by Brandy Ayers
The knowledge that she’s bare under that shirt is killing me. Her sweet little tits bounce around under the threadbare fabric as she stomps into my kitchen. I know after watching her toss and turn all night that she’s got a hairless pussy between those legs, and I thank the rock gods that she’s so short and the shirt falls to her knees.
“Sorry, beauty, I don’t make a habit of keeping women’s clothes in my place.” I rake my gaze over her body, head to toe and back up again, not even trying to hide the blatant lust which has to be written over my face. “Looks good on you though.”
My brat scoffs and rolls her brown eyes. My dick leaks a little precum thinking of how I’d like to take her over my knee for that little show of disrespect.
“I mean, obviously, I can make just about anything look good. But seriously, you don’t even have a belt or something I can use to give it some shape? Oh, and what is with the misspelled word?” She plucks the shirt out from her chest, staring down at the name of my band. The action draws the hem up her thighs, to just below where heaven lays. I suppress the groan building in my chest and remind myself this girl was traumatized last night. Lacy might be putting on a good show now, but that shit doesn’t just go away instantaneously.
And, yeah, when we thought of the name, we had all been drunk and high off our asses and spelled it wrong on all the posters and T-shirts for our first gig at this shitty bar downtown. But that’s not what we tell people. No, the story our publicist spun after we started getting big was that we were making a statement about the corruption of our political leaders and the money big business poured into their campaigns.
That scripted answer is so ingrained in my life, I almost spit it out at this girl with a bruised head and attitude for miles. But for some odd reason, I don't give her that explanation. I also don’t want her to know who I am yet.
“Probably some idiot kids who dropped out of high school and smoked too much pot while dreaming of conquering the world.” I pick up the plate of bacon, eggs and toast I made and put them on the table. “Come on. Let’s eat, and then I’ll take you home.”
Lacy turns her nose up at the food I’ve made, eyeing it suspiciously. “I don’t do carbs. Or saturated fat. Or egg yolks.”
“What do you eat?” I’ve seen this girl naked. I know she’s slim, but she’s not unhealthy skinny. Not that kind of lean only starving yourself or hitting hard drugs can achieve.
“Chicken. Leafy greens. The occasional Kobe steak. Coffee. Lots of coffee.” She doesn’t meet my eyes. They stay glued to the food. And I’m starting to think it isn’t suspicion in her eyes; it’s desire. She fucking wants my bacon and eggs.
“Sit. Eat.”
“I said I can’t eat anything on that plate.” Her eyes finally tear away from the food porn sitting before her and narrow their focus on me. “If you’ll just get me a water and lemon, that will hold me over until I get home.”
A low rumbling interrupts what I’m about to say. Lacy covers her stomach, her tan skin blushing slightly at the noise.
“You haven’t eaten since before the attack. You’re on antibiotics. You need food. Real food. Sit.” I pull out a chair for her and put it back down a little harder than I meant to. “Eat. You can go back to your rabbit food later.”
“Fine. But not because you’re telling me to. I’m going to eat because I know it is better to have a full stomach when you’re taking medicine.” Lacy pads over to the table, brushing the long hem of my T-shirt under her ass and sitting delicately on the chair. She picks up the fork and takes a bite of eggs.
Like an idiot, I’m holding my breath waiting to see what she thinks about my food. I shouldn’t give a shit. She’s shown zero interest in me, but for some reason, a deep part of my very being needs her to like the food I’ve prepared for her.
“Oh my God.” Lacy slumps in her chair, her head falling forward and her eyes squeezing shut. “Is there cheese in these? I love cheese. These are so fucking good. Nothing I eat ever tastes like this.” She’s talking around her food, shoveling the bites into her mouth as fast as she can swallow. When she reaches for a piece of bacon and takes a bite, a throaty moan slips out, and my dick responds in kind. “Was bacon always this good? Why don’t I eat bacon more?”
All I can do is stand there and watch like a big pervert as she takes bite after bite of the simple breakfast, moaning like she’s about to come on the dining room chair. I want to do dirty things to this girl to get those exact reactions.
Once her plate is cleared, she stands, leaves the dirty dishes right where they are, and heads back to the bedroom. “I’m finding something else to wear. You have to have something else that will work.”
No acknowledgement that she just gave me the show of a lifetime eating a breakfast I’ve had a million times. No asking if she can check out my closet. No trying to insist she’ll do the dishes since I cooked for her. This woman is a handful.
Good thing I have very big hands.
***
“You are mistaken, Robert. I was just in my apartment yesterday.” Lacy all but stomps her foot as she tries to reason with the doorman who has just informed her she’s been evicted.
“Ma’am, my name is Patrick. Robert left three years ago. And I am not mistaken. Everything was seized from your apartment last night by the FBI. Your apartment has been sealed, and no one is allowed to enter.” The doorman leans around her to sneer in my general direction. “Perhaps if you had come home last night you would have been available for the agents to speak with.”
“Are you slut shaming me right now?” I swear the guy’s eyes widen three sizes, and I’m sure his dick is shrinking just as much in response to the all-out rage boiling under Lacy’s skin. “It doesn’t matter if I spent the night with the entirety of the New York Yankees lineup sucking their baseball loving cocks. That doesn’t make it okay for you to keep me from my apartment.”
The man’s jaw is on the floor, and I have to cover my mouth with my fist to keep from laughing at this exchange. I swear I haven’t laughed this much in years.
“As I said ma’am, it is not I who is keeping you from the apartment. The FBI said to not permit you to go to the floor.” This guy’s tone is way too fucking snooty for someone who literally signs for packages all day. I don’t like the way he’s peering down his nose at Lacy and briefly contemplate what his huge nose would look like with blood spurting out of it. The doorman reaches under his desk and pulls out a couple pieces of paper. “Here is the lead agent’s card, and perhaps, you should read today’s newspaper.”
“Eww, and get all that ink on my fingers? No thank you.” The words still linger on her lips when she glances down at the offending edition of the New York Times. She sucks in a breath and leans closer.
Curiosity and a protectiveness I don’t understand spur me forward, and I step up next to her to see what she’s reading.
New York Billionaire Flees Country Night before Arrest
It appears famous billionaire Frank Falluci has managed to escape the long arm of the law the eve before his impending arrest. Agents with several federal agencies including the FBI, IRS, and DEA had planned to raid Falluci’s numerous city properties simultaneously to ensure they captured the wanted man.
However, authorities say it was discovered upon investigation that he had boarded his private jet mere hours before the planned take down. His current whereabouts are unknown, though a source close to the investigation says several foreign organizations have been brought in to assist in tracking him down.
The charges filed against Falluci include accessory to trafficking, tax evasion, fraud, and other lesser charges. According to court documents, Falluci could face up to life in prison for his various nefarious acts.
The sniffling beside me interrupts my reading. Before I can react to the possibility of Lacy crying, she straightens her spine and shoots a glare capable of shriveling the testicles of the hardest of criminals into raisins. “This is trash. Obviously, none of this is true. My fat
her would never be involved in human trafficking. That is just…disgusting.”
Holy fucking shit, this girl’s dad is Frank Falluci? I knew she was rich, but there is rich, and then there is the Falluci fortune. Even I can’t come close to her dad’s net worth. On the tail of that realization is another, darker one. Her dad left Lacy high and dry alone in the city while he fled the country.
“I demand to be let into my apartment.” The tone of her voice is increasing in pitch and emotion. Her chin wobbles, though she does her best to keep up the attitude and hide what is right under the surface.
“As I have explained, Ms. Falluci, that is not possible. Call the number on the card I gave you. I believe they want to speak with you anyway.” The doorman raises his chin even higher, and I swear, before long, these two are going to be bent over backward just to prove who can get their chins higher in the air.
Lacy plants both her hands on the desk and starts to climb over, which is quite the sight in the black dress shirt belted with a scarf I planned to give my great aunt Martha for her birthday. I don't know what her plans are, but I can’t let her assault the guy. Not with her Dad making headlines already.
“Okay, here we go.” I band my arm around her waist and pull her back. She swipes out one manicured hand to try and scratch the doorman.
“I want my clothes. And my shoes. You can’t keep me from them.” She screeches at the top of her lungs, and people loitering near the elevators turn to stare.
Spinning around to block her from the audience we seem to be gathering, I set her on her feet but keep her back pressed tight against my chest. “Okay, beauty, take a deep breath. That guy isn’t worth getting your face splashed across the papers tomorrow for assault.”
This seems to calm her down, and she takes several shaky breathes, just like I told her. Her hands clutch at my forearms, and I expect her to pry them away from her, but she holds me tighter.
“What am I going to do?” It’s said on a whisper, and for the first time, this feisty girl I’ve somehow found in my arms sounds weak, unsure. Not her. I don't even know Lacy, but I know this isn’t her. Or maybe it is. Maybe this is the Lacy she hides from the world.
I can’t make this right. I can’t get her apartment back. Can’t make her Dad not be a fucking scumbag helping the lowest of the low perform horrific criminal acts. Can’t take away the fear she must still feel after her attack the night before. Not having the tools to fix this for her is scratching at my brain. I need to make it better. If she’ll let me. Lacy has made it abundantly clear that she isn’t impressed with anything having to do with me. For some reason, that thought leaves a hollow space in my stomach.
I’ll just have to change her mind.
Chapter Three
Lacy
My brain spins the entire cab ride back to Scott’s apartment. How could my Dad be involved in any of this? It’s not that I hold him to some higher standard than other people. I don’t idolize him or anything like that. We’re not even that close.
I had nannies and chauffeurs to take care of me growing up. Then boarding school and college. We saw each other on holidays and vacations. But even then, he was always busy. Hell, so was I. I’ve always had a busy social life. Hanging out with my Dad was never a priority. Though, at one time in my life, I may have wanted more than the absolute bare minimum from him.
But human trafficking?
That’s like literally lower than low. That’s worse than assholes making knockoff Chanel bags with child labor in third world countries. I can’t picture my image obsessed Dad stooping to something so despicable.
“We’re here, Lacy.” That deep growly voice which always sounds half a second from pissed off interrupts my thoughts. Looking around, I see we are indeed back in front of his place. The brick box of a building not giving even a hint that someone lives inside.
“Why would you want to live in an old warehouse? Do you even have a landlord? I mean who owns a place like this? The rent must be reasonable at least. Do you pay rent?” I spin back to face him, a thought so horrifically embarrassing I can’t believe it hasn’t occurred to me before now. “Oh god, are you a squatter?”
Scott’s lip quirks up a little, but he schools it back into his default expression of almost-scowl. “Not a squatter. The rent’s a steal. Landlord’s an asshole.” He swings the door open and surprises me by reaching in and delicately taking my hand to help me from the car.
The slide of my fingers into his palm sends a static charge up my arm and straight down between my legs. I immediately tell that blast of arousal to fuck right off, because I will not be attracted to some perpetually grumpy goth guy. Okay, not goth, but not normal either. He wears way more black than is strictly necessary.
It seriously took up three-quarters of his closet. The white shirt I’m currently wearing was the only one in his closet. It didn’t escape my notice that it is Brooks Brothers either. He must have gotten it at a thrift shop or something. It was the only thing in there worth anything and he probably has no clue. I’ve never seen that much black in my entire life. Or worn cotton. Or denim. Or motorcycle boots. There was exactly one suit, and it had literal dust on it.
The line of gift bags along one wall did take me by surprise though. All addressed to different people in his family. Aunt Martha, Uncle Enrique, Mom, Dad. All the cards had little notes about why he got that present and where he got it from. Some were pricey gifts. Some not so much. I can’t figure this guy out. His entire wardrobe couldn’t cost over ten dollars. But he bought a scarf worth several hundred dollars for his aunt because the green reminded him of the leaves on some tree in her backyard.
“Actually, come to think of it, you’re the squatter here.” Scott’s lips try to curl up into that not quite smile again, but they must get tired after a hot second, because they fall back into his grumpy cat expression. “Don’t worry. You can keep the master bedroom.”
“What are you talking about? I am not staying here.”
“You got a friend you can stay with instead? I’d be happy to get you there.”
I almost snort at this guy saying he’d be happy to do anything. I don’t think he knows the meaning of the word. But then his words hit me, right in the stomach. The truth is, I don't have any friends I can stay with. Marci made it abundantly clear last night that she wanted nothing to do with me. Besides she’s probably banging big-foot lumberjack right now.
All my other friends, well they aren’t the type that you go to when you need help. They are the type who are only there for what you can do for them. They probably won’t touch me with a ten-foot pole after seeing the news about Dad.
I avoid Scott’s eyes, not wanting him to see the truth behind them. The neighborhood’s not half bad, actually. Well lit, a few businesses lining the street. A couple doors down is a big glass window with some clothes on mannequins. The pieces look cute. I’ll have to head down there to check it out once I figure out where I’m going after this. Maybe I’ll discover someone new to wear. My usual designers are getting stale. Plus, all my clothes are apparently on lock down by the FBI.
“I’ll just check into the Four Seasons for a while. Pamper myself with room service and massages.” I turn, padding into Scott’s building. The rough cement floors of his lobby abrade my bare feet. Scott had offered me some flip flops he had in the back of his closet, but I’ll be damned if I’m seen out with those pieces of junk on my feet. I’d rather be barefoot.
Scott’s big motorcycle boots clomp on the stairs behind me as we make the way up to his third-floor loft. His place is the only one I’ve seen so far, and I haven’t heard any neighbors yet. But it was insanely early when we left, so I’m not surprised. Still, I’m not totally convinced yet that he isn’t squatting. His place looked like it could still be under construction.
“Do you have a phone I can use?”
He pulls out an iPhone about three generations old from his back pocket and hands it over. It has a huge crack down the middle of the screen.
“Does this thing even work anymore? I’m probably going to get splinters just from using it.” I take it from him, doing my best to grip the edges and not touch the screen. One of the side effects of getting weekly manicures is super soft skin. It wouldn’t take much to get a sliver of glass in my finger.
“It works fine. Never saw the need to replace something that worked but didn’t look quite as pretty.”
The words shouldn’t matter. We’re talking about a stupid phone. But something about them causes a fluttering in my chest.
Which I ignore.
Turning from Scott’s dark eyes that see too much, I look up the number for the Four Seasons and hit dial. The welcoming voice of a reservations specialist soothes my tired soul. Is there anything as comforting as speaking with someone who will give you whatever you want provided you have enough money?
“Yes, I’d like to reserve a room. Preferably the Central Park Suite. You should have my card on file. The name is Lacy Falluci.” I lean against the marble countertop of the island separating the kitchen from the main living space.
Fancy kitchen for a guy like Scott. Another glance around the space tells me the appliances are top of the line. Viking. The cabinets don’t have doors, but they look sturdy. Not like that fake wood composite stuff you see in cheap places. There is plastic sheeting on parts of the walls and some in doorways leading to other rooms I haven’t explored yet.
Definitely squatting.
“I’m sorry, Miss Falluci, but I don’t think I’ll be able to help you.” The woman on the other side of the line taps away at her keyboard, the sharp clack grating on my already frayed nerves.
