Fuck.
I violently rub my face with my palm.
Another big mistake.
I can smell her on my fingers, and my balls start to tighten.
I try giving myself an internal pep talk. What’s the big deal? You’ve tasted her already. Just put her to bed and get out of here. Stop acting so fucking horny.
So I keep going. I promptly tuck her legs and bare bottom under the covers, and then move on to her top half. Pulling her black cropped sweater up and over her head and quickly realizing why I felt her nipples earlier.
No bra.
What does this woman have against underwear?
Fucking hell, they’re even better than I remembered. She has a pair of the most beautiful tits I’ve ever seen in my life. They look heavy and soft, the shape of teardrops, and her large areolas and nipples serve as perfect bull’s-eye points … for my mouth.
I’m like a starving man in a buffet line as I rake my eyes over them again and again. I want to stay up all night gawking at her, then wait for her to wake up, so I can eat her thoroughly for breakfast. Literally. But as if he could sense I was venturing into dangerous territory, a text from Cutter snaps me out of my lust filled daze. I take a couple of deep breaths of common sense, pull the covers completely up to her neck, and check my phone.
* * *
Cutter: Whatcha doing:)
Me: Nothing.
Cutter: Where’s our drunken little brat?
Me: Where did you go? I told you to keep her there.
Cutter: And I did.
Me: You left.
Cutter: You didn’t say I had to stay. I took care of it, then I rolled out.
Me: You left her with the very person I was trying to protect her from!
Cutter: Isn’t she safe and sound?
Me: No thanks to you.
Cutter: Are you still with her?
Me: Why are you so curious after the fact?
Cutter: Just making sure she’s okay.
Me: I’m at her apartment, but I’m about to leave. She’s passed out.
Cutter: Bet you’re pissed about that:)
Me: Not now, assface.
* * *
Jade turns over on her side and starts to breathe heavily. A few stray hairs fall over her face. I move them out of the way, slowly stroking them back into place. I touch her a little longer than necessary when I hear her start to almost purr.
“Cam?” she calls out groggily. “I should tell you—”
“Tell me what, itty bitty?” I ask as I reluctantly pull my hand away from her face. Happier than I should be that she’s called out for me by name.
She turns on her opposite side, trying to adjust herself in a more comfortable position. The covers slide down again, exposing her breasts. I have a strong urge to continue touching her. Maybe even stroke her bare pussy a few times to make her come real quickly. I’d really be doing her a favor, right? That will absolutely help her relax and put her into a nice deep sleep. Maybe I will do just that if these sheets slide down just a wee bit farther …
“Cam?”
“Yes, Jade?” I ask with a dry mouth and a hard dick.
“I gotta … I gotta throw up.”
Ugh, maybe not tonight.
Jade
Sooo, I’m not handling this news about Tyson’s brother well at all. After revealing himself to me, the smart thing for me to do would have been to tell Camden immediately. He was literally a three-minute drive away that night. Waiting for me at the mini-mart. He probably would have shoved the prick into the trunk of the car, and continued with our excursion to the mall without even batting an eyelash. Problem solved. Yet I didn’t do the smart thing.
It’s actually quite hypocritical the way I’ve decided to handle this unwelcomed visitor, especially because of how I’ve busted Elizabeth’s balls in the past about trust, honesty, and keeping shit from Roman. Now I’m doing the same exact thing.
It’s a little bit of a different situation though, because I’m not sleeping with anyone like she is, but if I’m honest with myself, I know that’s just an excuse to justify my actions. I haven’t said anything yet, because Tyson is a chapter of my life that I’ve never really completely closed the book on, and now there’s this asshole sitting outside my apartment who possibly has answers as well as access to achieving that.
I figured that after finding my face half beaten all those years ago, that Roman would give Tyson a beat down that would scare him away for a good while. Long enough for me to move out of the apartment and for my bruises to heal. I never actually believed that Tyson would completely disappear from my life though. I thought he’d be a thorn in my side for a very long time, but just like Roman promised, he made it so that Tyson never returned to bother me again. And I never asked about him again.
While the sane part of my brain knew that Roman’s favor ended up being the best gift ever given to me, a small part of me always felt conflicted. Not because I wanted Tyson back, but because I didn’t get the closure that I truly needed.
That one last soliloquy.
I didn’t get to stand on my pedestal and tell Tyson about all of the things he did over the years that hurt or pissed me off. I didn’t get to tell him how excited I was to move on with the rest of my life without him in it. I didn’t get to brag about all the new guys I planned on meeting and sleeping with. I didn’t get to say any last parting words, like “fuck you.” And finally—I wasn’t the one to actually end the relationship, Roman was, and I’ve always regretted that. I should have been the one to do it.
That’s a lot of crap for one person to carry around, but for the last few years, I’ve managed to bury much of it with nonstop work and plenty of noncommittal sex, but the arrival of Tyson’s brother is forcing those bothersome feelings to resurface. So to cope, I’ve recently been turning to my spirit of choice lately—vodka.
Lots and lots of vodka.
My father would be proud.
“You want a drink?” I offer my stalker through my bedroom window. Showing him my glass of vodka and pineapple over ice. It’s actually a rhetorical question, but I’m slightly interested as to how he’ll respond.
From my vantage point, he seems to be eating chicken strips and fries inside of his car with the window down. If he really is Tyson’s brother it’s amazing how completely different they are from each other. Other than the similar tone of their voices, there’s a big difference in their stature, coloring, and mannerisms including the fact that this guy doesn’t say much. Tyson was always talking. Talking shit.
He cracks a smile at my disingenuous offer, and watches me carefully as he pops another fry into his mouth. Over the last few days or so since he’s revealed himself, you could say that the two of us have been having this strange standoff. I’m waiting for him to leave on his own, and I guess he’s waiting for me to force his hand and make him leave. Neither of us budging.
I may be dumb, but I ain’t stupid. Interrogating him about Tyson isn’t going to make me feel better. It will only open up a ton of old wounds. Yet on the other hand, I’m just not ready to be the reason this guy ends up in the emergency room with a cracked jaw, because that’s what will happen if I tell Camden, Cutter or Roman. That’s why it would be best all around if I’d just come home one day and he’s already gone.
I’m on my second cocktail of the evening, and I haven’t even left my apartment yet. The liquid gold is doing its job by soothing my frayed nerves, but I better slow down. Not only is it pathetic and dangerous to start the habit of drinking alone, but I have to go to work at the club, and Camden will be watching.
He hasn’t said anything yet, but I know that he wants to ask the questions. Where did I go when I didn’t show up at the mini-mart? Why was I so drunk the other night that he had to escort me home? These are not things that are normal for me. I don’t just stand people up, and I definitely don’t get pissy drunk. Sooner or later he’s going to want an explanation.
I brush my teeth and gargle twi
ce to eliminate any traces of vodka on my breath. The ritual painfully reminds me of flashes of my childhood. My father would spend a lot of time in the only bathroom in the house, brushing his teeth and gargling with Listerine before greeting my mother hello. As if she had no clue that he just stumbled inside the house from the corner bar he frequented after work. Am I turning into my father? God, I hope not.
* * *
I’m not tipsy, but feeling relaxed when I leave my apartment, so I decide to cross the street and confront my unwanted guest. I stand in front of the driver’s side window of his car, with my hands on my hips, popping a stick of gum in my mouth like it’s a steak dinner. He seems to be finished with his food and is sitting in the car, with the window now up, chair tilted back, and texting someone on his cell phone. He doesn’t acknowledge me at first, but I knock on the window and begin talking anyway.
“Hey, I’m leaving. You can go now,” I say loudly enough so that he can hear me through the window. Shooing him with my hands.
“We should talk,” he announces after rolling the window partially down.
“Umm, no,” I respond sarcastically.
“Then I think I’ll stay in front of your building a little while longer.”
“How long? You’re really starting to piss me off.”
“When you’re ready to talk. I’ll leave.”
“I already know what you want to say.”
“What do you think I’m going to say?”
“Knowing Tyson it has something to do with money, but you can tell him that I don’t have any, and even if I did I wouldn’t give any to him. I haven’t seen or heard from him in years, and I want to keep it that way. That’s if you’re really even his brother.”
The guy doesn’t respond but reaches into his glove compartment for something. My first reaction is to back away from the car just in case it’s a gun, but he assures me it’s not a weapon that he’s reaching for.
“Relax, I’m just getting my ID.”
He pulls out a semi-glossy looking, brown leather billfold wallet. Then retrieves a drivers license out of one of the credit card slots and hands it to me.
* * *
Chase Whitman
496 Bolier Road
Annapolis, Maryland
* * *
All types of synapses start firing up in my brain. It’s probably not a coincidence that Tyson’s brother is from Maryland, and I was sent on a wild goose chase there the night of the gala. I’m not ready to call him on it just yet. Not until I have more information.
“Okay so you have the same last name, but what’s this supposed to prove?” I ask with a suspicious voice. “I dated Tyson for years and he never mentioned you.”
“We have a dysfunctional family, like most people, but we’ve recently reconnected.”
“How wonderful for you,” I say snidely.
“I’m not here for money.”
“I thought I was clear on not caring about why you’re here. The only thing I’m interested in is you freeing up this parking space for people who actually live on this street, and if you don’t leave in the next ten minutes, I’m calling the cops to help you along.”
He raises an eyebrow. “I don’t think you’ll do that.”
“And why the fuck not?”
“I’m not breaking any laws by parking here, and more importantly you and I both know calling the cops isn’t your style. You would have done it by now if it was.”
This asshole is calling my bluff.
“You are stalking me. Last time I checked stalking was against the law in every state of this great nation.”
“So call the cops then.”
Then before I can respond to his dare, the prick rolls up the window and puts a white hand towel over his face as if I’ve been dismissed. He called my bluff well. After years of dealing with a raging alcoholic and his erratic mood swings, I’ve been conditioned to not calling the police. Sticking my father into jail to sober up was never a good idea, because he would come home meaner than ever.
So he’s right. I’m not going to call anyone. I’m not going to do anything. Not quite yet. Not until I figure out exactly who this Chase Whitman really is and what he wants with me. Especially because Tyson’s involved.
I’m running late when I arrive at Lotus. I’m usually the first one to the club, to a meeting, to the gym, to anywhere that I need to be. But doing things out of character lately seems to be a running theme in my life right now. Fortunately everyone seems preoccupied with work, so they aren’t paying much attention to the fact that the new manager, who’s been missing in action, has finally shown up—late.
Marco is opening up the bar for the night, Cutter is troubleshooting an issue with the sound system, and the custodial staff is having a mini meeting in the far corner of the club. The person I truly want to avoid is nowhere in sight, and not parked in his usual perch on the second floor of the club keeping an eagle eye on everyone. In fact on my way in, one of our bouncers said that Camden has been working non-stop for hours in the office and hasn’t popped his head out once. Perfect.
I’m told by staff that the girl, Leah, who usually collects money at the door during the week called out. Something about her kid having the flu, so it looks like it will be my job to handle the door for the evening. That’s a big part of my job for the boys. I fill in wherever necessary, because I know how to practically do everyone’s job.
It’s not time for me to start working the door yet, so I decide to sit at the bar and have a drink. I rationalize to myself that it’s the only way to mask the fact that I’ve already had two others. I’m ironically sipping on my vodka and pineapple when the club’s liquor distributor pops in for a visit.
Patrick is a good guy. Funny, respectful, and kind of flirty. We usually talk for a good while on the phone when I place my wine and spirits order for the bar every month, but it’s nice to see him in person. Especially because he isn’t that bad to look at. Average height, stocky build, kind eyes. He’ll be a great distraction for me tonight. Anything to keep my mind off of Tyson’s brother, as well as the King I’ve been avoiding for days.
“Well hello, Miss Barlow.”
“Hi to you too, Pat.”
“Are you working hard tonight or hardly working?”
“Unfortunately I have to work the door tonight. Not my favorite job. Every woman in the tri-state area thinks they should get in free if they’ve slept with one of the owners.” I laugh. “You should see their reactions when I tell them that they have to pay twenty-five bucks to get in, but we’d never turn a profit if I didn’t charge them all.”
Patrick laughs. He always thinks whatever I say is funny, which is nice.
“Aww, damn. I thought we’d finally get a chance to dance and party in here tonight. I don’t have to work tomorrow.”
“Well you should absolutely stay. There will be plenty of gorgeous women in here tonight for you to charm with those eyes of yours.”
Although they’re kind looking, Patrick actually has a set of very average brown eyes, but everyone likes to be paid a compliment. Plus I think my flirting helps with the rock bottom wholesale price he gives us for our bottles.
“Yet I only want to dance with you.”
“Awww, aren’t you sweet.”
“What are you drinking? You want another?”
“Grey Goose and pineapple, and no, maybe later.”
“The good stuff,” he says referring to my choice of vodka.
“Yep, you want to taste?”
I hold the glass up to his lips for him to take a sip. He stares at me like a horny middle school boy while he takes a small gulp of my drink. I’m pretty sure he feels that he’s laid enough groundwork with me over the last few months to finally get me into bed and not feel guilty about it. I can tell that’s the kind of guy Patrick is. Someone who doesn’t have ass just handed to him. He has to work for it, and I appreciate a hard worker. They always try their best in bed. Maybe he’d be just the thing to make me for
get about my incredible one-night stand I had with Camden. In fact, maybe Patrick could help distract me over the next thirty days.
I smile while Patrick takes a swallow, and then I allow him the honor of watching me take another sip of the drink in the same exact place where his lips just were. My eyes locked on his. Then I lick my lips afterwards for effect. When he tries to adjust his dick without me seeing, I grin to myself.
Works every single time.
“So are you staying?” I ask seductively already knowing the answer.
“I’ll be right here when you’re finished.”
I turn the corner of my lips up.
“Want another sip?”
Camden
I’ve spent the better part of my afternoon digging around two year’s worth of some poor sap’s phone records. He’s been a busy boy. Calling people he had no business calling. Proof that he’s been double crossing one of our clients. Which is great news for us. This will be an easy couple of grand in our pocket.
I was just finishing up when Cutter comes barreling into the office like he always does. He never enters a room quietly. It’s not in his DNA. He always busts in, rarely knocking, and announcing himself as if nobody in the room knows who the hell he is. He spares me the King’s greeting this time, but ends up telling me something that I want to hear even less.
“Patrick is here.”
“All right already! Why do you always have to barge in here like the goddamn cops. I swear I’m going to accidentally put a bullet in your chest one day if you don’t learn how to enter a room like a normal person.”
“You need to see someone about all that pent up anxiety of yours, big brother. When’s the last time you got laid? I know just the spot we can go to after work.” He grins.
Cutter knows good and well that I’m not going to go to some broken down, dirty, titty bar to look for some ass. We have plenty to choose from right here, and it sure as hell smells better. Not to mention that I only seem to want one ass in particular lately, and I haven’t had a taste of the shit in months. My patience is wearing thin. I’ve never waited so patiently for a woman in my life.
Claimed by a King Page 9