A door slams in the distance, then Foxy mutters bitterly, “I don’t need that bitch eavesdropping on me.”
“Doesn’t matter, sweetheart. It’s obvious Santiago has fucked me over; it’s not like it’s a secret at this point. I’m sure the rumors have already started and that shit can’t be undone. I’m all about damage control now. Like I said, keep your eyes and ears open. Thanks, baby.”
I end the call and lay my head back on my pillow, sprawled across the mattress, one knee bent wide, wondering where all this is going. Another hit of my cig before I put it out helps to calm me -- but calm or not, I’ll be sleeping with one eye open.
At times like this, I’m glad I’ve got a crazy, sadistic, Colombian for a bodyguard. They don’t call him El Demente’ for nothing—he’s indeed one demented motherfucker. When I met him and saw for myself his massive, muscle-bound frame and intricate facial tattoos, I knew he was the guard I needed.
I don’t know his family history in any detail, but what little I do know is pretty sad. He’s a man of few words but on the rare occasion that he has opened up at all, he’s told me that I’m the only father figure he’s ever had. That would explain his single-minded devotion and willingness to ruthlessly brutalize anyone who poses a threat to me. I have to admit the guy has grown on me but, more importantly, he’s proven himself time and time again. He’s a constant presence, always nearby, always vigilant.
The sound of his shuffling feet outside my door is the last thing I hear as I close my eyes in the hopes of catching a few hours of sleep.
Chapter Six
Brook
“I know somebody’s in there. Open this door. It’s okay, I won’t tell anybody.”
I’m jarred awake by persistent knocking on the closet door and a child’s voice speaking to me in what sounds like a stage whisper. I groggily push my hair off my face and notice that I’ve drooled all over a silk gown. I dab at my mouth and wince from the crick in my neck from sleeping in such an awkward position. Here’s goes nothing…
I reach for the door and push it open, squinting and shielding my face with my hands as light pours into the small dark space, momentarily blinding me. Peering out from between my fingers, I see that it’s not a child staring down at me at all, but the blue-haired dancer I saw earlier.
“Please don’t tell anybody. I was just getting ready to leave.” The words tumble from my lips as I stumble from the closet and straighten to stand in front of her. I hate that I sound so hoarse and desperate but this situation is getting crazier by the second. I just need this girl to keep her mouth shut long enough for me to get the hell out of here.
“What’s your name, hon?”
“Brook.”
Her eyes widen like a kid on Christmas morning, which is somehow stranger when she lets loose with that breathy, childish voice as she exclaims, “Oooh, so you’re the one Diego’s been waiting on. Santiago was supposed to bring you in. What happened? You run away?”
I nod but offer no additional details. I don’t know this girl and there’s no need for her to know anything about me and what went down earlier tonight.
“Well, if you did then he got what he deserved as far as I’m concerned. Santiago’s a misogynistic asshole.” Such big words delivered in that girlish voice, wow. “He’s a regular, you know, but he doesn’t spread it around; he only comes to see Foxy. And she doesn’t even appreciate it. I mean, true, he’s no Diego. Diego’s got class.” The way she’s building him up makes me wonder if she likes him or something. “Most of these guys think machismo is a necessary evil. It takes a hell of a lot more finesse to treat a woman well and still keep her under your control. Diego has a way of doing that. He’s sooo sexy.” Yep…she likes him.
I sit in one of the parlor chairs that are lined up along the dressing table, and just let her talk. This woman seems to know an awful lot about me and I can’t help but wonder where she got her information. She’s got an average build and she’s very pretty but the thing that makes her stand out is her blue hair. It’s done tastefully, cut in a bob and in a soft, pastel shade. It suits her complexion so it looks great on her. Not everyone could pull off that look but she’s sure rockin’ it.
I recall her talking to Diego earlier and wonder how much say-so the crazy Colombian has in the looks his women choose. Most strip joint bosses don’t care as long as the money’s flowing. This place is…different. It’s a true gentleman’s club. I’ve never seen a place this classy, and that’s after only seeing the dressing room. No wonder so many women vie to work here. And they all probably vie for his attention once they get here.
“You seem to know a lot more about me than I do you.”
“Well, we’ll start with my name. I’m Maria. And it’s not like you’re some big secret. I mean, one of Santiago’s men was in here tonight. He’s not a regular so I bet he was looking for you.”
I gulp and have to remind myself to breathe. How close did I come to being caught tonight?!
“Anyway, I heard you shuffling around in there earlier tonight. Taffeta doesn’t make noise on its own, you know. I can put two and two together just fine. Diego’s a man, so he wouldn’t pick up on that sort of thing. Anyway, that leads me to believe you ran away from Santiago.”
“I did.” And that’s all she needs to know. I move toward the door. “He won’t find me because I won’t be here long enough.”
“Hey, wait a minute!” she cries as she follows behind me, trying valiantly to run in her high heels, grabbing my arm and turning me back toward her. “No, no, no, you can’t leave! You have no idea how much trouble I’ll be in if Diego finds out you were here and I let you leave.”
I pointedly look down at my arm, then shift my eyes back up toward her, eyebrow arched pointedly. “Let me? Nobody lets me do anything,” I say as I shake off her hand. “I do what I want.”
“Not in my house, you don’t.”
We’re both so busy making our points that neither of us notices Diego entering the room until he speaks. His voice is serene, calm -- so calm that it’s a little scary. He’s leaning against the doorjamb in what I suspect is a deceptively relaxed posture, rockin’ jeans and an unbuttoned dress shirt, a thumb casually hooked through a belt loop.
His eyes are locked on mine, even as my gaze travels the length of his massive frame. The fabric of his shirt hangs open, draping over the slabs of muscle that form his torso. His jeans hang low on his hips, revealing a beautifully sculpted V-cut. From there, my eyes are drawn to the trail of dark hair heading south to an impressive bulge that I really, really need to stop staring at.
He looks like he just woke up and threw on the first clothes he could get his hands on. The rumpled, freshly-fucked look seriously works for him.
“You’re…”
“Diego Dias.” His deep voice pours over me and leaves waves of heat in its wake, like nothing I’ve ever felt before.
“My name is Brook and, um, I’ve--”
“I know,” he interrupts softly, pushing away from the doorjamb to take several slow steps closer to me. “I’ve been waiting for you. I was worried. I had just decided to storm the castle to get to you. And yet,” he murmurs while twisting a curly lock of my hair around his finger, then letting it go, “you’ve saved me the trouble.”
A ridiculously long silence ensues as we simply take each other in. It occurs to me that we’ve been aware of each other on some level for a while now, so this is where expectations meet reality. I have to say, I’m not disappointed.
I’m suddenly aware of how I’m dressed – micro-mini skirt, cropped top and those funky boots. At least they aren’t high heels; I never would have made it here if they were.
Diego seems to have noticed my attire as well, judging by the long, assessing look he gives me from head to toe. My skin tingles everywhere his gaze lands on the way back up to my face. I tug self-consciously at the skirt’s hem in a futile attempt at modesty. The way he’s savoring every inch of visible skin tells me it’s way too late for
that. I clear my throat, barely able to keep my thighs from pressing together in a response as old as time, a sexually receptive female responding to an alpha male on the hunt. Okay, none of that…
“So, okay,” I sputter helplessly. “Look, I’m out of here. I’m really sorry I snuck in like that. I didn’t have anywhere else to go. And, um, it was cold outside,” I add, as if the weather explains everything.
“So you came inside to get warm?” he asks softly, his piercing, dark eyes scanning my face, taking in every feature, one by one. A frowning Maria takes a step back; perhaps she, too, feels the electricity between this man and me.
“Yes. I…didn’t know where else to go.”
That elicits a small smile from him, his lips tilting up at the corners almost imperceptibly, his head cocking to the side as he regards me with an almost bemused expression.
I take advantage of the momentary lull and make a break for it. I try to slip past him to get to the hall and freedom, but he’s way ahead of me, grabbing onto my upper arms and holding on tight. Even in my panicked state of mind, I can’t help but notice how deliciously rough his hands feel on me as his thumb traces small circles against my skin. It’s a move that feels so natural, I wonder if he’s even aware he’s doing it.
“Did he touch you?” he asks in a low voice.
“What? No. Not really.”
At my qualified response, his eyes get a wild look and his grip tightens. I find the skin-on-skin contact with him unsettling and, well, my mind wanders a bit. I’ve always had a thing about men’s hands – big, broad, sturdy hands -- and this guy’s massive, masculine hands are what dreams are made of – my dreams, anyway. Dreams where he’s chopping down a tree one minute, and holding a newborn in one hand the next and what the hell is wrong with me? Why am I thinking about babies at a time like this?! All I know is those big hands are on me. And I like it.
“Not really,” he repeats slowly.
“Well, he shoved me against a wall when he welcomed me to his warehouse. Guess he’s not one for formal introductions.”
“That was it? Nothing else I should know?”
Well, hell. This is probably where a reasonable person would tell him that I shot the guy and, yeah, I might have put a slug in one of his guards, too -- but I’m just not sure of his intentions yet. Are you friend or foe, Diego?
“Maria, get out,” he says curtly, tilting his chin toward the door, dismissing her. She hesitates, her eyes big as saucers as she looks from Diego to me and back again. Judging by her pouty scowl, this is not typical behavior for this man. Her delay earns a swift glare from Diego that sends her scurrying down the hall. Diego keeps his eyes and his hands on me, taking a slight step away to kick the door closed.
“You were saying?” he purrs as he moves in closer and clasps my jaw in a big, warm hand.
“I-I didn’t know what to do.”
“You didn’t know what to do.” He closes his eyes briefly and exhales, then opens them as he rubs the pad of his thumb back and forth over my bottom lip. His deep baritone voice rumbles in his chest as he murmurs, almost absently, “You didn’t know what to do. So, you came here. To me.”
His gaze drops to my chest, which is heaving as my breathing becomes labored. My eyes widen when I feel a rush of heat between my legs. I pick up on the faintest musky scent in the air and I know it’s me. Apparently, he does too because his nostrils flare and the tip of his tongue slowly slides across his lips. I fully expect him to throw me over his shoulder and take me to his cave.
Could this guy be any sexier? Damn it. It would be so much easier to deal with him if he were plain like Santiago. This man is anything but plain. I’m sure I’ve probably overstayed my welcome by bringing trouble to his doorstep. I’m certainly in over my head; I should probably get the hell out of here before I go under completely.
“Let. Me. Go!” I hiss as I try to shake off his unbreakable grip on my arm.
He only shakes his head slowly as he pulls me toward him. “My club. My rules.”
Diego
I resist the urge to laugh as Brook struggles to keep up with me. I maintain my grip on her upper arm as I practically drag her up the stairs. When we get to the landing, she nearly trips over those damn biker boots. I don’t typically like that look; I prefer women to wear heels – the higher, the better. But the bulky boots really work for her, setting off long, shapely legs that curve their way up to the nearly indecent hemline of that ridiculous skirt. Her body is lean and toned, with silky skin and smooth, elegant lines – and sleek curves in all the right places. Those perky breasts aren’t restricted by a bra. I can tell because one of them is pressing against the back of my hand as I pull her along next to me.
As we wind our way down the hallway that leads to my suite of rooms, the hem of her cropped top has crept up until the creamy, pale underside of that breast is peeking out. For my eyes only… Knowing my bodyguard will be waiting for us, I tug the fabric down impatiently as we round the final corner, my fingers brushing against the softest skin I have ever felt in my life. The flush of color rising in her cheeks confirms she’s not immune to my touch. Good to know.
As expected, Demente’ he is standing at attention outside my door. Brook’s mouth drops open as she strains to look up at him as we draw closer to the door.
“You okay, boss?”
He looks displeased, although he would never dare say so.
I had slipped out of my room as soon as I was awakened by the phone call from my overnight security guy. He had seen Maria snooping around The Club after closing time. In the grips of the premonition once again, I rushed downstairs to check it out, instructing Demente’ to stay upstairs and monitor the private wing while I conferred with the club’s security guard. It all turned out fine – better than fine, really – but I know he is frustrated that I had him stay back.
She pulls in closer to me at the sound of his deep voice. I like way it feels.
“I’m fine. Just need to talk to this little stowaway.”
He moves in front of me to open the door and Brook wastes no time pitching a fit as I lead her inside.
“Hey, wait a fuckin’ minute. You’re taking me to your bedroom?! And who the hell has a suite like this in a bar anyway?”
“I do,” I reply as the door clicks shut behind us and I release her arm. “And it isn’t a bar. It is a gentlemen’s club.”
“Whatever. Everybody knows you’re a pimp.” I can tell she looks like she instantly regrets what she’s said. I slowly advance on her, backing her up against my bedroom wall.
“I’m not scared of you.” Her tremulous voice tells me otherwise, but if it makes her feel better to lie to herself then that’s her prerogative. We all deal with fear in different ways. Me…I just kick its ass. I figure, we don’t get to do what we want to in this life, so we do what we must.
I lean in and whisper in her ear, “Is that so? Liar.” I straighten. “You look like you could use a drink. And a shower. A drink first, I think.”
I approach the bar and pour two shots of tequila, handing her one of them. She wastes no time slamming it back like a pro.
“Another?” I ask solicitously. She nods. I pour. After it’s gone, she places the glass on the end table and stares at me expectantly. She’s been through a lot in the last few days, and probably for far longer than that. The thought of Santiago putting his hands on her has my blood burning like fire, and I want all traces of him gone.
“In here,” I gesture for her to follow me as I lead her into the bathroom and gather what she’ll need to take a shower. While the water warms up, I approach her and lift her chin toward me with a fingertip. “Take your time. When you’re done, we’ll talk.”
I leave her to it and take a seat in the bedroom to wait. And she does indeed take her time. Every minute that passes yields yet another pornographic mental image of her in my shower, her nude body glistening as the steamy waterfall cascades over her curves. I lean back in the chair, crossing my legs to feign a
relaxed demeanor that I’m definitely not feeling -- and draw attention away from the stubborn erection straining against my pants.
A rustle of silk from across the room draws my attention, then her appearance in the doorway steals my breath. Her hair is damp, her face scrubbed clean of any makeup. She’s wearing the short, black silk robe I left for her, and she’s leveling me with a death glare -- no doubt because the robe was the only thing I gave her to wear.
Without the makeup, the hooker clothes and those clunky boots, she’s transformed. I’m struck by how delicate she appears, standing there in her bare feet; how very petite and fragile. But I’m learning quickly that, with this woman, looks can be deceiving.
“Sit.” I nod toward the loveseat nearest my chair, never taking my eyes off my little runner.
She lowers herself onto the loveseat, carefully arranging the fabric of the robe and eyeing me warily. I gesture to the shot glass that I filled for her once again while she took her shower. As she drinks, I lean forward and plant my feet farther apart, elbows on my knees, hands linked loosely together as I consider my next words.
“First, I am, of course, pleased that you are safely where you belong.” I raise my hand to stop her from interrupting. “However, you’ve put me in an interesting predicament by running away from Santiago and coming here. Why didn’t you wait for him to deliver you?”
“He wasn’t going to,” she says, confirming my suspicions once and for all. “He held me captive, basically, so I had no choice but to try to escape. When the opportunity came along, I took it. If that’s a problem for you, then let me go; I can make it on my own. But no way in hell am I letting him put me back in that cage.”
“He put you…in a fucking cage?” I ask furiously.
“Yes, and you can take that quite literally. Since I refused to be a mule, the plan was for me to be his personal fuck toy. When I turned him down, he informed me that I would be spending my life in that cage with my legs spread.”
The Pimp (Colombian Cartel Book 2) Page 5