I pull onto the semi-circle stone driveway. I cut my engine under a maple tree at the curb before darting out into the rain. The three tiny women crammed hip to hip on the porch swing halt their lively chattering to observe me with curious eyes. I throw them a quick greeting, refusing to stop for idle chat.
Water clings to my brow as I push through the door. My footsteps leave big wet prints all across the lobby tiles. I avoid eye contact with the blushing nurse who gives me an interested onceover on the narrow staircase.
Tension tightens around my ribcage. My heart thumps in my throat. I’ve been coming here every day since Dad announced his plan to sell the business. With each visit, the eager little boy somewhere inside of me brims with hope that things will be a little bit better than the previous time. But it’s always more of the same.
I slow my pace as I move through the hallways, making sure not to knock over the hoards of slow-moving occupants wandering around. I pause right outside the door.
"You can do this," I mutter to myself before entering. “You can fucking do this.”
The room is small and smells like boiled foot ointment and floor cleaner. I hold my breath.
The soles of my shoes scuff against the linoleum floor. The sound catches the attention of the old man in the wheelchair by the window. He looks me up and down with furrowed brows.
Digging my hands into the front pockets of my pants, I take a step closer. "Hey, Gramps."
When he scowls, that ever-present line between his gray bushy brows goes deeper.
Just like my last visit, he puffs up his narrow chest. Just like my last visit, he asks, "Who the heck are you?"
13
Lexi
Come on, Iris. Let’s Saturday it up!” I shamelessly twerk my way into her personal space. An obnoxious effort to coerce her into loosening up.
She glares peevishly into her shot glass and shakes her head. "Saturday is not a verb, Lexi," she says dryly. "You can't just make Saturday a verb."
Eye. Roll.
I’ll give her a pass for being a grouch. It’s been another rough week for my bestie. Her marriage wasn't ever anything to build a #CouplesGoals Pinterest board about but at least, it had offered her a sense of stability. She was moored in its familiarity with the man she'd been in love with since childhood. Now, she's been tossed back into the wild without a compass. Plus, the business she devoted her life to has just been yanked out of her hands. She feels unsteady and as her friend, all I want to do is prop her up as best I can.
And fuck me up some Kirk Bunting ass. But that’s a whole other story.
Anyway, I’ve finally—finally—managed to get this girl cleaned up and out of the house. Now, we're at the Frosty Pitcher and it's time to cause some trouble.
The room explodes into cheers at the opening notes of the new Ed Sheeran song. Iris slides lower on her stool like she’s trying to disappear.
"You should be drunk by now." I give her shoulder a little shake then turn my attention to the other end of the counter. Penny is doing her best to gently deflect the flirtations of a brawny out-of-towner without compromising her tip jar. She wears red pleather leggings and a tight, patronizing smile as she pops the caps off of the beers in front of her. Sliding onto a stool, I wave an arm to grab her attention. "Penny! This tequila is broken. We're gonna need something stronger."
One glance at her woeful-looking cousin and compassion rises to the bartender's face. "Oh, honey." Penny turns her back on her frisky customer and, with a confident strut, moves along the counter to where we're stationed. She snatches the shot glass from Iris's fingers and tosses it back herself. "Do you want something sweet instead? A daiquiri, maybe?"
Gathering up her purse and coat, Iris shakes her head. "Um, no. I think I'm just gonna go home. Get some sleep. I-I don't think I'm ready to, y'know, be outdoors, peopling and stuff."
What is this nonsense?!
Iris is a hot chick. She's a total blonde bombshell with an enviable C-cup and a figure that has hourglasses from here to Honolulu wondering what the heck they've been doing with their lives. She does not need to be at home in her sweats on a Saturday night, pining away over her cheating husband.
"Oh, come on!" I clasp my hands in a prayer pose, ready to beg shamelessly. "Just stay. You don't have to talk to anybody. You don't even have to dance. And I promise, if Single Ladies comes on, we totally don't have to do the choreography I made you practice before we left the house.”
Iris looks at me with the smallest hint of the saddest smile I've ever seen. Her big blue eyes swim in unshed tears. It gives me pause.
My shoulders slump as I realize that a real friend wouldn't force her to stay. Not when she feels like this. "Okay, fine. Let's go." I stand and grab my sweater off the back of my stool.
"No." Iris pats my cheek. "You stay. Have fun for me. I'll walk home. I could use the fresh air and a few minutes to clear my head." I open my mouth to protest but she levels me with a stern glare.
She's right. I'm being over-protective. Her house is just around the corner and half a block down. Besides, Crescent Harbor isn't a dangerous town by any stretch of the imagination. She doesn't need a chaperone.
"Fine," I mutter and she gathers me into a quick hug. "I love you."
"Love you," she says back and braves a smile when Penny blows her a feisty kiss across the bar. "Love you, cous'."
I drop into my chair and I watch her, bowed head and curled-in shoulders, as she moves briskly toward the exit of the Frosty Pitcher, snaking through the drunken masses clogging up the dance floor.
As her hand reaches for the door, it swings and Iris falters, startled. I see thick, long fingers slide against the frosted glass pane to hold the door open for her. My friend regains her footing and nods in appreciation then slinks out into the night.
The air in the bar shifts so fast I nearly lose my center of gravity.
Cannon Kingston's broad shoulders edge through the doorway, that pissed-off, jaded, always-impatient expression etched on his way-too-perfect face.
And immediately, I'm sober and I'm edgy and I'm ready for a fight.
14
Cannon
My mind is unsettled and my thoughts are racing as I throw my car into park on the curb outside of the Frosty Pitcher.
I seriously need to unwind.
I need to slip into a dark booth at the back of a half-lit bar, order a whiskey neat and chill the fuck out.
Maybe a pretty girl might catch my eye. Someone who'll wrap her hand around my cock under the table and not give a fuck that I can't remember her name. Or that I never bothered to ask. I just need a distraction.
Because my entire life has gone off the rails. It's a speeding train heading toward a ditch: I don't have the time to focus on my revenge plot; my grandfather battles Alzheimer's Disease as his company totters on the edge of complete ruin; and, no matter what I do, I can't get that enchanting, little lunatic off my mind.
Lexi Robson.
Grit and grace.
Half goddess. Half gangster.
She's a hurdle I didn't see coming. Stubborn, feisty, temper as wild as the untamed forest of hair tumbling around her narrow shoulders. I want to get my hands on the long, trim lines of her body. I want to sink my tongue into that sassy mouth to see if it tastes as sweet as it looks.
She's fucking with my plans and it's pissing me off. I need her to become my wife so I can save my family empire and get back to the business of fucking up Carl's life. I hate that she's putting up a fight.
Normally, I wouldn't hesitate to manipulate, exploit, destroy any obstacle standing between me and my goal. Under any other circumstances, a bailiff would be flinging her shit onto the street and nailing that bridal boutique shut as we speak.
But this girl makes me hesitate.
She makes me second-guess myself. She makes me want to take a step back and reevaluate the consequences of what I'm about to do.
If I go through with my plan, I'll hurt her...And I don't want to hu
rt her.
The truth is, I’d much rather bend her over the table and screw her literally than screw her over figuratively-speaking. I’m trying to figure out if that’s just my cock talking or if it’s something…more.
It's a feeling I'm not used to. A feeling I don't like. It has me out of sorts because I'm usually a man who goes after what I want with absolute certainty. I'm frustrated as hell because this whatever-it-is she makes me feel is getting in the way.
As I'm shutting my car door, my phone bleats. I pull it out of my pocket and check the newest text message from my ex-business partner.
Carl: My fucking fishing boat just got seized for not having a license. I know ur behind it.
Carl: Are you really gonna stoop that low, man?
I am, jackass. Thanks for asking.
When I pull open the heavy wooden door to the Frosty Pitcher, a clumsy blonde stumbles out, one misstep away from flying headfirst onto the sidewalk. I think I recognize her. I’m not sure. But as she thanks me and ambles off into the night, I don't bother overanalyze it. I'm not feeling very sociable right now anyway.
I just need a drink.
And a hand job. Maybe.
Shouldering through the mass of rowdy partygoers, I barely make it across the room without having to punch a fool in the throat. Coming out in public tonight may not have been such a great idea after all. With the mood I'm in. I momentarily consider turning around and going home but dismiss the thought. This storm of a girl has already tipped my mind off balance. I won't let her ruin my night, too.
There's an empty table in the corner. No harm in taking a seat and having a damn drink on a Saturday night. It beats sitting at home, thinking about her and jerking off, having a meltdown like a teenager who doesn't know how to control his fucking hormones.
The DJ stands on a platform at the back. Clunky headphones over his ears, one fist pumping to the sky as he drives a screeching synthesizer beat through the room. I can feel the jarring vibrations of the music all the way to the nerve endings in my teeth.
A waitress in a low-cut top and a leather skirt shimmies up to my table. Her hair is an electrifying shade of blue and tattoos blossom like ivy vines down the length of her arms. She flashes a toothy smile and takes my drink order.
As she sashays away I wonder if she'll be the one to end the night with her fingers around my cock.
Or maybe the petite brunette leaning against the jukebox, sucking seductively on her plastic straw and giving me the come-get-it eyes.
Or the leggy one curled over the pool table. She grins at me and her cleavage tries to burst through the laces of her leather corset when she bends lower and aims the cue stick.
For some reason, I'm not feeling any of them, though. I just can't get into the vibe.
Sighing, I lean back in my seat and push back the sleeves of my sweater. As if that will somehow telegraph the message to my brain that I'm here to relax. Not to obsess about a girl who is intent on driving me insane.
The harder I try to get her off my brain, the harder she insists on dominating my thoughts.
There’s vulnerability that peeks through the cracks in her fierce facade. She's sort of a mess but she owns it in a way I've never seen any woman own anything.
Grit and grace.
You don't just forget a woman like that.
And now, I'm so invested in trying to figure her out that it's messing with every goal and plan and objective I've set for myself since the day I cruised back into Crescent Harbor.
I’m about to turn her life upside down. And I just don’t know how to not feel guilty about that.
At first, I'm convinced it's a mirage when my eyes move to the dance floor and I spot that sweet body, clad in nothing more than a shimmery pink top and a tiny excuse for a skirt. Making sensual lines under the dim light. Not even bothering to keep time with the music. And that crazy, crazy hair.
They’ll need a search party to find my fingers when I finally get my hands lost in that hair.
Alexia Robson.
She catches my attention the way no other woman in this bar has all night. She catches my attention and she holds it in a death grip. I'm practically spellbound as I watch her dance. A smile moves my lips and very unwelcome feelings sprout up beneath my ribs as I watch her engineer her choreography on the fly. My need for her swells into a raw, pounding ache in my dick. I can't stop the lust hammering in my veins.
Out of nowhere, my mind is invaded by the craziest thought I've ever had. Maybe I can have her. Just once.
Maybe it won't mean anything in the end. Maybe I can get this craving out of my system and go back to business as usual.
Maybe if I get her in my bed then I'll finally get her off my brain.
Deep down I know that line of reasoning makes no logical sense. I'm trying to get her to marry me for money. Sex will only complicate things more. But my primal brain is obviously not a fan of logic.
All I want to do is pin her to the wall and kiss her until her head goes light, kiss her until her panties soak through, kiss her until I break through all the reasons she refuses to be my bride.
I toss back my drink in a gulp. My empty glass hits the tabletop with a clank. Next thing I know, my feet are taking me in her direction. My cock throbs.
I just want to kiss her...
As a matter of fact, I think I might.
15
Lexi
I smell his musky scent even before his large hand lightly grasps my side, in that sensitive space right above my hip. I turn around, unsurprised to find Cannon staring down at me. By this point, my nerve endings are so in tune with the bastard, I can sense his presence with my eyes closed. It’s disturbing.
He looks delicious tonight. He's wearing a casual black crewneck sweater with dark jeans. His man-bun is a sinful mess and when he swallows, I can barely restrain myself from inching my tongue along that sensual Adam's apple.
The crowd around us pushes us together, and I don’t stop dancing. He can stay. He can leave. I don’t care.
But then his hands find my elbows, and his hard body begins gyrating in beat with mine…Holy hell. The jerk knows how to move.
Part of me wants to grind all over his muscled thigh. And another part wants to tell him to get lost. But deep down, I feel I have something to prove. I need to prove I can do this. I can dance with this hot bastard without succumbing to his charm.
In the few short days this man has been in town, he has bullied my little sister, evicted my best friend and tried to blackmail me into marrying him. He has earned his place on my shit list. I’m justified in hating him. So why do I find myself attracted to him?
His twinkling eyes look deep into mine, shamelessly unearthing all my poorly-buried secrets. He can see through me, right into that space where my conflicting thoughts collide into each other. Like my confusion must be echoing on my face, playing like a video, flashing in my eyes like subtitles.
A self-satisfied grin unfolds across his mouth.
Argh! What a smug asshole.
I want to slap him across the cheek. And hump his leg, too.
I growl and the sound rises above the tail end of the fading techno song.
"What?" he demands, his voice low and hypnotizing, his eyes glinting brighter under the effect of the whiskey in his blood.
I narrow my gaze on his pretty, pretty face. "Y'know—you're not as impressive as you think you are."
His brow twitches, almost imperceptibly. "I'm not?" His grip tightens on my waist. His pelvis presses closer to my knotted gut.
A wispy breath quivers its way up my throat. I inch a half-step closer, aching to feel the thick length of his erection brush against me again. "No, You're not."
"Hmm…” The very tip of his tongue peeks out from between his perfect lips and whisks across the seam. "I'm not impressive at all, huh?" His fingers sift through the ends of my hair. Miss Lucille spent an hour brushing it and flat-ironing it and wrangling it under control. But none of that matters now tha
t Cannon’s got his hand tangled in it.
I shake my lying-ass head and fall deeper into the trance of his eyes. "Not impressive at all."
Another bold sweep of his fingers across my skin, another subtle rotation of his hips against my body as a new song starts up.
Violent palpitations hammer between my thighs. My pussy is such a melodramatic fool. I think I'm about to pass out from arousal.
"Is that why your breathing is so erratic, Alexia?" He presses two thick fingers to the base of my throat. "Is that why your pulse is throbbing like crazy?" Those fingers travel lower, tracing the lacy neckline of my blouse to settle over the left side of my goosebump-coated chest. "Is that why your heart is roaring in your chest?" I swallow and my ribs shake just a little bit. "Is that why your panties are so wet I can smell it?"
My gut contracts harshly and another river of wetness pulses out of my traitorous pussy.
God, I hate this man.
He bites into his bottom lip and his caramel eyes sparkle with humor and heat and determination.
I should head-butt him.
Or kick him in the groin.
Or, at the very least, stomp on his foot.
The point is, I have options. Yet, here I am, plastering my body to his, sliding my palms up the hard planes of his chest, fluttering my lashes with stars and cartoon hearts shooting from my eyes.
I groan and drop my forehead to his rock-hard chest. Realization hits me. I’m not strong enough to fight this. Frustrated by my weakness and intoxicated by his scent, I bite at his chest through his shirt.
He hisses. "Watch it, Stormy.” I hear the want in his voice.
Slowly, I lift my face. “I really can’t stand you.” I have to feed myself these lies so I can feel justified in the way I'm rubbing against his body right now.
Mister Billions: A Small Town Enemies-to-Lovers Fake Marriage Billionaire Romance (Bad Boys in Love Book 1) Page 8
