by Jess Bentley
She keeps trying to pull back, but it takes almost no effort to keep her here. I'm not even squeezing or anything, I promise. She's just not strong enough to break away. I'm not sure she's really even trying very hard.
“Mr. Riordan? Your Yamazakis. Neat,” the waiter says, politely ignoring Bella’s escape attempt as he slides the glasses onto the table.
“You’re in for a treat,” I confide. “If you’re accustomed to American whiskeys, I think you’ll find this much more complex, more like a scotch. Tell me what you think.”
“No!” she objects, her dark eyelashes fluttering wildly. “You don't understand, I'm not supposed to be with you!”
“What are we drinking?” Emmet asks, appearing suddenly between us. He pulls out a chair and unbuttons his coat before dropping into the third seat.
“Yamazaki for you also, Mr. Riordan?” asks the waiter, almost hiding his smirk.
He nods, distracted by Bella. His eyes slide up and down her bare arms, circling the pit of her throat where her pulse is vibrating.
“She just kissed me,” I shrug.
I feel her kick me under the table, but her shoe barely grazes my trousers.
“You're not very good at trying to damage my possessions,” I smile at her. “First the car, now the shoes? Maybe you should quit it.”
“Any good?” Emmet asks. “The kiss, I mean.”
“Oh, quite all right, for a first one.” I can’t keep the grin off of my face.
“Oh my God, stop it!” she hisses, trying to keep her voice low. I watch her eyes dart to every corner of the room as she tries to figure out how many people can see this. It's a lot.
Slowly I let my tongue drift over my bottom lip and then rake it with my upper teeth. I can still taste her. It’s sort of a vanilla flavor, like a piece of cake. Or a cookie.
“You know what, pretty good!” I have to admit. “I’ll need to try again to know for sure.”
“I didn't mean to!” she whispers urgently. “It was a mistake!”
“Actually, she practically sat in my lap,” I shrug.
“Stop it!” she snarls at me. Her eyes flash dangerously under those perfectly arched eyebrows. “I didn't… I mean, I thought he was you!”
“It's not a big deal,” Emmet shrugs. “Kiss him all you want. We like to share.”
“No!” she pushes herself back from the table.
I release her wrist since I figure I'll get it back again in a little while, and it's going to feel great. Her eyes dart back and forth between us. It looks like she's figuring out which one of us she wants to yell at. Her composure is wilting, dissolving around her like she’s becoming disrobed, layer by layer. I can’t look away.
“You were late!” she accuses Emmet.
“Hannah said eight o'clock.”
“It’s eight-twenty!”
“Close enough,” he replies.
“Hannah told you about our date?” I ask him, suddenly interested again. “Sounds like the old broad's loosening up a little, eh?”
“I thought she was talking about my date,” he smiles. He takes a slow breath and leans to the side to check out her legs under the table. “You're Bella, aren't you?”
“No!” she growls. Her hands go up, palms out, like she's going to push us both off a balcony or something. “I mean, yes… I'm Bella. But Hannah told me to go on a date with Emmet. Not Dillon! She's not loosening up anything!”
“But, Bella darling, you asked me out.”
“But,” her voice fades. She thinks back, piecing it together. “You were in the wrong parking spot.”
“I can park where I like.”
“No, I mean… you were in the parking spot that said Emmet Riordan,” she hisses, her voice urgent and frustrated.
I shrug. “Yeah well, you were in the spot that said Hannah Bonham. I didn’t assume you were her. And you dented my car.”
“I did not!”
“Well, you tried. I was right about the trying, then.”
“You're not right about anything!” she objects.
She snatches her blue handbag off the table top and pivots outward like she's going to leave. Emmet drops a hand to block her, brushing his palm against her knee. Surprisingly, I'm a little jealous that he already got to touch her below the shoulders when I haven’t. I’ll have to fix that in a hurry.
“Let me go,” she says calmly and clearly, as though coached on those words in some kind of self-defense class.
“Look over my right shoulder,” he tells her, measuring his words out carefully. Her eyes hesitate for a moment and then rise over his shoulder, scanning the front of the room. I see her mouth narrow into a frustrated line.
“Shit.”
“What are we looking at?” I ask, following her gaze. And there he is, right in the corner, pretending to type on his iPhone while holding it up high enough to be snapping pictures. The same blogger who caught us balls-deep in the Congresswoman.
“Oh, shit, indeed."
“Has he been there the whole time?” Emmet asks me.
“How should I know?” I answer. “It's not like I did a security sweep before I walked in.”
“You're supposed to know,” he scoffs. “Seriously, Dillon. You’re supposed to be aware of your goddamn surroundings. It’s lesson one.”
“Is he taking video?” she adds, her voice suddenly different. I expect her to go even further down the shy and outraged girly path, but when I look at her, she's hard as a rock. Her eyes are narrowed, one eyebrow arched in an expression of intellectual fury.
Wow. She is hot as hell right now.
“Video… pics… maybe even some narration. Who knows at this point?”
“Right,” she says, almost to herself. She shifts in her seat, turning toward Emmet and perching her elbow prettily on the table. “Lean forward.”
Emmet raises an eyebrow, mirroring her expression. “Who, me?”
“We are making careers here, Mr. Riordan,” she purrs, her voice sliding subtly up and down. “So make it good.”
“Hey, what's going on here?” I mutter as they smile at each other, angled precisely perpendicular to the blogger’s camera. They lean toward each other slowly, smiling like chewing gum commercial actors. He reaches out and cups her jaw in his hands, tipping her face toward his as his mouth closes over hers, executing a video-ready kiss that's probably going to be the headline on TMZ for the next four days.
Her cheeks cave, and I swear her hands flutter helplessly. He tips his chair toward her, dangerously nearing the point of capsizing.
“Dang, you guys,” I mutter. “Tone it down, just a tad.”
When they finally separate, a little fog of pheromones bursts outward from them. My cock swells in my pants, throbbing against my zipper.
“I was just kidding,” I admit. “Do it again.”
“Do you think he got it?” she murmurs, batting her eyelashes and blushing like an ingenue.
That makes three different people she’s been since she showed up: awkward, shrewd, and innocent. Which one is the real Bella, I wonder?
“I think it was simulcast on Sirius. Now, we need to get out here,” I advise them.
“That's a great idea,” Emmet says, but he is still gazing into her eyes like a fucking cartoon character.
“Seriously, you two, knock it off. I think you sold it, but one waiter telling that blogger that she was just licking my molars will blow the whole gambit, understand? Save a little bit for the honeymoon, why don’t you?”
She blinks several times, taking a few slow breaths as she reassembles that invisible brick wall in front of her face. I'm fascinated by watching her defenses go back up. What a complicated creature she is.
“I think that was sufficient,” she announces clinically, like she's reading the results of a marketing test. “Mission accomplished. Meeting adjourned. But I don't want him following me home, okay?”
“Understood,” Emmet agrees.
“Wait, what just happened? What's understood?�
�� I ask.
“There's an exit between the restroom doors,” he murmurs, pushing her hair back behind her very pretty ear with his fingers.
“Seriously, guys, give it a rest?” I interrupt. “He's probably run out of memory by now. It's not like he's streaming. You can lay off. Let’s just go.”
Just to spite me, she reaches out and strokes his shoulder. “You can't leave me here,” she giggles, continuing the theater as though they are still both on camera. “I'm coming with you.”
I cross my arms, somehow not losing my hard-on in a fog of irritability. Fine. If they're going to continue this community theater guild production of “let's pretend we’re in love for public relations purposes,” I'm going to pretend to be jealous. Fine.
I said, fine.
“I suppose you're right,” he continues, scooting his chair a little bit closer toward hers while I try not to roll my eyes. “You stand up, and I'll follow right after. They'll assume we’re going to have a quickie in the ladies room.”
She tips her head back, laughing in this low, throaty voice that sends chills up my arms. Dammit.
“Nice try, smart guy! Just get me out here and I will do the rest.”
“You're missing out,” he smiles, standing and holding his hand out for her. She puts her hand in his and rises, batting her eyes so convincingly that she looks like she's going to faint.
“I'm sure I'll survive,” she replies as she sashays in front of him, gliding toward the restrooms with her hips swishing suggestively under her skirt. It really does look like they're going to the bathroom for a quickie. I'm practically convinced, and I’ve been listening to their whole conversation.
I give them a ten second head start and glance toward the blogger to make sure he is still doing his part. After dropping four or five hundred dollars on the table, I stand up too. I plaster a knowing grin on my face and walk casually after them as if to say no, of course we’re not both going to have sex with her. I merely need to use the facilities, like a gentleman.
But I notice that he still has the iPhone pointed this way. Maybe he really was streaming video. I'm not sure.
And I can't help it. I know I shouldn't, but something comes over me. I look right into the tiny eye of that little camera and stand up straight, arching my back just the tiniest bit so that my trousers stretch over my hard dick again. There's enough light coming through that window, it should be apparent. If it's not immediately apparent, somebody will Photoshop it in, like they always do.
Then I look right at him, and I wink. Just for a second, but long enough.
Chapter 29
Emmet
She looks back over her shoulder and gives me one last flirty, seductive glance before pushing the door out toward the alley. After swiveling her head left and right to ensure we’re alone, she turns on her heel and sticks her hand out stubbornly.
“Mission accomplished, I think,” she announces officially. “It was nice meeting you. Sorry about the mixup.”
I’m confused.
“Excuse me?” I look down at her hand. She keeps it there, seriously expecting me to shake it.
“Hannah said that you need a girlfriend for publicity purposes. I think we just pulled that off magnificently, don't you? We can just check that one off the list. We'll meet again in a couple of days? Somewhere else public?”
“No… I don’t think so, Bella. We were just getting started here.”
The door opens again, and Dillon comes out, stopping up short and nodding at each of us politely as though he were invited along.
She lets her hand drop and looks back over her shoulder in the other direction.
“I’m pretty sure this alley’s going to let me out close to Water Tower Place. I can just walk. Maybe I’ll go and hang out for little while at Abercrombie and Fitch until the coast is clear. Nobody will find me in there anyway. It’s pitch black.”
“Wait a second, what's going on?” Dillon blurts out. He glares at me accusingly. “What did you do to her, Emmet?”
I shrug and look away. “I didn't do anything to her. This is how I found her. What did you do to her?”
“Neither one of you did anything to me!” she announces angrily. She perches her fists on her hips and glares at each of us. “This may come as a newsflash to you guys, but you don't own everything in the world. Hannah asked me to help you rehabilitate your pervy Playboy reputations. That's it. All I’ve got to do is show up, get my picture taken with you, make with the romantic looks… with Emmet. Not you, Dillon!” she emphasizes, pointing at him. It makes me want to laugh. But I don't.
He crosses his arms in front of his chest and raises an eyebrow at her. “And how was making out with both of us supposed to do that, Sherlock? There were a dozen witnesses in there, watching you making out with us one at a time, and then leaving… with both of us. If rehabilitating our playboy reputations was the goal, we’re more than likely worse off than we were before.”
Her mouth drops open a little bit. “No… but… the blogger got me and Emmet. That's what I came here to do today. My job is done.”
I look at Dillon and raise my hands helplessly. “You're probably right,” I admit, exaggerating maybe just a little. “But did you see the blogger come in? He could've been filming the whole time and gotten both kisses. I can see the headline now. ‘Caught canoodling with the Riordan brothers…’”
Dillon tips his head to the side. I think he is overacting, but she seems to be buying it. “No, I don't know when he came in. He could've been filming from the very start. You’re absolutely right.”
“This is totally unfair!” she sputters.
I watch her assembling a counterargument, strategizing on the fly. She's very quick. She obviously wants to come up with a good plan, but I’m fairly certain Dillon and I can dismantle any argument she's going to put out.
Just at that moment, the door opens again and the blogger stumbles out into the light, grinning happily as though he can't believe the scene he just lucked out to find. Instantly his iPhone goes up again and I hear the camera shutter noises going off like machine-gun fire. You’d think he’d have the courtesy to turn the sound off, at least. Probably makes him feel important.
Instantly, Bella rushes toward me, her arms out as though stumbling. I catch her swiftly out of the air and she leans her forehead briefly against my chest, pouting convincingly.
“I just needed a little air!” she exclaims. “Can we take a walk or something?”
“Sure, baby,” I tell her, smoothing her hair. It smells like vanilla and lavender, with a little musky undertone. Having her in my arms, I’m in no hurry to go on that walk.
“Let's go to The Frame,” I suggest. “It’s just around the corner here.”
“Yes, let's,” she sighs, picking her head up to smile brilliantly at me. If I didn't know any better, I would totally believe this girl was in love with me too.
We turn away, her leaning heavily on me as she picks her way among the damp potholes in the alley. Even in Streeterville, alleys are not especially well-kept. Dillon comes up behind us, blocking the blogger’s way.
“Not you, buddy. Private club,” he explains.
“It’s a free country!” the blogger wheezes. It’s a wonder this guy was able to catch us with the Congresswoman. He can barely shuffle down an alley.
After a few seconds, we’re coming up to the back door and Merle, the bouncer, leaps off his barstool when he sees us.
“Misters Riordan!” he barks, dropping his cell phone on the barstool. Just before it hits the leather, face down, I see a flash of Words With Friends. All our bouncers are pretty smart. Gotta be fifteen of them playing Words With Friends together at the same time on a daily basis.
“Merle, good to see you. Busy day?” I ask him as we come toward the back entrance. He opens the door with a flourish and squints over my shoulder, probably assessing the threat level of the blogger who’s still trotting gracelessly down the alley behind us.
“Not too b
usy,” Merle answers, distracted. “Want me to take care of that?”
“If it's not too much trouble,” Dillon says, coming up from behind. Bella glances at him, rolling her eyes, but he just smiles as though not catching her drift at all. He's a stubborn one, like a puppy trying to hump her leg.
Once we are safely inside, Bella lets go of my elbow. I kind of miss it. I like having her holding onto me as we are walking. She steps cautiously ahead, craning her head to see around the corner to the main ballroom. Dillon and I draw up behind, happy to witness her reaction.
It's a large room, painted black with LED chandeliers in waterfall patterns dripping colored lights onto the stage. The stage is black and mirrored, where three of the most beautiful women you've ever seen dance slowly and suggestively, wearing nothing but eight inch high platform heels.
They’re so lovely and fit, they hardly look like people. Their skin glows in the light. Below them are seven or eight of the city's wealthiest business owners, frozen in admiration as these goddesses dole out minuscule portions of their attention.
“You brought me to a strip club!?” Bella hisses.
“I brought you to our private club,” I correct her. “The most exclusive club in the city. Who's gonna tell? Her?” I gesture at the stage. Bella squints in that direction.
“That can’t be — is that — no,” she scoffs. “That can’t be her. But it looks just like her!”
For a moment we all just watch the nearly six-foot beauty, undulating like an ecstatic cobra. Her wide hips twist and rock subtly, mesmerising the businesspeople who slide hundred dollar bills into neat piles below her heels, not daring to go any further.
“Of course it is her,” I assure Bella. We don't even dare say her name out loud, that's how famous she is. “Why would I have anything but the very best?”
“She's famous!”
“That's why she's the very best,” I shrug.
It's fun to watch Bella's expressions as we slowly cross the room. The music is loud but low pitched, coming at us in concussive waves. Not that idiotic Cherry Pie bullshit they play at every other kind of club. This is real sex magic, the sort of music that vibrates your nethers until you want to explode.
