Made: A Bad Boy Romance (Bad Boy Games)

by Slater, Danielle

  “Hey!” The brunette pokes me in the chest with a sharp nail. “I’m talking to you, buddy!”

  “Please make your choice, ma’am.”

  After a long, exaggerated sigh, she stabs the phone and looks back at me, her gaze full of resentment. “There. It’s done. Are you satisfied?”

  “Only if you are, ma’am.”

  “Well, I’m not. I’m not satisfied at all. This isn’t going the way I was told it was supposed to, and I’m going to—”

  Her mouth keeps moving, but I stop listening. I drag her bratty ass across the club floor and through the door at the back that leads to the VIP section. Now that I know what’s waiting for me out front, I can’t get rid of the pawn fast enough. Nobody forced her to stick her feet in the red shoes; nobody forced her to push the red button on the phone. And who knows? Maybe de Hainault really is a prince of a guy and this chick’s got a Cinderella kind of night ahead of her.

  What can I say? I’m an optimist.

  At the end of the hall, Hunter mans the desk next to the door leading to the inner sanctum—the luxe club-within-a-club exclusively for the use of VIPs. As I approach, dragging the pawn, he shoots me a smart-ass grin. “Didn’t think you were going to make it there for a minute.”

  “Shut up, asswipe.”

  “That’s Mr. Asswipe to you.” Hunter never loses his enthusiasm for reminding me that even though I’m a better shot, have a more impressive kill record, and outweigh him by twenty pounds; he has seniority in the organization. He’s what, in the old days, they used to call a made man—trusted and respected by the bosses.

  He consults a tablet and then glances at the girl. “Miss Booty? Miss Deja Booty?”

  I choke back a harsh laugh.

  She nods and says, “That’s my name,” while shooting me death glances. Her skin is still flushed from our encounter, brief as it was, and her chest heaves as if she’s been running. “This is all your fault, you know,” she grumbles under her breath.

  “Excuse me?”

  She directs her words to Hunter and jerks her thumb my direction. “I thought he was my date. Then he turns around and forces me back here with him. I don’t even know where I am or what’s going on. It’s not fair. I call that bait-and-switch. I don’t think that’s allowed in my contract. And I did read it very carefully, I’ll have you know.”

  “I’m sure you did.” Hunter rakes me with a dismissive glance before turning his attentions back to the pawn. “My sympathies, ma’am. Our procedures are designed to be as transparent as possible under the circumstances. We regret any confusion and apologize if you were unsettled in any way.”

  She folds her arms under her tits. “I don’t like your procedures. I think I want to go home now.”

  Flipping the tablet around, Hunter presents it to her and says, “Is this your signature?”

  She leans forward, squinting. “Yes.”

  “The contract you signed does not expire until 12:01 pm on Thursday. At such time, we will be happy to escort you home. Until then. . .”

  Your ass belongs to Harley & Sweet; I finish for him in my head. As if anyone cares that she’s under twenty-one and using a false name. The contract is worth less than the electrons and phosphors that display it on Hunter’s tablet. She doesn’t know that; none of the pawns realize it. They’re blinded by the promise of more money than they’ve ever dreamed of before.

  “I don’t think I like the way things are going. It’s not what was described to me,” she says. “I’ve changed my mind.”

  Hunter puts down the tablet and starts to come around the standing desk. I hold up a hand. He halts, unspoken questions all over his face, but he gives me the benefit of the doubt.

  “Give me a minute with her, all right?” I say.

  Hunter hesitates and then shrugs. “Okay, but only a minute and then I’m coming for her. Don’t get any stupid ideas.”

  There aren’t any cameras in the hall or any of the nearby offices. I open the door to the nearest one. They’re all the same. I have no fucking idea what they’re used for and don’t care. After shoving her inside, I kick the door shut. I must have a furious look on my face because she shrinks from me.

  “If you touch me, I’m going to scream my head off.”

  “Knock yourself out. Do you have the faintest clue what you’re doing?” When she doesn’t answer, I continue, “Do you know the kind of people you’re dealing with?”

  If I think my words have any affect on her, guess what, I’m an idiot. Her eyes narrow and her expression shifts from fearful to calculating. “Oh, I get it now. You want me, don’t you? But you’re shy. That’s why you didn’t want to fuck me out there in front of everyone. You brought me back here so we could fuck in private. That’s sweet.”

  “Miss . . .” I can’t bring myself to voice her stupid name. “I’m serious. You signed a contract with Harley & Sweet, remember?”

  “Oh, that.” She waves a hand airily. “So what? It’s just paper or whatever they’re called now that everything’s electronic. It’s probably not even legal, just part of the game, right?”

  “Right.”

  “You ask me, it makes the whole thing more fun.”

  I shake my head. “The people who run Harley & Sweet are serious, and the contract is not a joke. You do not want to mess with Tucker Voss. He’s my boss. If you try anything screwy, he will make it his life’s ambition to ensure you fulfill every word of that contract or die trying.”

  “You make it sound like they’re mafia or something, giving me an offer I can’t refuse.” She giggles. “Didn’t the FBI arrest all those guys a long time ago? I think I saw it on TV.”

  One last shot: “I can get the phone back from Hunter and you can—”

  “That guy out in the hall? Is he mafia?” A knowing smile curves her lips. “Because if he is, that’s kind of hot. I’ll fuck him and the whole time, I’ll pretend I’m fucking you. How would that make you feel?”

  I am out of my fucking mind if I think I’m going to get through to this girl. “I’m trying to help you, but if you’re too stupid to listen,” I pause to point at the door, “go. They’re ready for you.”

  “Now you’re being mean!”

  “You’re going to get hurt.” The words are out of my mouth before my brain registers what I’ve said. This is what coming in from the cold has done—turned me into a damned Boy Scout. My fingers curl into fists. I want to hit things. A lot of things. Hard.

  “Oh yeah? Watch this and see just how stupid I am.” She marches to the door, whacking me on the arm with her black satin clutch as she passes. “What did you say your boss’s name was? Fucker?”

  “Tucker. Tucker Voss.” This, through gritted teeth.

  “Fucker Ass, thanks. I’ll be sure and let him know that’s what you call him. If he’s as serious as you claim, I’m sure he’ll love your little pet name for him. Or maybe that’s what he’ll do to you. Either way, you boys have fun!” With that, she yanks open the door and sashays back to Hunter’s station, head high and hips swaying, and announces, “I’m ready now.”

  Hunter holds up a hand, preventing her from marching through the VIP door. “You’ll have to leave your purse with me.”

  “Why? So you can steal my lipstick? No way. See the B on the clasp? That’s my initial. It’s special, and I’m not leaving it with you.”

  “Ma’am, please, your belongings will be perfectly safe. I’ll put your bag right here on this shelf and guard it until I can return it to you personally. Will that be satisfactory?”

  Miss Deja Booty gives Hunter another earful. Better him than me.

  I stand there in the doorway for a minute listening to them argue and wondering what the hell is wrong with me, thinking she’s an innocent who needs saving. I’m the one who needs his head examined.

  Wrong.

  Screw the rules. I need that redhead.

  Now.

  BROOKE

  The guy guarding the door to the club takes his time looking
me over. He’s the size of a small house with arms like tree trunks and an intelligent light behind his eyes that doesn’t match the gym candy addict exterior. His gaze goes top-to-bottom and back up again at a leisurely pace. I have to force myself not to squirm under the examination. He’s just the muscle; I’m just another girl trying to get inside the hottest new place in town. I notice when a flicker of heat flares behind his glance. A little thrill runs up my spine and makes me stand straighter and thrust my boobs forward. He’s stripping me naked with his eyes, which is the whole point of the dress I’m wearing. It’s a rich, dark red that flows over my curves like good wine and sets off my pale skin. I borrowed it from Caylee because there’s no way I could ever afford anything like this dress; without it, there’s no way I’d make it past the entrance hotness test currently underway. Because I’m five inches taller than Caylee, the dress is almost indecently short, but that fact also works in my favor. The guard must be a leg man.

  Since I couldn’t find my only good evening bag—a satin one that belonged to my mother—I borrowed one from Caylee. For shoes, I was on my own since Caylee and I don’t wear the same size. I managed to scrounge a pair of nude heels from the back of my closet. They’re cheap, big box store knock-offs of a fashionable style. Unlike my size nines, Caylee’s delicate size sixes are currently shod in the sexiest pair of red shoes I’ve ever seen. They probably cost more than I make in a week. When she showed them to me while we were getting ready at her place, I was afraid to ask how much they cost. Of course, Caylee being Caylee, she told me anyway.

  “They were free. They came with the card.” She dangles the shoes from two fingers. They’re sleek and elegant, sexy without being trashy. I think about wearing them while I tuck my foot into a man’s big hand. Slowly, ever so slowly, he slides the shoe off. Maybe then I’d drag my toe along his inner thigh—

  And then the fantasy vanishes.

  “You’re talking about that business card? The one you showed me the other day that tells you where to go to sign up and then. . .” My voice trails off because I don’t remember the rest of the story. When she’d started telling me about it, the whole deal had sounded so far fetched I hadn’t paid attention. “That thing. . .it’s tonight? You’re actually going through with it?”

  A sly grin curves Caylee’s features as she nods. “I knew you didn’t believe me. You’re right. It’s on. Tonight’s the night.”

  A business card matching the one she gave me lays on the edge of her nightstand. She picks it up with her free hand. Harley & Sweet is printed on the creamy stock along with an address I recognize across the river in New Jersey as being prosperous and respectable. There’s nothing unique about it. It looks like any other business card, assuming the firm is into accounting or law or something equally ordinary.

  I can’t figure out how hot red shoes fit into the picture.

  “You’re saying the people at this Harley & Sweet company set you up on a blind date and supplied totally gorgeous shoes because conscientious lawyers and accountants don’t have anything better to do than play at being high-end pimps. . .”

  Caylee blinks at me, a slight frown on her face. My sarcasm is lost on her. “It’s sort of like that, but not.” She waves a hand airily at the card. “Their office is just where you go to sign the contract.”

  Contract. Right.

  Since when do pimps issue contracts? Maybe only very, very exclusive pimps? I shake my head, figuring I’m way out of my depth, or this thing is a total scam, and I haven’t found the angle. Yet. But I will. Caylee and I have been best friends since seventh grade. No way am I letting her walk into anything remotely dangerous. “What happened next?”

  She shrugs and drops to the side of the bed to slip her feet into the shoes. “These lovely things arrived along with instructions. It was pretty simple and straightforward. I know you don’t believe me, but it’s totally legit. It’s all classy and very above board.”

  “And all you have to do is show up at the club tonight, go on your date. . .and that’s it?”

  “If the night goes well, I walk away with at least $10K. Isn’t that enough?”

  I scowl at her skeptically. “Just like that, they’re going to hand you all that money? For one date?”

  She pivots on those hot shoes and studies her image in the mirror. “If my date likes me and things work out, it could turn into even more money.”

  Like your pussy is golden? I can’t say that.

  I also can’t say the word for what we’re talking about. I don’t like the word. I don’t like the Miss Judgy-pants feeling that comes over me and makes my throat tight when I think about it.

  But it is what it is: whore.

  I don’t say this to my friend because that would be shitty and who am I to judge? If somebody offered me ten thousand dollars, and I didn’t have to kill anyone for the money, I’d jump at it. The sad thing is that even that much cash wouldn’t dig me out of the financial hole I’ve been sinking into since my parents died when I was seventeen.

  It sure would help. A lot.

  I close my eyes and shiver as if a cool breeze dances over my skin.

  So much money. . .

  “One night,” Caylee says softly like she knows what I’m thinking. “You only have to commit to one night. If you want to stay or the guy wants you longer, that’s up to you and him.”

  “If you stay more nights, how much more do you get?”

  Caylee names a figure. It hits me like a punch in the chest—life-changing money. Enough money to pay off my student loans and credit cards; enough to move my little sister and I out of our craptastic shoebox of an apartment and fix my car. Heck, maybe enough to buy us a new car. All I’d have to do is put myself (well, at least my body) in the hands of a rich and powerful man for one or more nights.

  It’s the contract that bothers me—that and the fact that the whole deal sounds suspicious. Since when do the uber-rich have a hard time getting their horny hands on hot young women? Answer: they don’t.

  Rich old men and poor young women go together like peanut butter and chocolate.

  One thing I know for sure even though I’m not a lawyer and haven’t seen the contract, there will be strings attached to Caylee’s deal—strings concealed at the beginning that only come to light when it’s too late. Yeah, I’ve probably seen too many movies. Whatevs. Call me a pessimist or a realist—I don’t care. I’m a survivor, which is more than I can say for my best friend. Caylee Bennett still believes in rainbows and thinks unicorn farts will smell sweet. I’m the one who’ll be scrubbing unicorn poo off the driveway.

  “Come with me tonight,” she pleads.

  “On your date?” I snort. “Did they ask for a three-way?”

  “Hah! No. Just come, hang out, have a little fun for a change. See how things work out for me and then you’ll have something to go on to make your decision.”

  Like I’m going to do this crazy ass thing, too? What is she on? Just because she gave me their business card, she thinks I’m going to hustle across the river to Jersey and sign up? I tossed the card she gave me on the stack of bills on the dining room table because I’d told her I’d think about it. I wasn’t lying; I did think about it. . .and then said no in my mind. Because she’s not stupid, Caylee knows the promise of all that money is something I can’t ignore even if I won’t admit it, even to myself.

  There’s another critical point. “If things turn sketchy tonight, and you need to bail, I’ll be there for you.”

  “Okay, worrywart, but that’s not going to happen.” Caylee runs a hand through her long chestnut hair. “Tonight is going to be amazing, Brooke. I just know it. If you sign up, too, you can change your life.” She shrugs. “Or you can go home by your lonesome, put on your sweats and try to remember where you hid the vibe so Samantha won’t find it. Fun times.”

  “She turned eighteen last week. Maybe I should get Samantha her own vibe.”

  “As if curvy eighteen-year-olds need that kind of assistance.�
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  That’s a low blow, but she isn’t wrong.

  My little sister, Samantha, turned eighteen last week and even though I keep a close eye on where she goes, what she’s doing, and with whom, it’s getting more difficult. She’s not a little girl any longer, as she reminds me every chance she gets.

  For myself, it’s been about two months since the last time I had sex. That encounter was a one-night stand that will go down as one of the worst ideas in the history of one-night stands. I gave in and screwed my boss. Or rather, he screwed me, because there was nothing satisfying about the encounter on my quickie, missionary-style end of things. A hit-and-run would have been more memorable.

  My mind drifts back to the luscious red shoes. I do want a pair. Who wouldn’t? I imagine a big, male hand wrapped around my ankle, guiding my foot until it touches his hardness. An ache sets up between my legs, reminding me of everything lacking in my life.

  Caylee’s right. I need money, I work too much and never do anything fun, and I need to get laid, not necessarily in that order. Plus, going with her and checking things out makes sense from a security and practical point of view.

  Which is how I wound up standing at the door to an exclusive club named Dominion, smiling into the eyes of the guard while he stamps my right hand with a luminescent letter D. I follow Caylee inside.

  We get drinks and position ourselves on the second-floor mezzanine where we have an overview of the crowded main floor. The music is so loud it feels like it’s penetrating my body. We have to lean close to hear each other.

  “How’re you supposed to find your date?” I ask.

  Caylee takes a delicate sip through the tiny red straw in her frothy drink. “I don’t. He has to decide if I’m acceptable first.”