"So just Clark?" He considers it for a moment then grins. "I'd like that. No one else calls me that."
"Then Clark it is."
"I wasn't sure if I should mention it when I picked you up, but your face looks a lot better."
Since my face has almost finished scabbing over, I thought it would be safe to add a barrier layer of Aquaphor to the skin, then a little foundation on top of that. The scars and bruising are not completely camouflaged, but my cover-up job looks pretty damn good.
"Thanks. I'm just happy that my face feels a lot better. I'm pretty much off of all of the pain killers."
"Good." He leans farther over into my side. "Hey, since it's so early, are you up for grabbing a bite to eat after this?"
I really can smell the soap now, and it reminds me of my grandmother's bathroom. Talk about a turn off. Perhaps that's why my first instinct is to decline Clark's offer. It's total self-sabotage though. He's been a perfect gentleman, and any sane woman would want him (like Paige), but I realize that something's missing. I just don't feel an absolute pull to continue on with this date, even knowing that by ending it here would just be me repeating my past mistakes.
This is a pivotal moment.
I need to make a smart decision, and not an emotional one, or one driven by the need between my legs. I may be hard-headed, but I'm not stupid. I realize that the definition of crazy is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. So the smart decision to make would be to agree to the early dinner and see where this may go. So that's what I do. What could it hurt? Why am I overthinking this?
"Sure, let's do it."
When the first part of the performance concludes and the house lights turn on, it lets me know that it's finally time for the brief intermission I've been waiting for. I excuse myself to use the restroom while Clark uses his cell to check in with a patient who's been hospitalized. Some men experience adverse reactions to Viagra and end up with a hard-on for way longer than they bargained for. This particular patient has been erect for over six hours.
I definitely admire how dedicated Clark is to his patients. He doesn't just prescribe meds and send them on their merry way. He has a very holistic and hands on approach to his practice which I can appreciate. Not all urologists do. Another check in the "pro" column for him.
I stand in the longest women's restroom line ever for all of five minutes, before I decide that I'm simply going to use every one of my pelvic floor muscles to hold the urine inside of my body until the show is over. I've done it plenty of times at outdoor concerts and crappy bars, and I can do it here too, because there's no way on earth that I'm going to stand in a line of over twenty-five women to pee in a public bathroom. Especially when some of them are even giving the poor pregnant woman who's about seven people in front of me the side-eye for asking if she can jump ahead farther in line. Sheesh, women can be such bitches when they have to urinate.
"Excuse me, do you know how much longer the show will be?" I ask a plump, older woman, with butterscotch colored skin and a stark white bob standing in front of me. She actually reminds me of my grandma but with a much funkier aesthetic.
"Oh at least another forty-five minutes, honey."
"Really?" Is my reserved response, but internally I want to scream my head off. I didn't anticipate that this matinee would run this long, and that I would have to pee for the majority of it.
"Yes, this is one of the dance company's major performances of the year. They always put on such a lovely show when they come to the The Academy of Music. And to think they're going to do it all over again tonight. Isn't it spectacular so far? They work so hard."
"Phenomenal," I lie through my teeth.
Great, I'm going to have to either stand in this line now or wait to excuse myself during the show to go pee when there's no line. I'm leaning toward going after the show starts back up. Clark will probably think that I'm either terribly rude or that I have a bladder problem if I go with that strategy, but to hell with it. I'm not standing in this line.
"Enjoy the show," I say to the woman and the other line of waiting women as I leave to start making my way through the crowded vestibule to get back to my seat. But I'm halted dead in my tracks when not even a moment later I hear a familiar, gruff, voice behind me, and I literally almost wet myself.
"Princess."
I stop and turn my head around to find a man leaning against the bar who freakishly resembles the Marvel Comic character Thor. Larger than life. Sexy as hell. The only difference is he's holding a bottle of beer in his hand instead of a hammer.
All I can seem to do is silently gawk at him for a moment. Not just because he is probably one of the last people I'd expect to see today, but also because whenever Cutter King looks at me, the way he rakes his eyes up and down my entire body, makes me feel beautiful, dirty and disquieted all at the same time. I'm not entirely sure whether or not he's laughing at me or plotting to eat me alive.
"What are you doing here?" Is the first thing that flies out of mouth.
"Where do you want me to be?" The corners of his mouth turn up in amusement.
"I don't want you to be anywhere specifically," I respond flustered. "I just can't imagine that you paid good money to watch a modern dance performance in an upscale theatre like this."
It's like seeing a fish out of water.
A big, sexy, scary fish.
"The king is here enjoying the arts like everybody else. What kind of a fucking question is that?"
This man is nuts. Who talks about themselves in the third person like that? And this isn't the first time he's done it. It's always the king this and the king that. Give me a break. Not to mention that I seriously want to wash his mouth out with soap (although I have a potty mouth of my own to curb). Yet when Cutter uses foul language, his curse words come out coarse and buoyant, complements of the heavy bass in his voice as well as his thick Philadelphia accent. It travels through the vestibule garnering us unwanted attention. Probably because this is not the type of event where people commonly used profanity in everyday conversation.
"I didn't realize that you were into professional dance is all I'm saying," I say quietly. Doing my best to calm his savage beast and deflect any stares from strangers.
He rakes his eyes slowly up and down my entire body for another moment before he speaks again.
I internally yell at my traitorous ovaries.
They're quivering.
Then he licks the corner of his mouth seductively.
And the little traitors start to rattle.
"I'm into a lot of shit, princess. You don't even know the half of it."
Eighteen
Sloan
There's a raw energy that Cutter King exudes which I begrudgingly find intoxicating. It's bouncing off of him right now like gamma rays. Flirtatious, bright, and toxic. I felt it the moment we first locked eyes in Lotus. It pulls you in playfully but dominantly. Coaxing the average woman into a false sense of comfort as if he's totally harmless, but I'm not the average woman; and I know for a fact that using the words Cutter and harmless in the same sentence is a complete oxymoron.
I can tell that he's the type of guy that loves women and probably has since he came out of his mother's womb. You know the type. Men who know how to please us but also how to play us. Men who will quickly defend our honor but just as swiftly take advantage of our vulnerabilities. Men that know how to speak and understand our language, but tend to play deaf, dumb and blind when the time suits them. And then of course there's the fact that he's dangerous.
Literally dangerous.
I know this for sure about him. Not just because of the urban tales I've heard about "the King brothers" from other people, or because he rescued me the other day after already being involved in some sort of other violent event, but because I've known men just like him my entire life and the signs are there.
For as long as I can remember, there were always people trying to insinuate their way into my father's life. O
ur lives. I think he permitted it because he came from humble beginnings and felt some guilt about his success as a professional basketball player. Therefore he allowed some people to sponge off of him financially while others were satisfied benefiting from his celebrity in other ways. In other words, my father would often be surrounded by men who were leeches, opportunists, and some who were simply menacing.
The dangerous ones were violent men, who often had prison records, and would convince my father to hire them as his personal security, but really, they were nothing more than glorified thugs. Vetting anyone and everyone who asked my father for an interview, a meeting, or a simple autograph. They'd bully overzealous fans or potential business partners, and would sleep with naïve women wanting entry into my father's inner circle.
Alongside my father, these men were some of my first examples of what men were like. Self-indulgent, overaggressive, uber alpha types who tended to attract drama anywhere they went. The conflicting part about them was that these same men were also good to me in many ways. Always protective of me, interested in my academic success, and often talking my dad into doing extracurricular activities with me when I honestly think he would have rather been sleeping, or drinking, or drugging. As I grew older, I remember developing innocent crushes on one or two of them, and ultimately as a teen ended up attracted to guys my age who were mini carbon copies of them. Men like Cutter.
Large in stature.
Gigantic personalities.
Strong alpha tendencies.
Dangerous as hell.
Total disappointments.
Big mistakes.
Despite my unorthodox upbringing, or perhaps because of it, I'm smarter now. I know that true love or healthy love, doesn't come easy, and doesn't come to most, and it certainly doesn't come wrapped in over six foot four inches of jean clad swagger.
I know better than to base a relationship on some sort of feral attraction. If something real is ever going to happen for me, I'm going to need more than that. Something like the man waiting to watch the second act with me in row seven, seat twelve.
"Okay, well, it was nice seeing you," I say blowing him off. "I need to head back to my seat now."
"Why are you rushing?" Cutter asks with a steel edge to his voice.
"Who says I'm rushing?"
"The smoke your heels are kicking up tells me something different."
"I'm not rushing anywhere. I just want to get back to my seat. The show's about to start."
"Anxious to sit back down next to the square you're here with, are you?"
"Stop talking like Yoda. You sound like a thirteen-year-old Star Wars nerd. And what exactly do you mean the square I'm here with? Of course any man who isn't huge, tatted, and scares people senseless for a living is a square to someone like you."
"You're awfully protective of what I'm assuming is just a first date and unfortunately for him the last."
"What do you mean the last?"
"He's not the right man for you. It wouldn't be fair for you to accept a second date. You'll just end up breaking his heart."
Why do people keep telling me that?
As if I need your seal of approval," I say impatiently. Dying to get back to my seat so that I can hold my pee in properly.
"What's wrong with you?" he asks. Cocking his head to the side.
"Nothing."
"Why do you keep looking anxiously toward the bathroom?"
"Because I have to go, okay?"
"So go." He laughs. "That's what intermission is for."
"There's no way I'm going to stand in that amusement-park-long line."
"You too good to wait in line with the other mere mortals?"
"Don't you have somebody's skull to go crack?"
"If you need me to defend your honor again tonight, I do."
"You're just not going to drop that ever are you."
"So you're telling me that you're going to sit for the rest of the show having to pee?" he asks in an amused laden voice.
"Sure am," I say matter of factly. "Haven't you ever held it until you arrived at a better destination?"
"Those are women's problems. Men can take a piss anywhere, and we do."
"Can we stop talking about peeing now? You're just making it worse."
"I hear they use a lot of water elements in the second act. Are you sure you can hold it as the waterfall prop trickles and gushes all over the stage?"
"What are you a comedian now?" I discreetly try crossing my legs to stop myself from urinating on myself. "I'll be fine. I have amazing muscle control," I counter suggestively, but even I have to laugh at myself. This guy brings out the dormant teenaged bitch in me.
"Now that I'd love to experience firsthand." He laughs.
"I bet you would," I mutter.
"And you'd love it," he counters. "Just like you loved that kiss I gave you. Tell the truth. You haven't stopped thinking about it, have you?"
"I'm done talking."
I turn and start briskly walking away hoping my bladder will feel better once I sit back down, and honestly, I need to get back to the only thing that will keep me from saying or doing anything else dumb with Cutter–and that's Clark.
"Stop," Cutter gruffly orders while reaching for my wrist. He pauses for a moment as our eyes lock together. "I know the management here. I can get you into one of the private restrooms. No need for you to hurt those precious muscles of yours for another half an hour."
Cutter rubs his thumb back and forth across the top of my hand while focusing his gaze on the part of my face where my bandages once were. It's a simple but disarming act that reeks of intimacy. A level of intimacy that we absolutely don't share. It's meant to rattle me, and to my chagrin it does, but I'll be damned if I'm going to allow him to see it. I'm sure this is one of his signature "moves" with the many women in and out of his bed.
I yank my hand purposely away from his hoping he won't notice how much his touch has affected me, but I can tell by the cocky look on his face that he knows. Another dangerous thing about him. He's the type of man that probably always knows what a woman is thinking and feeling. He's definitely had a lot of experience at it. I just don't think he necessarily gives a damn.
"To pee or not to pee?" he asks facetiously.
I hesitate to respond for a moment, because I don't want to give him the satisfaction of a yes. Plus, I certainly don't want to have to owe him anything, even if it's just a thank you, but my bladder begs to differ. It's evident that I'm not going to make it even to the beginning of the second act. Honestly it was ridiculous of me to even try. I was just being a brat. So I reluctantly accept his offer. I'd be an idiot to say no. I check my watch, and see that I've got about seven more minutes before the show begins again. That's plenty of time for me to relieve myself and get back to Clark.
"Okay, Mr. Connected, let's go."
Cutter grins as if he's won some sort of contest between us and motions to hold his hand out. I hesitate and stare at his outstretched hand like it's a venomous viper. I take a look at it, then at him, and give him one of my "what the hell are you doing" looks.
"We have to go up a flight of steep steps over on the other side of the room, and your heels look kind of high," he offers as an explanation. "I think it would be best if you hold on."
I gawk at it a moment longer.
His enormous hand.
It's large and calloused. Tan and weathered. I imagine that it's very warm too. Maybe almost hot to the touch. I remember them being warm as he cradled me in his arms, and pulled me into his hard, stiff frame the other night.
I don't want to make a big deal out of his gesture, because the truth of the matter is that I am wearing five inch heels and it's definitely crowded in here. A little help up the stairs to this mysterious private bathroom won't kill me. At least I hope it won't.
Actually this is probably a really bad idea.
"Still waiting for your hand, princess."
Definitely bad.
Cutter looks e
specially hot tonight. He's a little underdressed for the venue in my opinion, but it almost doesn't matter. He's wearing the hell out of a pair of worn in, dark jeans with a cream cable knit turtle neck sweater which carefully hugs the slopes of his strong shoulder and pectoral muscles. It's a sweater that's meant to be touched. Worn by a man who's meant to be mounted and ridden. A man who's patiently holding out his palm for me to grab.
All the signs are painfully obvious.
Stay away, Sloan. Stay very far away.
I decide on a compromise. Instead of risking skin to skin contact, I grab the crook of his arm instead. That should be safer. Not really though. His bicep doesn't seem human to the touch, but instead feels like thousands of indestructible bands of steel underneath a warm skin-like surface.
I want to punch him in his brick hard arm when he snickers, as if he knows exactly why I've gone for the crease of his elbow instead of his hand, but I'd probably just end up breaking a finger.
"Your face looks a lot better."
"And I didn't even have to stay in bed for a week per your suggestion."
"I can think of much more pleasant things to keep you in bed for a week. So it's just as well."
I roll my eyes.
"How's your sister doing?"
"She's your typical self-centered seventeen-year-old."
"Which means she's fine."
"Exactly."
"Anything from the douchebag?"
"Not a peep. Just like I told you."
"Good. I'm glad that you're right for once. Well here we are, milady."
"Watched a little Downton Abbey with one of your minions last night?"
"Never heard of it." He laughs.
I don't even know why I'm surprised when we arrive to an inconspicuous door with no restroom markings and a silver-buttoned keypad that Cutter has the access code for. I'm pretty damn good at sales, but Cutter's got the type of personality that could sell ice to an Eskimo. I'm sure it didn't take much for him to gain private bathroom privileges here at The Academy of Music, especially if there was a woman involved. It's not a fancy bathroom by any means, but it's private, smells like vanilla and lavender, and it looks like no one has used it since the cleaning people last serviced it.
Indebted To A King Page 13