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. Our 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 especially 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.
"Thank God!" I say unable to contain my excitement. "I guess your minions are good for something."
"I'll just be waiting out here."
The corner of Cutter's mouth turns up with smug satisfaction, but I choose to ignore it, because I've never been so happy in my life to pee. That is until he decides to hold a conversation with me. I can't even relieve myself in peace.
"So who exactly is the square?" he asks through the door.
"You mean my date?" I say while flushing the toilet.
"Yeah, him. Where'd you two meet? He seems like a step up from the last guy I saw you with."
"Has anyone ever told you that you're really rude?" I ask while washing my hands. Silently wondering what last guy he's referring to. I haven't been to the club in a while. "That's another one of those rhetorical questions by the way. And another thing, last time I checked, I don't think the two of us have the sort of relationship where we chitchat about each other's love lives."
I hear his muscular body thump as he leans against the door between us.
"I feel responsible for you now. So yeah, I think we have that kind of relationship."
"Responsible for me?"
"I saved your life. I feel a duty to make sure all my efforts weren't for naught."
"Seriously, though, have you been watching Pride and Prejudice during your down time? Using words like naught.”
I rub my hands vigorously under the automatic dryer, so that the noise can drown out his over-inflated recollections of the other night. Although I don't think anything could stop this guy from talking.
"I don't mind a few English dramas here and there. My mother used to like them. Plus I've had a little spare time on my hands to watch them lately." He purposely raises his voice over the loud hum of the dryer. "Maybe you haven't heard but I've recently moved into a new place."
“The same place that you bought evidently.”
"Oh, so you have heard?" He chuckles. "Nice to know you've been asking about me."
My phone starts to vibrate. Thank God, it's Elizabeth.
"You couldn't have had better timing," I say while refreshing my lip gloss.
"Hey, how are you feeling? You sound weird."
"I'm perfectly fine. I'm actually out."
Cutter knocks heavily on the door. "You all right in there?"
"Who was that?" Elizabeth asks.
"I'm fine," I answer Cutter through the door.
"The dangerous one." I huff in exasperation to Elizabeth.
"The dangerous one?"
"The landlord," I try whispering.
Any other time Elizabeth can practically read my mind or finish my sentences but not lately. Ever since she got herself knocked up we haven't been in sync. I blame it on her muddled baby brain.
"What–wait are you talking about Cutter?"
"Ding, ding, ding! We have a winner, winner, chicken dinner."
"You're with Cutter again? Where? It's too early for you to be at the club."
"I'm not at the club. Get this! I'm on a date," I say excitedly. "A real one."
"With Cutter King?" She practically screams with excitement through the phone. "I knew–"
"Quiet." I quickly cut her off. "Is the baby in your belly sucking all the common sense out of your brain? I'm not out with Cutter King."
"Oh, for a minute I thought the world had just shifted on its axis, because I could have sworn you told me that you had no interest in Mr. King," she replies saucily.
I place my hands under the dryer again hoping it will drown out the words I'm about to say, since the person I'm talking about happens to be on the other side of the door.
"I don't have any interest in freaking Cutter King for God's sake. I'm on a date with Doctor Clark. You've heard me mention him before, right? My favorite client."
"Sure, I remember the name. He's the guy that's been asking you out since forever and you keep putting him in the friend zone. Which is why I am now thoroughly confused. You're currently on a date with the good doctor, but Cutter is there?"
"I'm at The Academy Of Music, and it just so happens that Cutter's here too doing God knows what. I can't imagine that he actually spent good money to come dateless to an interpretative dance performance."
Hmm, now that I think about it, I don't know if Cutter is here stag or not. He could very well have a woman waiting patiently in her seat for his return just like C
lark is waiting for me. In fact, the thought of him being here alone seems a little preposterous. He's probably never had a lonely moment in his life.
"What else would he be there for, Sloan? I really think you've got Cutter pegged all wrong. He's actually a–"
"Do I really?" I cut her off. "No offense, Bitsy, but your fiancé and his friends aren't what I'd call cultured. I mean they're practically . . . gangsters."
"Umm, offense frackin' taken. One of those gangsters you're talking about is the father of my child and my future husband."
"Sorry, prego, but I call them like I see 'em."
"You see them through very a very tainted lens, my dear friend."
There's a heavy knuckled rap at the bathroom door.
"Let's go," Cutter commands from the other side of the door. "Time's up."
I worry for a moment that he heard what I just said to Elizabeth, but honestly it serves his ass right if he did. All I did was speak the truth, and he shouldn't be eavesdropping anyway.
"Was that him again?"
"Be quiet, prego. I'll call and tell you about my date tomorrow." I try speaking quietly. "Pray for me. This is the first decent date that I've been on in a long time. Just when I was about to give up on men altogether and stick to battery operated devices, Clark asked me out one last time, and this time I saw the light and said yes."
"Are you enjoying the good doctor's company tonight?"
"If you want me to be honest, it's just all right. I feel like the girl whose big brother had to take her to the prom, because no one else asked her to go."
"So Clark is a dud."
"I didn't say that exactly. The date is okay so far. It just isn't fireworks and fireflies like your thing."
"That's why you should wait for them."
"Wait for what?"
"For your fireworks and fireflies."
Unfortunately I don't think those are in the cards for me.
"Well I have a great deal of respect for him, so I'm hoping that it will grow into something more. Until such time, it's not a crime to get laid. And if I have to, it's not like I've never faked an orgasm before. I'm an awesome faker."
The King Brothers Boxed Set Page 31