When one side of his mouth turns up into an absolutely hot, dirty, pornographic grin, I come to the conclusion almost immediately that my vagina is actually the real problem. The reason why I'll never have a half decent man in my life.
It wants bad things.
Tall, tatted, terrible things.
Things that make it wet.
I'm done with this stinking club. This is the last time I'm going to come here trolling for Mr. Wrong. I've got a weirdo waiting for me on the other side of the room who probably wants to hack me into teeny tiny pieces–and then there's this guy. Even more trouble. Taunting me with those perfect lips, those well-defined pecs, and that perfectly toned ass of his.
Gratefully, I'm distracted by a phone call from my teenaged sister. A call that I can barely hear over the loud music.
"Hey," I say in greeting while holding my opposite ear closed with my fingertip.
"Are you out partying?" she asks in an almost accusatory tone.
"Yes, I'm out, and I can hardly hear you in here. Are you all right?"
"Um, yeah, but I need to talk to you."
"Is it urgent?"
I ask the question, but I can already tell by her tone of voice that she wants to talk to me immediately. Funny how everything with seventeen-year-old girls is a matter of life and death. I suppose I was the same way at her age.
"Just forget it."
"I'm not saying no. I just want to know if we can talk later. I can barely hear you, and I've been drinking a little."
"Later's fine."
"Good. Let's grab lunch. I'll call you with a time tomorrow. Is that cool?"
"Cool."
Before I can say goodbye, my sister already clicks me off the line. She's probably annoyed that I didn't make myself immediately available to her, but she's just going to have to deal with it. I do have a life.
Someone taps me from behind on my shoulder.
"I see you've lost your way."
I turn around and notice that it's the weird guy once again. He's standing behind me at another bar next to some other guy who seems to know him. They're both staring at me with the goofiest grins on their faces. I guess I was so distracted by Cutter, that I didn't realize that Cord had been walking right behind me the entire time.
"I thought you said you were going to wait for me over at the other bar?"
"I didn't want you to have to push your way through this crowd once you finished up in the ladies' room. It's getting packed in here. This way I'd be easy to spot."
He's right. It's definitely getting crowded, but I give him the side-eye anyway. Probably because he's a little too eager, a little too anxious, and mostly because every time I look at him all I see are flaws. His hands are small and soft. He doesn't look like he's worked hard a day in his life. His skin is pristine–no ink. In heels I can look him directly in the eyes, not up into them.
"You didn't have to do that," I say faking a polite smile.
"Sure I did. There's no way I'm going to blow my chance with Dan Pearson's daughter."
And that my friends was the sound of Cord hammering the final nail into his "no way in hell" is he going home with me coffin.
I'm definitely bailing on this loser.
And at this rate–on the entire male species.
Four
Cutter
My eyes and attention are laser focused on a thick-necked, average looking loser, who drinks and talks too much. Although I've seen him around the club a couple of times before, I wouldn't describe him as someone memorable. He's just your average Joe. Trying to prove his manhood by grinding on the asses of grown women on the dance floor. Dry humping them like he's at some sort of high school dance. Desperately hoping that he can take them home for what is probably a lousy lay by the end of the night.
I usually don't pay men like him any mind. What any of these club losers do and who they hump is none of my business, and more importantly, dweebs like him pay the bills around here. They pay our inflated cover charge, they pay for the expensive bottle service from the bar, and they even order a plate or two of our overpriced signature spicy wings. Yet this guy just garnered himself some extra special attention from me.
I don't like the looks of him.
I don't like his style.
And I certainly don't like what I'm hearing coming out of his mouth.
Especially because he's talking shit about a woman. A woman who has been rambling around in my consciousness for no good reason at all and for much longer than I usually allow. Literally since the day we met.
"You tap that?" the dude's prematurely balding sidekick asks.
"Not yet. Soon though," the humper brazenly replies.
"I bet that's the sweetest piece of ass you're ever going to have the privilege of tasting."
"Privilege?" he responds incredulously. "She's definitely hot, but I wouldn't necessarily call fucking her a privilege."
His friend laughs at what he must know is a ridiculous statement.
"Sloan Pearson is practically Philadelphia royalty and the most gorgeous woman in this club tonight. There aren't too many men I know that wouldn't want a piece of that. Myself included."
"She's definitely sexy as hell, and her dad is a legend, but it's not like she's some sort of A-lister. Nobody even knows who she is. Plus, my family has money too. Trust me, the privilege will be all hers when I get inside of that."
A-lister?
Get inside of that?
What grown man talks the fuck like this.
"Your dad is in insurance, dude. He makes his money in the most boring way possible. Her father was the most famous ball player this city's ever seen outside of Julius Irving or Allen Iverson. Not to mention that off the court, his pimp game was legendary. He had some of the hottest women in Hollywood in his bed back in those days.
"You must admit, that it would definitely be the talk of the office if you brought her on your arm to the company fundraiser next month. Hell, it might help you get that promotion you've been lobbying for. Just the attention alone you'll get with her on your arm will make you look good, because the last woman you brought to dinner was kind of average, and that girl is definitely not average."
"True."
"Doesn't look like it's going to be hard for you though. I saw the way she was talking to you a minute ago. Seems like she's wet for you already."
"They all get wet for me, man."
My kick somebody's ass radar is going all kind of wonky right now. I could easily bitch slap this dude into next week for disrespecting the most beautiful woman in the room. In my club of all places.
"Ooh look, my favorite King brother is here! Can I buy you a drink, Cutter?"
Before I get to do a little house cleaning, I'm interrupted by an attractive redhead named Lynn, who comes to the club almost every weekend, laughs at anything that I say, and is a sure bet. We've partied together a couple of times and the evenings have always ended in an orgasm and a smile. Yet tonight the promise of a happy ending is the furthest thing from my mind. I'm more interested in having a persuasive conversation with two certain dickheads.
"I can't tonight, babe," I say apologetically. "Maybe next time. In the meantime, your first round is on me."
As if on cue, Lynn giggles, although I haven't said anything funny. I've long since come to the conclusion that it must be a nervous tic of hers.
"Are you working or something tonight?" she asks with disappointment.
"I'm always working, darlin'," I explain. "But buy me a scotch next time?"
I offer Lynn a flirty wink to end the conversation, and then head back upstairs to take a call in the office. I'd rather stay on the main floor and deal with this jerk that Sloan has attracted into her orbit, but my brother Camden has evidently been on hold for five minutes.
"Why didn't you call me on my cell?" I ask without saying hello.
"I did. You never hear the damn thing when you're downstairs."
"Why aren't you here yet?"
"Why do you sound agitated?"
"No reason."
"I'm not coming. I'm staying home to get some preliminary work done on one of the Miami fixes."
I'm in a business partnership with Camden and our best friend Roman. While we own several businesses including a dance club and a restaurant, the bulk of our income comes from fixing problems for affluent clients. In other words, saving the asses of the wealthy people or companies who can afford to pay us. We've recently acquired a few new clients in Miami.
"Computer work?"
"Obviously."
My brother is a tech genius. If a fix requires any sort of complex computer research or hacking then he handles it.
"So why can't you do that here?"
"I'm dead in the middle of altering some dude's credit report, and I don't feel like stopping just to come by the club to check in if that's okay with your needy ass."
"What do you mean my needy ass? You're a part owner in the club last time I checked, asshole. If you enjoy sharing in the profits then you need to do your share of the work."
"Let's talk real talk, Cut. The club is your thing. Half the women lining up at the door every night are there to catch a glimpse of you. You are the face of Lotus now, like it or not. Roman and I are practically silent partners at this point."
"You're just proving my point."
"What point? That no one can run the club like you."
"No, my point that you and Roman are acting like silent fucking partners when you're not. That's not something we ever agreed to. When Joseph gave Lotus to Roman, we all agreed on a three-man partnership. You know I wouldn't have ever agreed to anything else."
I can't believe my brother's lame attempt to back pedal his way out of his responsibility to the club. I know the real reason why he hasn't been showing up. I share an assistant with my brother and Roman named Jade, but she's also my brother's girlfriend, and recently she's moved into the carriage house with us. I love the little snow pea to death, and I'm happy that she makes my brother happy, but their relationship has changed Camden in ways that I don't understand. Ways that have made me think twice about ever settling down with a woman.
"Is Jade at the house too?"
"Yeah she's hanging back with me for a little while."
"So, it's just me at the club tonight," I say with an icy attitude. "Again."
Jade usually works some nights at the club with me.
"I know you've been carrying some of the weight lately, but that's the beauty of a three-man partnership. We can't all share the load equally at all times. Sometimes there's going to be situations when one of us has to step up and the others fall back. Fortunately, we have that flexibility."
"That sounds like a really bullshit way of explaining why you two slackers never come to the club anymore or the tapas lounge for that matter."
"Would you chill out. I'm still handling business, Cut. I'm just doing it at home today."
"Monkey business."
"How many times have I been on the computer half of the night hacking into someone's personal life online, while you were at some titty bar watching women spin their asses around a pole. Let's not get into a pissing match about who works the hardest around here."
"That's different."
"It always is."
"My distractions are temporary and unimportant. They don't interfere with work. I can get up and leave at a moment's notice. Your distraction lives with us and seems to be the most important thing on your to-do list lately."
"I'm not going to tell you again, asshole. I am working. But speaking of distractions, you seem to have a few of your own. What about that bet we made a while back?"
"What bet?"
"Oh, now you're suffering from memory loss? The bet where you get in between the glamazon's legs for a thousand bucks plus breakfast cooked by my woman. Does any of that ring a bell?"
Glamazon is Roman's nickname for Sloan. Now all three of us have gotten into the habit of using it but rarely to her face. She'd definitely rip us all a new one.
"Obviously I was just messing with you that day. I wasn't remotely serious."
"Uh-huh."
"Jade would never have agreed to her part of the bet, and you wouldn't have allowed it even if she had. Someone is being a little stingy lately."
"You know the rules. We mutually agree to share a woman who’s willing until one of us doesn't want to anymore."
"I get it. You don't want to share anymore. Fine."
"You'll understand one day."
"Kill me if that day comes."
"Hey, I just got a text from Rome. There's a job tonight. Room 2456 at The Four Seasons. It's Newman again. Newman's easy."
"Why can't you or Rome handle him?"
"You're the closest to the hotel and the situation is time sensitive. Marco can run things at Lotus until you get back. He knows the drill. I'll try and meet you at the hotel in about forty-five minutes or an hour. Not that you'll need me. You'll probably be finishing up by the time I get there."
"Fine," I reluctantly agree. It's honestly the last thing I feel like doing tonight, but it's work and I never turn down money. "I'll try to leave here in fifteen."
"Cool. So . . . let me ask you again. Are you still trying to tell me that you're not interested in Sloan at all?"
"It's funny how when some dudes get into relationships, they try and make their single friends feel like shit for not wanting the same thing. Well it's not going to work with me, big brother. Am I interested in the glamazon for one night? Hell, yes. Am I interested in forever? Hell, no. That's not me. I'm not a one-woman type of man. Never have been. Never will be. It's not fair to all the women of this fair city."
"It's not fair all right. God, you're full of yourself," he sneers. "Mom coddled you way too much."
"For good reason. I'm a King and the last of my kind. God made me this way in his infinite wisdom."
"I guess that's why he made me first then."
"Whatever, asshat."
"Is she there tonight?"
"Maybe."
"Poor, clueless Sloan.” Camden chuckles. “I assume you've been sabotaging her love life tonight as per usual. Frightening away any gutless dude that comes sniffing around her in the club. The glamazon can't even get her womanly needs met, because you're so busy cock blocking."
"Shut up, Cam."
"I hate to break it to you, but the way you're acting reeks of the familiar scent of wanting forever." He chuckles again. "Not just one night."
"That's just me having a little fun." I attempt to blow him off. "Which has always been one of your biggest problems hasn't it? You hardly know the difference."
"Or maybe it's you who doesn't know the difference, because I don't think you're playing around at all. I think you're serious as shit about her."
"Okay, can we stop with all the relationship chat now, Dr. Phil? I've got a fix to get to by myself, and then probably will have a club cash register to close out after that–by my fucking self."
I can hear Camden's audacious laughter right before he hangs up the phone. He's so annoying. Just because I'm attracted—okay, deeply attracted—to Sloan doesn’t mean that I want to put a ring on it. Why would I want to lay claim to a high maintenance, judgmental, party girl who barely says ten words to me? I don't. I'm just helping her out. Me eliminating some of these club douchebags from her life is not me being interested or wanting forever, it's just me doing what I do best.
Fixing shit.
Five
Cutter
The club is on fire tonight. Fridays are turning into one of our busiest nights at Lotus. While I've been working on attracting a diverse clientele to the club, Fridays still belong to the suits—corporate men and women who come here after work ready to let loose. Even though it's dim and packed to the rafters tonight, when I hit the top of the stairs, nothing can stop me from spotting the dummies I've got less than fifteen minutes to handle. They're still at the bar and the glamazon is nowhere in sight.
&n
bsp; Perfect.
"Let me have a word," I say finally approaching jerk number one with the big mouth.
Both of the posers back up a few paces once I approach.
"You talking to us?"
"No, just you."
"Is there a problem, man?"
They both give me a long confused look. Wondering who I am, what I want, and probably assessing how they plan on "handling" me if I turn out to be a problem. In all of ten seconds, I can tell by the new confidence in their stances that they're cautious but not particularly worried. I may be big, but there's two of them, so they think they're good.
Rookie mistake.
"Might be." I grin.
"What's your problem, dude?" the sidekick resembling a shorter version of Mr. Clean asks me.
"First of all, this is none of your business, Professor X, so you can step away. I've already made it clear that this is between me and Casanova here."
"I don't think I know you, dude. What's with the attitude?"
I stare down the poser's little bald headed friend until he does the right thing.
"Uh, I'm going to go take a whiz, Cord. Let you two straighten this out. I'll be right back."
Pussy.
"So, I think you might have me mistaken with someone else." Cord the poser starts timidly trying to talk himself out of whatever wrath he thinks I'm about to bring down on his ass.
Sometimes I forget that my size, my tats, and the way I carry myself intimidates most men. Most people really. That's because there's nothing average about me. So yes, I can be a scary motherfucker, but only when provoked. Most of the time I like to think that I'm a walk in the park.
"No, I'm pretty sure that I have the right jackass."
"Woe, dude, what are you so pissed about? I'm just here trying to have a good time."
I take a small step forward while simultaneously slipping my hand behind my back. Inside of my waistband and underneath my henley is where I keep Benny–my glock. Sometimes I like to touch the handle. Make sure it's there. Adjust it on occasion. I'm not reaching for it or anything. It's really just a habit. I like to play with something in my hands when I'm anxious, or angry, or excited. When I was two it was my stuffed dog. When I was four it was my GI Joe figurine. Then after tagging along on a few business runs with my father, it became a gun.
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