Before I can get properly pissed at Arrow, a tall, busty blonde catches my eye from across the bar. Well, hello, sweetheart. She undresses me with hungry eyes. You go right on ahead, honey. I mean, I can’t blame her—I am fucking hot. Six foot-four made of pure muscle, tattoos covering each of my arms from wrist to neck. The cherry on top of this very delicious cake? My dark brown hair and light hazel eyes, a cake she is more than welcome to slide into her mouth and swallow whole. My dick twitches with approval—apparently, he’s made his decision for the night. Busty blonde it is. Good choice.
As I’m about to walk over to suggest I plant my flagpole in her, my pocket rings. What the fuck is it now? It better not be Arrow. Pulling my phone from my jeans pocket, I see that it’s Beau. Speak of the devil.
“Hey man, I was just talkin’ about ya,” I answer.
“Nothing bad, I hope.”
“Never, cuz. Just wonderin’ when you were gonna be home.”
“That’s actually why I’m calling.” While Beau talks, I keep my eye on the blonde. You ain’t goin’ nowhere, honey. You are mine tonight, just as soon as I get off this phone.
“So, you gonna be back sooner rather than later?”
“Yeah, and I’m bringing a new friend. I was hoping it would be okay for her to stay in our spare room. She’ll pay rent, of course.”
“Sure, man, no problem. If you vouch for ‘em, I’m sure it’ll be fine.” I’m not really paying complete attention to Beau. Really. I just wanna get off the phone and slide between the blonde’s pretty pink lips.
“Great, we should be there in a couple days. Just have to sort out a few things first.”
“Yeah, sounds great. See ya then.” Tapping the red disconnect button, I slide the iPhone back into my pocket. The blonde is practically giving her straw a blow job. She is primed and ready, no doubt.
Making my way across the bar, I slide into the vacant spot next to her at the high top. Her tits are pert and perky in a purple skintight dress that stops just below her ass. Maybe she’ll let me slide my dick between them while she sucks me like that straw in her mouth.
“Can I buy you a drink?” Women love it when you do that kind of shit.
“Sure.” She sucks down the last of her drink through that straw.
“You here with anyone?” I don’t play around, no need to waste my time. There’s plenty of fish in the sea, and landing one is as easy as another.
“No one important.” Her voice is soft and sultry. I lean in a little and run my fingers down a long strand of hair resting on her shoulder. Brushing my knuckles across the exposed top of her breast.
“Perfect.”
“I’m Abby, by the way.” Extending out her well-manicured hand, I take it and place a kiss on her knuckles.
“I’m Phoenix. But you can call me Nix.”
Chapter 4
Clover
O ver the last two days, I’ve grown close to Beau. He helped me pack up my measly belongings and sell my car to a pick-n-pull for five hundred bucks. Better than nothing, I guess. I didn’t have that much to pack, most of it was crap, and I didn’t need it. Being poor forces you into the minimalist lifestyle. By the time I have everything packed that I’m bringing with me, it all fits into one suitcase and one backpack. Pathetic, right?
When it comes to clothes, I’m pretty basic. I only need jeans, t-shirts, leggings, shorts, then a few sweatshirts and three pairs of shoes. The only other important belongings are my sketchbook and an afghan my grandmother made before she died. There is an album filled with my entire life—photos of mom and me. Lastly is a small jewelry box that holds the few pieces of sentimental family jewelry I couldn’t stand to pawn.
Tossing all that and my well-worn denim jacket into Beau’s stylish white Audi S5, we leave Jackson, Mississippi, ridiculously early. It will only take us eleven hours to drive to Huntersville, North Carolina, and I sleep the first three hours of the drive.
The rest of the drive is—freeing. Like I am shedding all the weight that has been dragging me down and leaving it behind. I’m not from Jackson. It’s just where we ended up. Originally, I’m from Pasco, Washington. Don’t ask how we ended up in Mississippi; it would take way too long to go through all the weirdness that is my life to explain how that came to be. Let’s just say mom was a free spirit and didn’t like to be tied down to one spot for too long.
Beau briefly told me about his family. He has four brothers and one sister, as well as about a dozen more cousins. His dad, along with his aunts and uncles, are the heads of the family and run most of the businesses with their kids. He also delicately explained to me a little more about what his family does off the books. Apparently, the whole family is involved in a large organization dealing drugs and guns. Using the legitimate businesses as fronts and places to funnel money through. Needless to say, it was all very eye-opening. I had talked a big game, and now I have to put my money where my mouth is—no way to back out now.
I told him about my zero siblings and how my dad left before I was born, which took about thirty seconds to explain. Talking about my mother, however, took much longer. I don’t think I’ve talked about her that much since she died. No one really wanted to listen. Except for Ronnie, my…it doesn’t matter who she is. He doesn’t need to know the details of the dark bottomless pit I lived in after my mother’s death. At least not yet—maybe someday. I feel like I could tell him. Very few people know about it, and I’d like to keep it that way.
Huntersville is a town like any other town in North Carolina. Large open yards surround Southern-style homes. The shopping malls and restaurants are plentiful. As we drive through town, Beau points out some of his family’s businesses.
We pass a little white bakery with large swirling red letters spelling Cherry’s Pie.—Beau explains that his aunt is named Cherry, and she owns the bakery. It’s cute. I haven’t had a decent, sweet other than a ding-dong in years. I’d kill for a proper lemon tart. We pass the very large and busy auto body shop settled in a more industrial part of town. Then, most importantly, the bar, named Colt 45. Supposedly it’s a play on words since their last name is Colton and their family crest is a Colt. Plus, a Colt 45 is a pistol as well as a type of malt liquor. So, it’s like this quadruple innuendo. It’s really quite clever.
Colt 45, or Colt’s as he calls it, looks like a well-kept local bar. Nothing extravagant or fancy. No neon lights or flashy signs. Instead, its name is etched into a clean, modern metal sign that’s hung neatly over the simple brick industrial-style building. Parked outside are a few high-end sports cars and well-maintained vintage muscle cars. They must have a wealthy clientele.
Driving through an affluent neighborhood, I knew Beau’s house would be nice. Between seeing his car and knowing they were into illegal businesses—as well as above-board ones, I knew the family had to be loaded. Yet, as we turn down a long-paved driveway, I am not at all prepared for what I see.
At the end of the driveway, at the edge of a well-manicured lawn, stands a beautiful Southern-style brick manor—and yes, it is a manor, not a house. Even though I can tell it’s only two stories tall, it’s a massive two stories. For people who work in the shadowy underbelly of society, they sure do live like the upper echelon. This new life of mine is shaping up nicely so far. As the whole house comes into view, I see a four-car garage attached on the left side. Beau doesn’t head for the garage. Instead, he stops right in front of the grand entrance.
With white columns on either side and a curved awning overhead, the clean starch-white a bright contrast to the red brick the rest of the house is made up of. The front door is massive, almost as wide as two doors. Painted the same pure white as the shutters.
When we exit the car, Beau gets my suitcase from the back along with his own and carries them inside while I, on the other hand, can’t seem to pick my jaw up off the driveway. The foyer is massive, with a wide staircase going up one side to the second floor. There are shiny hardwood floors throughout. Beau joins me as I stand an
d gawk at his home.
“Come on, I’ll show you around.”
“What? No butler?”
“Nah, he’s on vacation. You’re stuck with me.” Beau has grown accustomed to my sarcasm already and plays along with my banter. It’s really nice to have someone who gets my humor and doesn’t get offended easily. Makes it easier for me since I have a very damaged filter.
My head is on a constant swivel as Beau leads me from room to room on the first floor. Through an open floor plan living room, dining room-kitchen combo, where all the appliances are state-of-the-art. Guess I’ll have to learn how to cook now. Everything—furniture-wise—is very manly and modern, with dark grays, sleek lines, a high-end television, and a stereo system. Surprisingly, the art on the walls is not modern like I expected. No—instead of paint splatter and nudes, I find watercolors and beautiful landscapes of forests and colorful exotic flowers.
In the living room, I stop at one in particular that catches my eye. It’s not of a landscape or flowers, but of a man. Black and white fine tip pen etches out the shape of a shirtless man leaning against a railing, head turned, looking off somewhere in the distance. A cigarette in between his fingers halfway to his lips, the other hand is stuffed in his pocket. The detail is amazing. Every angle of his strong jawline and indentation of his abs is visible. This man is gorgeous. Standing there, I can’t say anything—only stare, memorizing every line and detail. I take in disheveled shaggy hair with shaved sides—the slight pinch in his brow. This man has a lot he holds inside but doesn’t let out often. Amazingly, the artist captured it all.
“I see you found my cousin’s favorite piece of art.” Beau stops beside me and looks at the sketch.
“It’s beautiful. Whoever the artist is captured the inner turmoil of this man so well.” Along with the ripples of his muscles. But I keep that comment to myself.
“Emerald. My cousin Emerald is the artist.” He points at the illustration. “That turmoil-ridden man is also my cousin—Phoenix.”
“Wait, the Phoenix you live with?”
“Yup.”
“The one who owns this house?”
“The very same.”
Oh, damn. So, all the men in his family are as beautiful and hot as Beau. This is promising… but can also spell trouble. Many men have told me they were interested in me until I opened my mouth. Who’s to say they won’t think the same. Guess I’ll just have to wait and see.
“Now you understand why it’s his favorite. It’s a topless portrait of himself on his own back balcony.”
“Sounds a little arrogant, but I can’t completely blame him. It is a really well-done drawing. Your cousin has some serious talent.”
“Yeah, she’s pretty good. Did a couple of the others we have hanging in the house, too—since Nix is the best artist in the family, she came to him a lot for advice and help.”
That’s right, Phoenix, or Nix as Beau calls him, is a tattoo artist. He’s the one who drew and tattooed Beau’s Pegasus on his shoulder. One day, a long time ago, I considered myself an artist, but I don’t think I’m nearly as good as this. Although it’s been a while since I really attempted to draw anything other than doodles.
“Come on, there’s more of the house I still need to show you.” Following Beau, he shows me the den—inside is a pool table, filled bookcases, and a large desk filling the back corner. There’s a large back room they transformed into a gym with glass walls and sliding doors to the backyard.
The backyard. My eyes sweep over a rock fountain water feature set into one end of a huge in-ground pool—complete with a diving board, hot tub, and a zero-edge waterfall spilling into the shallow end. The whole thing sparkles under the late afternoon sun.
Beau takes me downstairs to the guest bedroom and then back through the kitchen to the garage. Inside sits a powder-blue vintage pickup truck, a matte black Camaro, and a matching motorcycle. Damn, these boys really like their toys.
“Well, all the cars are here, so Nix has to be home,” With a little wave, he ushers me back inside. “Probably in his room. We’ll check on the way to your room. That way, I can introduce you.”
I only nod. Butterflies begin to stir in my stomach, thinking of meeting the very tall and attractive man I saw in the drawing. Does he really look like that in person? Well, I’m about to find out.
Walking up the wooden stairs, I slide my hand along the smooth railing with my head turned up, watching the back of Beau as we ascend. The second floor has a sitting area at the top of the stairs with a few plush armchairs and a small end table, though they don’t appear to have ever been used. A left turn takes us down a wide hallway and to a set of double doors. Stopping, Beau knocks.
“Nix?”
Knock, knock, knock.
“Nix, are you in there?”
No answer.
“You sure he’s home?” I ask. Partially hoping he isn’t. That way, I can get my bearings before meeting him. Beau assured me Nix was cool with my living here and renting one of the spare rooms, but it was short notice, and from the expression on his face in that drawing downstairs, he might be unhappy at who his new roommate is.
“Yeah, he’s home. He’s probably just sleeping.”
“Sleeping at this hour? It’s like six. Is he some sort of old man? Early to bed, early to rise type?” Oops. I bite down on my bottom lip. I did not mean to say that out loud—damn mouth.
Beau laughs softly. “No, more like vampire-night-owl. We tend to work weird hours, generally late or through the night. He probably didn’t get to bed till after sunrise this morning if he’s still in bed at this hour.”
“Oh.” My cheeks flush in embarrassment from opening my big mouth. I lock it down and keep it shut.
“Nix. I’m coming in, hope your decent cause we have a guest.” He calls out before slowly opening one of the doors into the pitch-black room. Light streams in from the door as we step just a few feet inside. As my eyes adjust, I make out a large bed and some furniture around the room, but the blackout curtains hide any real detail.
The bed is partially washed in the light pouring in from behind us. On the bed, I can make out the shape of a large man. As my eyes adjust better, I see he is lying face down with his head turned away from us. The bare skin of his back is exposed by the blankets bunched around his waist. Dear lord, he is definitely a well-built man. Just the muscles in his back have more definition than my entire body. Curves and edges where they flex because of his outstretched arms curling under his pillow. Am I drooling? Because I think I’m drooling, and this is only the man’s back. What am I going to do when I see the rest of him?
“Nix, get up,” Beau yells as he approaches and kicks the side of the bed. Drawing a muffled grunt from Nix.
“Get up, Nix, and say hello to our new roommate.”
“We don’t have a new roommate,” Nix grumbles into his pillow.
“We do now. I told you about her a few days ago, remember?”
That gets Nix’s attention enough for him to lift his head off the pillow, but nothing more. He still faces away from us. All I can see is the shaggy hair that falls around the top of his head. Like the drawing, the sides and back are shaved short.
“Her?” He asks harshly.
“Yes, her. This is Clover. Clover, this is my extremely rude cousin Nix.” Beau introduces me to the back of his head. Before I can say anything, Nix speaks again.
“What kind of name is Clover?” Reflexively my mouth responds before my brain can tell it otherwise.
“What kind of name is Nix?” I retort in my usual sass. Dammit, Clover. Why can’t you just keep it shut and be polite?
Torturously slow, Nix sits up and turns to face us in the doorway. Fuck if his shadowed face doesn’t look exactly like the drawing of him. Strikingly sharp hazel eyes, soft kissable lips, and a strong jawline covered in dark stubble. His shaggy brown hair falling partially in his face. Oh, dear, this is going to be harder than I thought. Because he’s beautiful.
Nix j
ust stares at me, and I can’t help but stare back. He’s probably used to women staring at him. He’s strikingly handsome, and I haven’t even seen all of him—yet.
“You never mentioned anything about a female roommate.” He states flatly.
“Yes. I did. You just weren’t listening.”
He stands, and I finally get a full-frontal view of Nix—literally. The only thing he’s wearing is a pair of black boxer briefs. Oh, my fucking good lord. This man is much more defined in person than in the sketch. Taller than Beau by at least four inches, the man is a giant compared to me. Every inch is covered in tight, flexing, mouthwatering muscles—broad shoulders—with biceps as large as my head! I can’t quite make them out in the dark, but I’m certain he’s got tattoos from neck to wrist.
Tattoos are my freaking weakness, and I instantly want to run my fingers across them to get a better look. My eyes roam down the sculpted chest, lingering momentarily on carved washboard abs. There’s that oh-so tantalizingly desirable V disappearing into his tight black boxer briefs. I can’t be sure, but I think I even see a thin, dark, happy trail. Drool. This man is in ridiculously good shape.
As my eyes roam lower, I notice the very large and obvious bulge in his shorts. Which I am ashamed to say makes other parts of me besides my mouth wet. Below the provoking and tempting package, I can make out legs like tree trunks, one of which is also covered in tattoos to his mid-calf. This man is temptation personified. I also have a feeling he’s a human-sized douche bag. Sadly, all the hot ones are. But, man, oh man, is he nice to look at.
I wonder what it would be like to have sex with a man as hot as Nix. Not that the men I’d been with in the past were unattractive, but none were as appealing and built as Nix. Just the sight of him makes me ache in places that haven’t been touched properly in many months. If you don’t count the pathetic attempts made by my last ex, then years. To be touched by a man like him would be deliciously agonizing. The man is as big as a tree, and all I can think about is how much I want to climb his trunk and do very naughty things to his wood.
Phoenix (The Colton Cousins Book 1) Page 3
