Grayson (The Kings of Brighton Book 3)

by Megyn Ward

  I kiss him almost hesitantly, my lips slightly parted in invitation while the hand I have wrapped around his cock gives him a long, slow stroke through the rough fabric of his jeans. “Please, Gray…” Pushing my fingers into the thick, dark hair at the nape of his neck, I cling to him, half-naked and shameless, my stiff, swollen nipples brushing against the rock-solid wall of his chest because he hasn’t even touched me and I can already feel myself coming apart. Can already feel the hot, rhythmic pulse of him between my legs. “Say my name...”

  His hands, gripped in the hem of my borrowed shirt, yank me back, the force of it flattening me against the wall just a few inches behind me, knocking the wind out of me, but I don’t care because Gray follows me. Pins me against it with his hips, has me gasping when I feel the push of his thick, hard cock against my belly.

  “Delilah.”

  He untangles his hands from my shirt to slide them over the swell of my hips, pulling me even closer as he tilts his head. Dips his shoulders as he answers my invitation with a hungry groan, his mouth claiming mine, sweeping me up and away in a whirlwind of heat and rhythm that pounds and streaks down the line of my spine the instant his mouth claims mine.

  “Delilah.”

  He growls it again between long, languid sweeps of his tongue while his wide, rough fingers slide along the curve of my ass, their tips skimming the juncture of my thighs from behind. The pressure of them loosening the hinge on my knees in an instant.

  “Delilah.”

  He slips his hand into my hair and makes a fist, gripping it so tight the pain of it tingles against my scalp while his mouth continues to move against mine. Devouring me. Consuming me. Tender, almost reverent, one second. Demanding and cruel the next like he can’t decide what this is. If it’s punishment or worship.

  Heaven or hell.

  “Delilah.”

  The fingers between my thighs push past the stretch of damp lace that covers me and I feel a moan shake its way up my throat as they skim the seam of my pussy, gently teasing my slick, swollen entrance with the promise of relief while the hand in my hair and his mouth pressed against mine continue their assault.

  My head falls back, exposing the line of my neck as the moan pushes its way out of my mouth, shaped around his name. “Gray…”

  “Goddamnit.”

  And just like that, everything stops.

  Gray isn’t kissing me anymore. He isn’t touching me. He’s gone. Across the hall, as far away from me as he can get, chest heaving. Mouth screwed up in a nasty sneer. Massive hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Wow…” He unclenches one of his fists and scrubs the flat of his palm against his mouth like he’s trying to get rid of the taste of me. “Good job—congratulations. You got me. You won.”

  “What?” My head is still spinning. My brain struggling to catch up. Figure out what just happened. What I did. Why kissing me made him so angry. “What did I… I don’t—”

  “Save it.” He crosses his arms over his bare chest and shakes his head at me. “I don’t have time for your games.”

  “Games?” The spinning comes to a sudden stop, like someone reached out and snatched me from the heart of a cyclone. “You think—”

  “I don’t think—I know." He pushes it through clenched teeth while he gestures toward the heavy metal security door that leads to alley. “Rivers is waiting.”

  Rivers.

  My driver.

  The man has the patience of a saint. Has to in order to put up with me.

  “Good.” Stung by his sudden rejection and trying not to show it, I give my hair a haughty flip over my shoulder. “Make sure you put that thing in lost and found,” I tell him, tipping my chin at the dress he has jammed into his back pocket. “Someone will come looking for it, I’m sure.”

  Before he can say something, I turn my back on him and strut away on legs that are doing a far better job of holding me upright than I thought they would.

  Pushing the door open onto the alley sets off a storm of lights and sound. Flashbulbs, detonating like bombs all around me. People shouting my name—telling me what to do. Shouting questions.

  Delilah.

  Look over here.

  Did you have fun tonight?

  Who were you with?

  Where are your clothes?

  Whose shirt are you wearing?

  “Let’s get you home, Miss.”

  Rivers’ voice sounds off somewhere above me, moments before I feel him slip an arm around my waist to help me to the car like an invalid.

  I can just imagine the picture in Page Six tomorrow morning—me, tottering across the cracked asphalt, wearing nothing but a pair of stripper heels and a man’s T-shirt, looking dazed and disheveled while Rivers guides me carefully into the back of my waiting limo.

  HURRICANE DELILAH CAUSES CATEGORY 5 IN NY CLUB

  Ignoring it all, I turn to cast a look over my shoulder, aiming my gaze down the corridor behind me. At the man in the shadows, just beyond the reach of cameras and shouting photographers. I almost go back inside. Almost beg Gray to take me away.

  Somewhere.

  Anywhere but here.

  But when I look for him, Gray isn’t there.

  He’s already gone.

  FOUR

  Grayson

  2019

  NEW YORK, NEW YORK

  IT’S LATE FRIDAY MORNING AND I’M IN MY OFFICE,

  reviewing security footage of the VIP bar from last night.

  Yeah, I have an office.

  An actual fucking office with a desk and everything.

  You’re CSO for Bright Group Entertainment. You need an office, dumbass.

  That’s what Jase said when he shoved me in here a few years ago and stood in the doorway so I couldn’t leave.

  CSO.

  Chief security officer.

  It’s a stupid title—I’m not chief anything.

  I’m a bouncer.

  Still.

  Been home a little over five years now and I’m still just a bouncer in my brother’s club, no matter what Jase wants to call it.

  Sure, I run background checks for potential employees. Sit in on interviews. Supervise and train a security team of nearly two hundred, stretched across ten clubs in Manhattan. Put together and execute security details for high-pro clientele. Movie stars and visiting royals looking to party in private. Professional athletes and the rest of New York’s wasted elite who think nothing of dropping six-figures on premium bottle service and a fuck ton of privacy.

  But come Friday night, none of that matters because I’m exactly where I’ve been for the past five years—on the floor, cleaning up rich peoples’ messes.

  I hate to break it to you, pendejo, but between your annual salary and your stock options in the company, you are a rich people.

  Another pearl of wisdom from my jackass brother.

  Whatever.

  Jase handles all that shit for me. If I’m completely honest, I’m not even sure what a stock option does or how in the hell it made me into one of them. All I really know is that I don’t want to know, so I just ignore it and pretend I don’t see the multitude of zeros in my bank account.

  But they’re there and there’s a lot of them.

  Enough that I get a little sick to my stomach when I think about it because it was all my parents ever wanted for me.

  We want more for you, Grayson. More for you than dirt under your fingernails and a sore back from polishing someone else’s fenders for twelve hours a day. We want you to be successful. Rich.

  The way your father used to be.

  The never said it—not to me anyway—but I know that’s what they meant. It’s all they ever wished for and the irony of it is that they had to die for that wish to come true.

  Because if they were still alive, I would never have seen the inside of the Brighton Home for Boys. Never would’ve met Tob. Never met any of them.

  My brothers.

  I’d still be Grayson Muñez. Son of Gabriel and Isabella, Me
xican immigrant. Despite all their wishing and praying and the fancy whiteboy name they gave me, I’d probably work at a car wash, detailing Bentleys and Ferraris, just like my dad.

  And because he’s dead, I actually own one.

  It was a 30th birthday gift from Tob and Jase.

  Logan just promised me a beer and a burrito the next time I came to Boston.

  Burritos and beer are more my speed.

  The Ferrari sits in a climate controlled indoor parking garage in The Bowery, not far from my apartment.

  I’ve never even driven it.

  I take the subway.

  Still reviewing footage, I come out of my slump and click the mouse, freezing the frame on the image on screen.

  My head bartender, selling coke to Jordy Cramer, trust fund douche extraordinaire, from behind the bar last night.

  Goddamnit.

  Swiping a rough hand over my face, I hit print on the screengrab before sitting back in my chair completely. The guy’s been with us for about three years now. His name is Mike. Great bartender. Worked his way up to VIP quick, where I know he clears six-figures a year in tips alone, working less than forty hours a week—and this is how he decides to fuck it all up.

  By breaking one of my few but iron-clad rules.

  No fucking customers in the club.

  No dealing to customers in the club.

  No booze or drugs on the clock.

  No selling info to the tabloids.

  That’s it.

  That’s all I ask of my people in exchange for a spot in what is arguably the hottest club in Manhattan and he couldn’t keep it together.

  Fucking dummy.

  Disgusted, I click the window closed on the computer, just as someone gives my closed door a light-knuckled rap.

  “S’open,” I grumble, turning in my seat to snatch the photo off the printer tray. When I spin back around, it’s to find Angel’s large frame wedged into the crack in the door.

  “Hey, Boss,” he says, his gaze flicking to the piece of paper in my hand. “Vendor’s here with a fuck ton of champe—where you want me to tell him to put it?”

  “Where we usually put it,” I tell him, not really understanding the question. It’s Friday—we always get a large delivery of champagne on Friday and it’s never been an issue before unless…

  “What’s a fuck ton?”

  Angle flushes and aims his gaze at my ear. “Invoice says two hundred cases.”

  What the fuck? That’s twice our normal order.

  “We got an event scheduled?” We don’t. I know we don’t because if we did, it would be on my calendar and it’s not. There’s nothing—

  “Uhhh, yeah…” Angel shifts his sheepish look from my ear to my forehead while scratching the bridge of his nose with his fingertip. “About that… Mr. B called the club line about an hour ago and said we got some big influencer coming in to host a VIP event, last minute.”

  Mr. B.

  That’s what they all call Jase.

  They call Tob, Mr. Bright, sir, right before they pucker up and plant one right on his ass.

  I’m just Boss.

  I’d prefer just Gray.

  “Fuck me…” I take another swipe at my jawline, trying to loosen up the clenched muscles before I grind my teeth down to nothing because influencer is Jase code of some dumb, rich fuck and last-minute event is code of three-ring circus. “Did that jackass happen to mention who this influencer is?” Because if I know who, I can gage exactly how much shit I’m going to be wading through come 1AM.

  “Uhhh, no.” Angel’s gaze goes to my forehead again. “He didn’t say who exactly…”

  “I’m not into semantics, man,” I remind him, dropping my hand away from my face. “So, how about you just tell me what you do know.”

  “Okay.” Angel gives me a nervous nod. “So, what I know is that it’s two hundred cases of Cuvee Louise Rose, a guest list twice as long as my arm and…” He winces slightly like he’s about to pour a box of salt into a gunshot wound. “the event is called Code Blonde.”

  FIVE

  Delilah

  I USED TO SLEEP UNTIL NOON.

  I’d wake up fully clothed, without a clear memory of how I ended up in my bed, usually with a wastepaper basket next to it, along with a glass of water and a couple of Advil.

  Rivers.

  He always takes care of me.

  I’d take the pills and wait for the room to stop spinning before calling room service. I’d order something ridiculous and completely off menu, then wait impatiently while whoever had the unfortunate responsibility of tackling my demands scrambled to meet them. When my food came, I’d usually turn my nose up at it and send it away.

  Then I’d lounge in bed all afternoon.

  Watch Netflix or call down to the hotel salon and have one of the nail techs come up here and freshen my pedicure. Make one of the massage therapists from the spa lug her table up here to give me a detox massage because I felt like trash and was too hung over to take a five-minute elevator ride to the lobby.

  If the massage made me sore, or the tech smudged my polish I’d consider my day a complete and total disaster. I’d call my friend, Liz and complain about how no one knows how to do anything right and how much I hate my life.

  She’d commiserate with me and then we’d decide where we would go that night—which night club we were going to grace with our presence.

  It was almost always Level.

  I practically lived there and my favorite game to play was Torture Gray. I’d do everything and anything I could to get his attention.

  Cause him trouble.

  Force him to deal with me.

  Getting under Gray’s skin was the highlight of my day.

  Because every time I looked at him, I remembered that night. What it felt like when he touched me and I remember the way he looked at me when he finally came to his senses and pushed me away.

  Like I disgusted him.

  Like everything about me made him sick to his stomach and kissing me was a crime against humanity. It made me feel like shit and who was he to make me feel that way? He was just some bouncer at a club. A nameless, faceless nobody who deserved to be treated like dirt.

  That’s what I told myself anyway.

  “Oh my god—you should’ve been there. That actor guy who was in that movie was there and he kept ordering the cheapest vodka and then that chick—you know the one who looks like she’s twelve and sings that song about giving blowjobs got so shitfaced she fell off one of the stripper poles and cracked her head open.” Liz showed up an hour ago, teetering between blackout drunk and mania, which usually means she washed down a fistful of Adderall with enough Redbull and vodka to kill a horse. She’s currently eating Taco Bell in my bathtub full clothed, the carnage interspersed with drunk rambling about everything I missed by staying home again instead of going clubbing with her and her brother, Jordy. “—and you know who was there? Nik.” she scoffs and rolls her eyes while tossing a taco wrapper over the side of the tub. “He was with some slutbag model but he totally asked me about you.”

  Nik.

  Niklaus Vanderhoff.

  The tabloids call him Nik Vanderhott.

  He’s a Dutch Count.

  And my on-again/off-again boyfriend.

  We’ve been off for about six months now.

  All the way off and it’s not something he’s taking very well.

  I wonder if she can hear it, same as I can—the jealousy in her tone that she’s trying to cover up with a thick coat of distain. Jealous because the two of them have been hooking up behind my back for a while now.

  “That’s nice,” I muttered as I picked up her burrito supreme and chalupa wrappers, waiting for her Taco Bell to make its inevitable round trip.

  Six months ago I would’ve been in the bathtub with her. Would’ve left the fast-food trash for housekeeping to pick up and probably a healthy dose of puke to mop up along with it. But that was before the deliveries started.

 
; Flowers.

  Two dozen long-stem white roses left at the front desk with my name on them. I didn’t think anything of it because—and I know how this makes me sounds—I get flowers all the time. Promoters thanking me for hosting an event at their club and landing their place a prime spot on Page Six. Designers trying to woo me into wearing one of their designs to my next appearance. Other influencers, looking to collab. I even thought maybe Nik sent them as an I’m sorry for our latest break-up, in hopes of getting back together. So, when they showed up, I looked for a card and when I didn’t find one, I just shrugged and promptly forgot about them, thinking the card got lost and whoever sent them would reach out and fess up because no one sends flowers like that just to stay anonymous.

  But no one came forward to accept responsibility and they kept coming.

  Once a week, like clockwork.

  Always the same—two dozen long-stem, white roses.

  No card.

  And then last month, when the weekly delivery arrived, there was a white gift box tied with a blue ribbon with it.

  That’s when shit started getting real and I stopped living my life because I made the mistake of letting curiosity get the better of me and I opened it.

  Looked inside.

  I haven’t left my suite in over a month.

  “You’re not fun anymore,” Liz announced loudly from the tub, dropping her bucket-sized fast-food cup of Mountain Dew in the toilet before passing out.

  She was still here when I woke up this morning, moved from my bathtub to my couch sometime during the night.

  “What are you doing?” Liz says, sitting up owl-eyed, with smeared make-up and pillow creases etched into her cheek, blinking at me while I finish up a workout.

  “Spin class,” I tell her, even though what I’m doing is obvious. Sitting up on my bike, my pedaling slowing considerably as I begin my cool down.

  “Gross.” She looks at me like I told her I was gutting a fish. “Why are you doing it here? Don’t you usually go to the place in Brooklyn?”

  “Woke up late,” I lie. I never went to bed and I’m spinning here instead of a crowded gym because just thinking about leaving the hotel is enough to freak me out.

  “What time is it?” She looks around the spacious living room for clues.