down with a cigar burn and Slade wouldn’t even realize it. He forced his fists bunched in his armpits to relax, even as they heated from the sweat.
Cecil saw the movement and smiled. He leaned back
and crossed his arms, lazily flicking his cigar ashes. “Here’s the deal. You choose. I shoot you now and we’re done. Or you run some errands for me for four weeks, or until you get me my money back. If you manage to run across fifteen grand before the four weeks are up, I’ll call us square.” Turning his back on Slade, he walked back around to the chair behind his desk and sat again, reclining and putting his feet up while simultaneously pulling a pistol from his jacket. He aimed it at Slade with so much nonchalance, Slade would think the man was offering him a lollipop.
How the fuck had he gotten into this mess? Of course Cecil had tacked on an extra five grand. Fucking perfect. But what could he say? He was the one standing on the plastic, and now he had a gun pointed at his face.
“I can run some errands,” Slade choked out. Looking down the barrel of a gun, no matter how small, was still disconcerting.
Cecil smiled, pulling a package from the drawer in his desk as he put away his gun. A sigh escaped Slade’s lips. So it began. He was now Cecil’s errand boy. No telling what was in that package, but it probably wasn’t legal.
“Oh, don’t look so glum, boy. Four weeks. That’s all. Then you can go back to bouncing, since that seems to be your dream, Slade. Just four weeks of working just for me. Now, take this package to the address on the sticky note and you’re done for the night.”
Slade drove his bike to an address on a hill overlooking Lake Travis, where a party was clearly going on. Holding the envelope loosely in his hand, he walked up to the door and let himself in.
Sex was in the air. A woman wearing bikini bottoms and nothing else was making out with a kid no older than twenty in the entryway, and it looked like she was waiting for Slade.
“Is that from Cecil?” At Slade’s nod, she gestured to some stairs. “Upstairs, third door on the left. He’s been waiting for that.” Slade excused himself when she giggled and let out a moan when the kid did something with his hands behind her back.
The music was quieter up here, allowing the sounds of slapping skin and moans to filter through each door he passed. Definitely sex. When he got to the third door, he knocked before entering.
There was a threesome on the bed, two women and a man, with him being ridden like a stallion, another woman sitting on his face, and both women were twisting their nipples and moaning like banshees. There was another couple on the rug at the foot of the bed, the man fucking the woman’s face while she rubbed circles on her pussy.
Slade was instantly reminded of Ginger and got hard.
The man getting the blowjob looked up as the door closed behind Slade. “Is that from Cecil?” He was smiling as he pushed the girl off his dick and walked over to take the envelope, oblivious to his own nudity.
At Slade’s dumbfounded nod, the man tossed the envelope onto a table. “Thanks, man. You want some of this?” He gestured to the women in the room. “You bring me gifts, I give you gifts.” A bark of laughter escaped him as he looked at Slade waiting for an answer.
Slade looked at the debauchery around him, thinking about the gun he’d had pointed at his head less than an hour ago. The adrenaline from the experience had drained his body during the ride over, and some meaningless fucking would do wonders for his bruised psyche.
He was about to ask if the girls were willing—judging by the looks they were throwing his way, it wasn’t really necessary—when Ginger’s curves under his body filtered into his head.
Slade was so fucked up. He was cock-blocking himself.
“Nah, man. But thanks. Maybe another time.” Lord knew, he’d probably be out here again.
Chapter Six
Slade was back in his apartment later that night, having showered the night’s events off him, a bottle of bourbon between his legs.
He sat in his living room, watching Ginger’s apartment.
He could do this for four weeks, but he didn’t want to.
Taking a slug straight from the bottle of Jack Daniel’s, Slade contemplated the darkened apartment across from him as he thought about his things. He used to have some valuable stuff, but his mom had broken in one night a couple of years ago while he was working and taken most of it. His lesson learned, Slade hadn’t replaced a damn thing because he knew she’d just do it again.
His first night as Cecil’s errand boy was mostly what he’d anticipated. It was only a matter of time before he turned into Cecil’s scapegoat. He needed to get the cash to pay Cecil back, and then he would quit working at Ignite altogether. There were other bouncer jobs out there, or maybe he could even find something else.
But he needed cash.
He looked at the plasma TV on the wall at Ginger’s house. It was too bulky and wouldn’t bring him the cash he needed, but maybe she had some jewelry or something? A safe full of cash? He snorted at that thought. He didn’t know how to break into a fucking safe. Maybe she kept her cash in a drawer or under her mattress? Some people did shit like that. Stupid people. And Ginger didn’t strike him as stupid. Crazy, yes. Stupid, no.
She had to have something.
Slade had just enough whiskey and desperation coursing through his veins to think this was a good idea. One more slug of Jack and he was out the door and across the courtyard. He stopped at her door, ducking behind the wall to catch his mind. It was spinning out of control, and he knew if he did this, he would cross a threshold he couldn’t come back from. He would be a criminal, there were no two ways about it. Christ. He was a criminal anyway. Cecil was seeing to that.
He wished he’d brought the bottle of Jack with him.
But he hadn’t. It was probably a subconscious thing; he couldn’t blame this on alcohol, although he’d hit it pretty hard when he’d come home tonight. But no. This was on him. If he broke into Ginger’s apartment with the sole intent of stealing something to pay Cecil back with, he’d be no better than Cecil.
But he’d be out from under his thumb.
Taking a deep breath and holding it, Slade used his elbow to break the glass next to the door, cringing at the noise. He didn’t exhale until the tinkling of the glass hitting the floor stopped. Carefully, he poked his arm through the hole and twisted around until he could undo the locks and open the door.
Once inside, his heart pounded so loudly in his ears, he almost forgot why he was here or where he was.
He could smell her everywhere—her scent on everything. He willed himself forward to her bedroom, where her jewelry was most likely kept, and walked across the living room where he watched her every night before work.
Slade felt badly. He wouldn’t be able to watch Ginger anymore without guilt tinging the arousal he normally felt. When he’d crossed the threshold to her bedroom, a soft whisper came over his shoulder.
“How much does Mr. Fine Ass weigh?”
It was her. She was awake and directly behind him. Shit. The glass breaking must have woken her. Stilling, he gritted his teeth together. “One-ninety, something like that.” He started to turn, but her next word stopped him in drunken confusion.
“Perfect.”
A sharp thud radiated through his head, and his world went dark.
When Slade awoke, he was in the surreal position of being tied to a bed. He blinked and flexed his arms and legs, willing the thudding headache to just go the fuck away. Then he saw the perfect view of his darkened apartment across the courtyard and realized where he was.
Cuffed to Ginger’s bed.
“What the ever-loving fuck?” he muttered, not really expecting an answer, but Ginger came out of the living room, hefting a gun in her hand.
Of course she was armed. He should have known.
“My words exactly, Mr. Fine Ass. What the EVER-LOVING FUCK?!?”
“Look, I’m sorry. I had a little too much to drink tonight.”
“What were you going to do?” She set the gun down on the dresser and leaned against it. Slade exhaled a relieved sigh she apparently wasn’t going to shoot his balls off. “Get drunk and break into my apartment in your pajamas?”
/> He looked down at his pajama pants, thankful he’d had the foresight to slip on a t-shirt before coming over. Thinking fast, he retorted, “You broke into my place first. What if it was a little quid pro quo?” She would shoot him if she knew he were there to rob her.
Of course, as guilt flowed through him, Slade realized he’d shut her up. Ginger’s hazel eyes flashed in defiance as she realized she’d been bested, and he couldn’t stop the chuckle from filling his chest. Of course, that made his head hurt.
“What the fuck did you hit me for?”
“You think you’d have willingly let me cuff you to my bed?”
He waggled his eyebrows in response. “I’ve seen what happens on Tuesdays, remember? I might have.”
The blush that flowed from her chest, across her shoulder, over her face, to her hairline, was one of the hottest things he’d ever seen. That’s when he noticed what she was wearing.
Next to nothing.
Ginger’s nipples were pebbled to hard peaks, and his cock twitched at the sight. She wore a thin camisole-type tank top over a pair of barely-there, cotton panties—just scraps of fabric, really. He looked hard, imagining he could see tantalizing outlines and shadows that caused his cock to semi-harden.
“You broke my window. That’s property damage. Landlord won’t fix it unless I file a police report, asshole. Just sit tight while I call them.” She moved to her bedside table where her phone was.
“Wait.” Handcuffs rattled as Slade struggled against them. These weren’t the novelty kind; they were real. What the fuck was she doing with real fucking cuffs? “Wait. Please …” Slade was begging now, and she looked over at him with a raised eyebrow. “I can explain.”
Her face broke into a wide smile, and she bounced on the bed like a giddy school girl, clapping loudly. “Oh goody! Is it true confession time? I lo-ove this!” she squealed, sending a jolt of something feral to his cock.
Slade wished his dick would grasp the severity of the situation and quit acting like it was experiencing puberty for the first time. Clearly, she was fucking with him. Besides, it wasn’t like the flannel pants were hiding much. And she was totally noticing. He stifled a groan as her eyes widened and her tongue snaked out to wet her bottom lip.