by Dani Wyatt
I tilt my head to get a better angle watching her move through the crowd. She’s wearing these shiny ballet flats the color of an Oklahoma spring sky, not boots or high heels like the other waitresses. Her matching baby-blue skirt hits her mid-thigh.
My eyes follow the curve down her inner leg, past her knees as she bends them and walks up on her tip-toes like she’s being careful not to disturb someone, sidestepping a couple of Barbie-bar flies with makeup so thick it looks like they’re wearing Halloween masks. But the way she walks, it only gives me a better perspective, and all I can think is just how much I want to trace those curves, memorizing them with the tip of my tongue, then start all over with my fingers. Rinse and repeat.
I’d never considered what my ‘type’ might be, but seeing her it dawns on me that there’s a reason for that. I don’t have a type.
It’s her. She’s it. My type is this one girl. Ripe and lush and as sweet as apple pie.
I don’t know if she has a boyfriend, if she’s married or hell, she may have a wife for all I know. But one thing is clear in my mind, whatever she is, there’s part of me that’s already decided I need to be part of her life.
She makes her way past a group of five city boys wearing jeans without a Levi’s or Wrangler label. In fact, I think they may have taken a wrong turn and shopped in the women’s department for those fancy pants.
There is something about a dude that cares a little too much about his appearance that ruffles my feathers. Like they don’t have enough to offer from the inside and that makes them a bit too concerned over what they look like on the outside. Doesn’t send up real-man signals as far as I’m concerned.
Whatever, what they wear is none of my concern, but what is my concern is the way the fuckers eye her as she tries to squeeze through and don’t give her the goddamn courtesy of stepping aside and giving her room to get by.
She’s forcing a polite smile, but I see the discomfort on her face. She’s pissed, but she’s too polite or too shy to say so. Instead I see her mouth the words ‘pardon me,’ her full lips shaping each syllable like the words are made of fucking clay, but the douche patrol ignores her and I’m seeing red.
Disrespecting her and not giving an inch in the opposite direction? That’s pushing all my buttons. They make her shove her way through, causing her ample tits to brush against the shoulder of one of them and my blood is on boil. She has to raise her tray above her head and tuck herself tight. Her embarrassment and desperation show in the way her shoulders pull toward her ears and she loses her smile.
Fuckers. Someone may have a lesson in being a gentleman coming very soon.
“Chad, hey.” Roger smacks the back of my arm from behind. “Jesus, man, are you gonna stare at that all night?”
I gather my restraint. He might be my friend, but right now that doesn’t seem to mean a whole lot to me. Hearing him call her ‘that’ makes my fists ball.
“Careful. Watch your manners.” I grunt at my childhood friend.
“What the fuck.” His face lights up into a toothy grin and he slaps the table sending a squeal out of the girls who, thankfully, seem to have lost interest in what is going on behind them. “You know her? Huh? Some old flame? Maybe you fucked her once, although I doubt you could remember that far back—”
“You better shut your fucking mouth. You say another fucking word and I’m going to send your teeth to your tonsils.”
Roger pushes his tongue into his cheek. His eyes still sparkle with amusement, but he gets the message. It’s nothing personal, but I meant what I said.
“Okay, buddy. I’m just glad to see you back in the land of the living. Go get what you want.”
I turn back around grumbling under my breath. “I intend to.”
She’s two douches into the crowd of city boys now, trying to squeeze by the five of them, when one steps behind her and blocks my view. His crew look on as he dry humps the air behind her ass, and they think that shit is funny, but I’m not laughing. In a heartbeat, I’m headed their way, heat gathering in my chest and radiating down my arms to the clench of my fists.
“Hey, where are you—” Roger calls after me but I’m on a mission as I clear my way through the crowd. I don’t know this girl, but I know that in my presence no one will ever disrespect her like that.
They are still cuttin’ up like they are in some comedy club when I bow up behind the air-humper with his cocky attitude and slicked back hair. I’m a quiet sort, but I’ve never been one to shrink from a fight.
Three of the guys see me coming, I’m hard to miss. The dick head about to be schooled has his back to me but it only takes him a split second to pick up on the signals from the looks on his friends’ faces that something big is happening behind him.
My head spins with the variations of how I’m going to play this. I’ve been in my share fights, but this piece of shit holds no sway. I have a sixth sense when it comes to people, and he’s no match.
By the time he turns around, the decision is made. I want to lay the fucker out and use the heel of my boot to grind some manners into him, but getting my ass thrown out of this place will not serve my new purpose for the evening, which is keeping my eye on her.
“What the fuck do you want?” The little fucker suddenly has a set of balls. They may be the size of a couple mouse turds, but balls nonetheless.
I smile, and palm my beard as I look down at him. I catch a glimpse of his back-up squad lining up to cover his ass, and it makes me embarrassed for them. That shit ain’t gonna be any deterrent.
“You’re going to go and tip that waitress that just walked by.” My voice is clear, rumbling out of me like the eleventh commandment.
“What? Fuck you.” He snaps with an over dramatic eye roll. “You better step back.”
I drop my hand from my beard and brush some invisible shit off the guy’s shoulder with my fingertips, invading his personal space like it’s my God-given right. Being around horses all my life, one thing you learn, you always stay calm. No matter what may be churning around me, I’m unflappable.
I clear my throat and nod toward where I can still see Lori moving through the crowd. “That waitress. You just insulted her and that shit doesn’t fly with me. So unless you want to be wearing your ass for a hat, you are going to apologize to her by digging in your wallet, coming up with a hundred bucks, walk your sorry ass over there and put it on her tray. You tip her, or we’ll have a different conversation.”
I drop my hand from his shoulder and thumb the stiff handle of the knife I always carry in my front pocket. I pinch it between my thumb and forefinger, inching it out before stuffing it back down inside my pocket with a grin. If my general size isn’t intimidating enough, with my hair nearly to my shoulders and my beard meeting it, I’m sure I look scary as hell to these city boys.
If this guy has any sense, he can read the crazy in my eyes, and realize it’s in his best interests to settle this without blows. I want to spend the rest of this evening admiring the miracle that just walked into my life, but I’ll do what I have to do to make sure he treats her with the respect she deserves.
His four comrades are flanking him but I lock eyes on him and repeat my order.
“A hundred bucks. Right fucking now. You go tip her and this can be over. Or...” I crack my neck and release a deep breath. “...you and your bridesmaids are going to be on the floor trying to pick up each other’s teeth.”
He gives me his best Scarface nose twitch and his buddies straighten up behind him.
“I’d say two hundred is more like it.”
I don’t need to turn around to know Roger’s voice. He’s to my left, he matches me in height and outweighs me by another twenty pounds he wears in his gut so we are a solid wall facing down their rhinestones and hair gel.
“Fuck off.” The dipshit’s voice is losing some bravado. “I’ll give her a hundred.” His whole group shifts back, their chests deflate and shoulders drop. Inside my head I’m laughing my ass off imagining thi
s group of glitter boys going toe-to-toe with me and Roger.
But on the outside I’m all business.
I have to keep my eyes on the prize, and right now getting escorted out of the bar for stuffing my fist down his gullet would not bring me closer to her.
He reaches around and digs in his back pocket, pulls out his wallet and waves a hundred-dollar bill in my face.
“Okay?” He swallows and the fear in his eyes would be visible from a hundred paces, but he’s trying to save some of his pride.
“Go give it to her, say something nice and I’ll be watching from over there.” I jerk my head back toward where we were sitting.
He nods and turns to walk her way.
She’s at the tail end of the bar, giving drink orders to the bartender and it rakes my nerves that her tank top is cut too low. I can tell she’s sweet, kind and from the rest of her outfit, she’s not the type to dangle her goods for the world to see, so that shirt will have to go.
Other waitresses are wearing the same thing, so I know it’s the bar’s uniform shirt, but I don’t give a shit about them. I give a shit about her, and any other fucker that has his eyes on her sends my protector instinct into overdrive.
Her tits are full and proud, like a goddamn American flag flying above the indent of her waist. And fuck if I’m not feeling mighty patriotic right now.
Just watching the swell and flow of that ass of hers has me rolling in the dust, thinking of how I’d train her, teach her things that an angel like her hasn’t imagined. She’s casual and understated, but she’s put together like a show pony. Neat and carefully groomed. Her hair hanging down over her shoulders gleams under the flashing lights and even from here I can see that she’s wearing just the right amount of make-up.
Most women overdo that shit but I like it natural, clean. Fuck, she’s as perfect as I’ve ever seen. I’ve never even touched her, and already this lush little dove has me whipped.
I imagine taking her out to the field, laying her out and messing up her hair, thrusting into her until she tears at the grass underneath as she tries to hold on. I want her wearing my cum like a badge of honor. I want her covered in me so everyone knows she is more than just taken by me – she’s ruined in the most magnificent and gorgeous way.
She’s tapping her foot to the music and tracing ChapStick over her lips as she waits for her drink order, so she doesn’t see the douche bag pushing through the last few people to get to her. She snaps around as he comes up next to her, then he lays the money on her tray, says a few words and turns back.
I’ve known her for all of five minutes, but I pick up clues. It’s body language, and I know body language. It’s another side effect of my work with horses. They’re great communicators if you know their language. And when it comes to people, we’re not that different. The set of her jaw, the slant of her hips. I think I know what she’s saying better than she does.
She’s happy. I see it in her eyes, her body. And I’m happy simply because she is.
I imagine the touch of my fingertips on those plump cheeks. How soft she must be, like the petals of wildflowers. How I’d draw her next to me, kissing her hair after I’ve fucked her and done things to her God didn’t intend. Teaching her the meaning of the word pleasure.
Her face lights up as she picks the money off the tray, stares at it in her hand for a long moment.
Then, it happens.
When her eyes finally raise under her lashes, they flicker across the mass of people and light on mine. It only lasts a second, but she breaks into a dimpled smile that starts on her lips but finishes in her eyes and that shit’s all mine.
That’s my new purpose in life. To make her smile all the way to her eyes. Every fucking minute of every single day just so I get to see that dimple again and again.
AVAILABLE NOW
WHERE SHE BELONGS
Chapter 1
Decker
“It was just a handjob.” Claudia rolls her eyes like this is a joke. “That’s barely even anything. I didn’t even kiss him, for chrissake.”
She’s looking everywhere but at me as if avoiding my eyes is going to change the outcome for her. “You know the rules,” I say.
Believe it or not, it hurts me every time this happens. I want to help them all, but in the end, they have to help themselves too. I can’t do it for them.
“I’m great at handjobs. I got him off in like twenty seconds. I mean,” Claudia attempts to look pitiful, “it’s almost like shaking someone’s hand. Would you fire Allister for shaking hands with one of the guys?”
Allister, my right hand man, pipes up. “Congratulations on your skill set. And no, it is not like shaking hands.” His sarcastic answer doesn’t hide his own disappointment. His voice has always been low, but when he’s disappointed it takes on extra weight, extra gravity. It’s a bit like if a bass drum was suddenly able to speak.
He’s more pissed off this time than usual, and he hates firing girls as much as I do. It’s because he’s the one that talked me into hiring her – even when I expressed my doubts that she would take the opportunity seriously. Looks like I was right, but I don’t take any pleasure in that.
It’s too bright in here. The light and the situation drives ball-peen hammers into my temples and I rub them with my middle finger.
I look at the file open on my desk, then glance around the room. I can’t make an exception for her. The rules are the rules, that’s why we’re all in here. It’s my job to deliver the bad news.
I’m momentarily distracted by the surroundings of my office. They’re far from interesting. White gloss, cool air. Actually, the temperature in here is fine, but it feels cold. My office at the back of the club needs some warming up and organizing. I despise disorder.
The white gloss paint is there because that’s what I like. Clean, pure and without blemish. Neatly stacked pillars of white boxes, labeled with their contents and color coded by unpacking priority, line one wall. My new office furniture was delivered last week – at least it got me out from behind the folding banquet table which had been my temporary desk for a month. The place needs artwork and some other touches, but I just haven’t had the time.
Seems that’s a theme with me because my house looks the same way and I’ve lived there for five years.
I listen as Allister heaves a deep breath in and out.
Allister is my General Manager. He’s also my best friend. If you saw him on the street, you’d probably cross to the other side. But he’s one of the best people I know. Heart of gold and the size of Texas.
He’s shaking his bald head, running a hand back and forth over it while he stares at Claudia. It’s unusual for him to step in, to try to persuade me to take on a girl against my better judgement. But I guess he took pity on her – early twenties, brunette, streetwise attitude. Maybe she reminded him of someone, I don’t know. I didn’t push it.
As for her, she’s glaring back and forth between us like she can’t understand what she’s done wrong. And that is exactly her problem.
But this is my club and I have to work damned hard to keep it.
It’s one in a chain that I own. Monarch night clubs. They are a mash-up of trendy, urban bar with a side order of gentleman’s club. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not seedy at all. I’ve made my name in this industry by keeping the seedy element away and that’s the way I intend it to stay. Which is why I have to be strict with the girls. Today it’s a handjob, tomorrow a blowjob. Once you start down that road there’s no turning back.
I suppose “gentleman’s club” isn’t really the right label. I mean, I do have dancers, but they don’t take their clothes off. They don’t wear a whole lot to begin with, but they also don’t take anything off.
They dance, and they do it well enough that they don’t need to show their bodies. Are they sexy? Yep. Do the men in the clubs wish they were dropping clothing? Of course. But while they work for me it’s not happening.
My clubs have a fine dining area, a
dance floor with a bar. Classy, trendy. And then there is the ‘back wall’ as it’s come to be known. The dancers are not center stage, but they are a huge draw. Somehow, I’ve managed to create a club where women and men feel comfortable coming in, but there is still an atmosphere of the upscale gentleman’s club – without the slimy element.
Monarch V is the jewel in my so-called crown of successful nightclubs, and I am obsessed with how everything is presented, from the staff to the decor. But my office could use some warming up. I love what I do, but it’s beginning to wear on me. I’m also an obsessive planner, and my plan is to work another few years, then turn everything over to Allister and see if life has anything else in store for me. I’m not old, but I’m not young either, and as much as growing this business and helping out all these girls has been my reason for getting out of bed every day for a long damn time, there has to be more, I’m just not sure what that ‘more’ is.
It took the better part of a year to get this particular club up to the zoning standards the surrounding high-brow community demanded. But, in the end, it will be worth it. Having a club on this side of town, and in this prime location, will pay off in spades. On weekends, the queue is already lined around the block and we’ve only been live a little over a month.
Guess all the pearls and bowties that live around here are just as eager for a little fun as anyone else. I see the same folks that sat on their pious high horses in the local government planning meetings, the ones who were giving me shit about putting in the club, drinking and whooping it up here every night of the week.
Fucking hypocrites.
But their money is as green as I need it to be, so whatever. Their two-faced bullshit is between them and God.
“So, I’m done?” Claudia juts a hip out and finally settles her vitriol on me. “You’re firing me? This is total bullshit. One handjob and one joint, that’s all it was. And now you’re firing me? I didn’t even smoke it here, for chrissake. You can’t tell me what I can do on my own time. This place is turning into the damn Westlake Baptist Church.”