Rough & Rowdy (Notorious Devils #1)

by Hayley Faiman

  “What?” I bark, already irritated.

  We are going to scout out an empty space for a new titty bar down the street. I brought the voting brothers along to look at the space at the end of the downtown strip. Torch is my Sergeant-at-Arms—my weapons and security officer.

  “Kentlee Johnson. That bitch’s cunt is locked up tighter than Fort Knox, brother,” he says with a laugh. I am seconds from beating the fuck out of him, but I stop myself.

  He knows the girl.

  “How do you know her?” I ask.

  “Went to high school with her, man. Graduated with me. Trust me, we all tried to get in those panties back in the day. She was so quiet though, she gave no one a chance. Dated one guy for about a year and I don’t even think he got tit.” Torch chuckles then he leans in close. “Her little sister, Brentlee—now that’s a bitch that’ll spread for you, man.” Torch wags his eyebrows and I consider punching him again, just because he’s an idiot.

  “Let’s meet with this real estate asshole,” I bark before I start walking toward the empty building at the end of the street.

  The men will follow.

  They will always follow.

  The second they watched me slit their president’s throat for being a traitorous bastard, I knew they would fall in line. I never planned on becoming the president of a charter. I was happy being in the original charter, where my dad is the President; where I could fuck around and never really commit to anything in general. That was until we found out money was missing and morale was shit at this club.

  My dad sent me down here to figure it out, because he knew I wouldn’t stop until I found out the fucking truth. I did, and I took care of the problem; but something else happened. I discovered I like it here. I like most of the guys, and they respect me.

  I’m not just the President’s snot nosed kid here. At thirty-five, I’m older than most, and they fuckin’ look up to me. So a year ago, I cleaned the shit hole up and I stayed.

  “Tommy Walker,” the man standing at the storefront introduces himself. He's in a cheap suit with a slimy grin on his face.

  “Fury,” I grunt. He just keeps on smiling.

  “Rent’s reasonable. Bar is in good shape. Stage would be good for live music,” he prattles on as we walk inside. I chuckle.

  “No live music, man. Live girls. Titty bar,” I explain, watching him smile widely.

  “Old bitties in this town won’t like that, but can’t say it wouldn’t be nice to have a place to go after hours,” he confesses.

  I nod, as if his opinion means dick to me.

  It doesn’t.

  My brothers walk around, checking shit out. I trust them, and they would be straight with me if the place sucked. I don't think it does, though. I have a feeling this is going to be a great, little, legit money maker. The boys all nod, one by one, giving me their final vote. I turn to Tommy and pull him to the side.

  “We’ll take it. Ten-year lease with an option to buy after five years,” I offer. I then watch as dollar signs practically appear in his greedy eyes.

  “Sounds great. I’ll have the paperwork drawn up and leave it with my secretary Monday morning. Come in anytime at all and sign it,” he explains eagerly, shaking my hand.

  I signal to my brothers and we leave, riding to the clubhouse.

  It isn’t anything fancy—a big brick building with a metal building off to the side. We live in the back of the brick structure. The front is a bar, complete with a few pool tables and room for dancing. I walk straight behind the bar and grab a cold beer before making my way toward my private room.

  The rooms aren’t much, just enough space for a small bed, dresser, and nightstand. I am the only one with my own private bath; the other guys have to share communal showers and toilets. It is the one luxury afforded the president, and for that I am fuckin’ grateful.

  I never was any good at sharing, and I like my shit clean and orderly. My mother, what I remember of her, was OCD. Our house fucking sparkled. I never could live in filth.

  “Hey, baby, need some company?” Kitty asks, leaning against my bedroom door.

  Kitty is cute—in a trailer trash, rode hard, put away wet kinda way. I know she’s young, but you can’t tell by looking at her. Her face is caked with makeup, making her look older; and her hair is fuckin’ fried from dieting and bleaching. Her body is solid, with a big fake rack, but she gives good head, spreading whatever part of her body I tell her to.

  I start to tell her to go ahead inside, but an image flashes in my mind. Kentlee. With her pretty, natural, long blonde hair, and her luscious curves, I can’t imagine fucking the bag of bones in front of me anymore. But I need relief.

  “You can blow me right here, Kit,” I order. I roll my eyes when she greedily drops to her knees.

  I imagine its Kentlee on her knees for me. How fuckin’ sick am I?

  Kitty pulls my cock out and strokes me until I go from semi-hard to fully erect. She licks the head of my dick and then takes me fully into her mouth. She’s an expert. Too good for my taste.

  I like a girl to be a bit intimidated, nervous, and even a little shy. It is a turn on to know the girl I’m fuckin’ isn’t a damn pro. Kitty is a club-whore; she’s seen more cock in her young years than a urologist.

  I grab onto her straw-like hair and fuck that mouth of hers until I come down her throat. Kitty looks up at me, her eyes rounded in feigned innocence as she smiles coyly. I watch while she licks her lips. It might be hot, if she weren’t such a fuckin’ train wreck.

  “What about me?” she asks when I step around her and unlock my door, ready for her to leave.

  “What about you?” I arch a brow. I know what she wants, but she isn’t getting it—at least not from me.

  “Aren’t you going to return the favor? At least make me come?” she pouts. I shake my head.

  “Don’t recall it being my job to service you, Kitty,” I grunt.

  Her face forms a look of surprise before I go inside of my room and slam my door closed — locking it behind me.

  I need to finish my beer and take a fuckin’ nap.

  I need to think about how I am going to get sweet little Kentlee in my bed, on her knees, and addicted to me, so that I can have her whenever I want.

  I’m the kind of man that always gets what he wants, and what I want is all that sweet innocence Kentlee Johnson could provide.

  A sweet place to slide my cock inside, and forget the roughness of this world I live in.

  Kentlee

  I stay inside my house all day Sunday. By Monday morning, I am no less on edge than I had been after running into Fury.

  What kind of name is Fury, anyway?

  Maybe I do need to get out more.

  I dress for work in a pair of light gray skinny slacks and a white, button down top, pairing it with my black high heels. I keep the top up on my car, even though it’s a gorgeous morning, so that my hair doesn’t look like I walked out of a White Snake video after my drive to the office.

  “I have a client coming in later to sign these. Make sure you give him a copy, too, once he’s signed. I’ll be out of the office all day, since I had to do your job on Saturday,” Tommy Walker — my boss — announces.

  I watch him step outside and turn right toward the parking lot. Not even in the office for thirty minutes before he’s gone for, most likely, the entire day.

  “He’s just bitter because he never gets laid,” Marcy, one of the real estate agents, giggles.

  I situate myself and gather the contract Tommy left for me, setting it to the side.

  “I don’t want to know about all that,” I cringe, powering on my computer.

  “His wife and I are friends. I know the truth, girlfriend,” she sings. I just shake my head.

  Tommy is attractive, for a man in his mid-forties, and his wife is beautiful. They have three small children though, born back-to-back. I know the poor woman has to be exhausted, especially since Tommy stays late at the office every single night of
the week… working.

  I’m not sure what he actually does, and I suspect he’s having an affair, but I stay out of his business. He pays me, and until I see something concrete, my lips are sealed.

  I know what it feels like to be the one being cheated on, and I wouldn’t wish it for anybody. I also know that if you don’t have concrete evidence — the victim wouldn’t ever believe it. I didn't believe it, not when Brentlee informed me that Jason was a douche and I should leave him. I didn't believe anything until I saw it for myself. He was in a bar down the street from my office when he was supposed to be home helping his sick mother with his little sister. I believed him because I was a trusting fool.

  I roll my eyes and chastise myself for even thinking of Jason. I didn't love him, but the betrayal still stung, even months later. I hear the bell ring above the door. I close my Facebook newsfeed on my computer before I lift my eyes to greet the new customer.

  Then my face pales and my breath hitches.

  “Well, if it isn’t little Kentlee Johnson,” the rough voice drawls. I stare up at him in shock and awe.

  I watch him walk toward me, like a dieting woman watches a waitress walk toward her with a mile-high chocolate cake. Hungry.

  No, Hangry.

  Starved.

  “How… how did you find me?” I stammer. He grins before he winks.

  “I’m here to sign some papers. You, sugar, are just a happy coincidence,” he chuckles. I grab the papers Tommy left me, scanning them for a name.

  “You’re Pierce Duhart?” I ask in surprise. He nods.

  “Don’t tell anyone my real name,” he grunts, taking the papers from me as he begins to read through them.

  “Why? Would it ruin your street cred?” I ask innocently.

  He pauses, looks at me, and laughs. A full on belly laugh. It’s so deep, sexy, and beautiful. I stare at him, my mouth slightly agape.

  “Somethin’ like that, darlin’.” He smiles as he continues to read through the document before he signs it.

  “All done. Anything else?” he asks. I smile back, taking the papers from him.

  “I just need to make a copy. I’ll be right back,” I stand and hurry over to the copier, feeding the papers through and trying to gather my breath.

  I try to compose myself before I take them back to him; but it’s difficult when the roughest, most handsome man you have ever seen is looking right at you, totally focused on you and nothing else.

  “You didn’t show Saturday,” he almost whispers as his hand wraps around mine.

  I am trying to give him his papers, but he is suddenly pulling me toward him. In the blink of an eye, his other hand is wrapped around my lower back and my breasts are pressed against his chest—his rock-hard chest.

  It is a sneak attack, and I am completely dazed and confused by his moves. I’m also so turned on that I’m half tempted to tackle him right here — right now.

  “I… I was busy?” I say.

  It comes out as more of a question than a response, totally ruining my excuse.

  “You were scared shitless, babe,” he murmurs, his gray eyes dancing. So sexy.

  “Well… yeah,” I admit.

  He smiles even wider as he dips his head down. For a second, I think he’s going to kiss me, but his lips go to my ear instead, lightly brushing against my skin and sending chills throughout my body.

  “I want you, Kentlee,” he whispers in my ear.

  I practically melt right then and there. He lets me go, takes the papers, turns, and walks out without looking back.

  I stay rooted to my spot, dazed and freaking confused all over again, watching his perfect, sculpted ass walk through the front door. I stare at the path he made, my lips in an O shape, surprised, turned on, and completely shocked by what had just happened.

  “He was hot as hell. What’s going on with you two?” Marcy asks from her office.

  “He wants me,” I whisper in awe.

  “He’ll eat you alive, baby,” she laughs, leaving me discombobulated.

  I try to work throughout the day, but I can’t concentrate. I can only think about his hand on my lower back, and the way he felt pressed up to me. The phone rings and I don’t make a move to answer it. Luckily, Tommy isn’t in the office and Marcy takes up my slack. My mind is only on Fury.

  How he makes me feel.

  How I want more.

  How I shouldn’t.

  How I don’t care.

  On my way home, I continue thinking about him. His words echo in my head — I want you, Kentlee —they play on a constant loop. I have never had a man tell me that he wants me, not like Fury did. It makes me want him even more.

  It makes me want to go to him and beg him to take me, to use me, if only even for a night. I have never been that kind of girl, but I want to be for Fury—just once.

  The rest of the week is rather boring. It is like every other week. I show a few apartments and a few houses at night, and by the time Saturday evening rolls around, the last thing I want to do is go with Brentlee and her besties to a club.

  In all honesty, all I want to do is crawl beneath my sheets and pass out. I want to dream about Fury, about his whispered words, and pretend they are real. I haven’t seen him again, so it must have been bullshit; but damn, it felt nice to feel wanted.

  Once I’ve taken a shower and am starting to get ready, there is a knock on my door. I am surprised to see Brentlee and her friends standing on my porch. They look like quadruplets. Their hair is all long, brown, and straight. Their makeup is caked on, to make them appear older, and their barely-there mini dresses are all red.

  I must have missed the memo on the matching outfits.

  I open the door widely so they can all walk inside, allowing the bitch crew into my tiny house—even Missy.

  “Don’t tell me you forgot?” Brentlee asks, gliding past me.

  “No. I just got out of the shower. I’ll be ready in ten minutes,” I murmur. Missy, gasps.

  “Ten minutes? How can you get ready in ten minutes?” she asks, gaping at me.

  “I’m quick,” I shrug.

  “You’re going to go out with us looking homeless, aren’t you? I knew it, Brent. I fucking told you,” she screeches.

  I have to dig my fingernails into the palms of my hands in order to keep my cool and not punch her in her anorexic face. Instead, I turn on the music channel for the girls to listen to while I change. Brentlee follows me and starts rifling through my closet.

  “I knew you’d have nothing suitable,” she murmurs, almost to herself, as I loosely curl my blonde hair.

  “I was going to wear the black dress,” I announce, finishing my hair.

  “You should wear this one,” Brentlee says, shoving a wad of material at me. I don’t recognize it at all. I take the flimsy material in my hand and hold it up before gasping.

  The fabric is a stretchy, clingy, royal blue, and it looks like it’s short enough to be a top. It is in no way, whatsoever, meant to be a dress. It also appears to be backless, and the front sweetheart neckline looks suspiciously flimsy. The whole damn dress is nothing more than stretchy spandex, and it’s almost see-through. I shake my head once, but Brentlee just holds her hand up, effectively silencing me.

  “Do it for me, please? The other girls all wanted to wear red, but I know you hate red. This was a compromise. Come on, it’ll be fun,” she pouts. I sigh before pulling on the skin tight dress.

  The only person I would ever stuff myself into a too tight, way too clingy dress for, is my sister. I instantly hate it. I feel like I can see every single bump and bulge I have going on, and then there’s the simple fact that I cannot even wear a bra.

  I’m twenty-three, so the girls aren’t sagging too low yet, but they’re large and they’re real, so they sag a little. I like the lift and support a bra gives me, and I feel uncomfortable setting my girls free in public.

  “I love it. You look so awesome, Kent. I wish I had your ass,” she giggles. I turn around to look
at my barely covered booty.

  I can’t believe I am going out in public this uncovered. I am by no means a prude when it comes to dressing, but I don’t like to show too much, either. I don’t want the creepy attention it can bring.

  “Let’s just get this over with,” I grumble, snatching up my purse and slipping into my sliver high heels.

  I should have taken my own car, I think to myself as we drive to the only club in town.

  The girls beside me are singing and dancing to what has to be the most obnoxious pop music on earth. I love music, but this is total trash. I actually think my ears might start to bleed by the time we get to the club. It isn’t really a club like in the big city; it’s a bar that has music pumped in through the speakers from the bartender’s iPod.

  I walk in and go straight to the bar. I need a cocktail and I need it fast. The bartender’s name is Anthony, and I’ve known him since we were six years old. We went through school together, so when he winks at me as he hands me my vodka and sprite—I cringe.

  Anthony is nice, but when you watch somebody go through childhood and into adulthood, it can make seeing them as anything other than a friend awkward.

  “Beautiful as always, Kentlee. Your sister’s getting married, huh?” he asks, nodding his head toward Brentlee. She is doing a shot with Missy and swaying her hips in her teeny, tiny little dress. I’m sure Scotty has no idea she’s wearing it.

  “Uh, yeah. How did she get liquor? She isn’t twenty-one,” I point out. Anthony shrugs.

  “Brent is special, you know that. Besides, she’s going to be a married woman. She can let loose a bit,” he says. I narrow my eyes at him suspiciously.

  Before I can ask him why Brent is so special, I feel a hot hand squeeze my ass. I spin around and come face-to-face with a stranger. He’s around my age, taller than me, but not by much, and he’s so drunk, he can hardly stand.

  “Fuck, you got a fat ass, baby. How about you come into the bathroom and show it to me?” he slurs. My eyes widen.

  “How about you get the fuck outta here, asshole?” the gravelly voice I have been dreaming about demands.

  Standing just to the right of Mr. Handsy is Fury, and now I understand how he got his little nickname. He seems bigger than he had a few days ago. His chest is puffed out a bit, and his knuckles are clenched and turning white. His jaw is also tight, and I notice he has some serious scruff going on.