Breaking Bad: 14 Tales of Lawless Love

by Koko Brown

  Phone in one hand, sexy dress in the other, I could do nothing but smile. “Mama’s about to make some Hollywood magic happen.”

  “Well, tell Mama to bring home some animal style fries once you’ve finished wiping Steele’s face off the floor.”

  “Only if you help zip me into this monstrosity.”

  Some perfume and heels higher than my cup size rounded everything off. Siri ordered me an Uber and left me with nothing in the way between Jack Steele and the soaring future success of my career. That man wasn’t going to know what hit him…and he was going to secure me as a great.

  TWO

  JACK

  “Cut!”

  The busty slate operator did her thing with an extra shake of her ass. Unless I was imagining things, she also shot me a wink and did that really cheesy shit where she ran her tongue over her teeth. In any normal scenario, I’d be DTF, if you know what I’m saying, but I’d watched her inhale three sandwiches during lunch without keeping her goddamn mouth closed while she chewed.

  I could respect a girl who ate as much as me, especially if she was a tiny little thing. That was confusing as hell and I loved it. It also usually meant they were athletic and fun in the bedroom. But keep that trap closed. Gross.

  “Jack?” The commercial director called out, evidently not for the first time, and stared at me expectantly. “You good?”

  “Yeah.” I flashed him a thumbs up and a signature Jack Steele Fake-As-Hell smile. I wanted to get off this ad set as soon as possible. “That felt good.”

  “Great. Well, that’s a wrap on Mr. Steele.”

  Everyone clapped and I donned another fake smile while waving to everyone. It was the longest week of my life, certain legal issues aside, and putting pavement between Sub Girl and myself was crucial. What I originally wanted was a night of watching shitty movies with my bulldog, Statham, but that little ass shake from the slate operator had other ideas churning.

  As a general rule, I didn’t party every night. Too many people watched every fuckin’ move I made and too many people got in my face, so I tried to keep a low profile and my boys deep around me. This goddamn show already had me out three times, but a proper celebration was probably in order.

  “It was so great working with you.” Slate Operator got all breathy as I headed back to my trailer to change and get the hell out of there. “You’ve definitely been one of my favorite guest stars.”

  “Thanks, kid.” I waved and offered a thin smile. “It was my pleasure. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to change.”

  “I could, um, stick around, if you like.” She pressed herself against a wall, ample tits poking out further. She had sexy down, I’ll give her that, but she’d probably be as sloppy with my dick as she was with her food. Hard pass.

  “That’s awful kind of you, but I really need to be going.”

  “You sure?” She tried to run a finger down my arm, but I stepped into my trailer. “I won’t tell nobody.”

  Inside, I winced. “Sorry, darlin’. Have a good night.”

  You bet your sweet ass I locked that door as soon as I closed it. I didn’t need a scandal on top of everything else. It was what sports fans would call a ‘rebuilding year’ for me and Sloppy Mouth wasn’t about to fuck it up.

  I changed and pulled on a black button-down over the gray undershirt. I wasn’t even going to go home first. I was going to get my ass to the club as soon as possible to drink away this whole fucking week, and it was going to be on Bobby’s dime for signing me up for this shit.

  I loved that asshole, but fuck, man.

  First, chow. I had the Uber driver take us through In-N-Out for a quick bite before he attempted to pilot through the madness that was LA evening traffic. I paid for his food, too, because I wasn’t an asshole, no matter how hard the tabloids tried to push it. While I scoffed down a 3x3 animal style, I asked the dude about his life outside of Uber.

  “Bleak.” Dude laughed at me through the rearview mirror. “Not nearly as exciting as your life, it seems.”

  “Fuck my life. Too many people in it.”

  “Says the dude who’s on his way to a club?”

  “Booze and bitches doesn’t count. Hey, you got any gum?”

  Uber Matthew opened his glove compartment to show off an almost impressive array of mints and gum and those disposable toothbrushes I never remembered to bring with me. It would be impressive, actually, if it weren’t, you know….mints.

  Still, I let out a low whistle. “I thought they were lying about this shit.”

  “Nah.” Uber Matthew tossed me a handful of different options. “We all have them to some extent. Mine’s just bigger.”

  “And you said your life was looking bleak.” I tossed the guy an extra twenty and thumped him on the shoulder. “Thanks, man. Maybe I’ll get you afterwards.”

  “Enjoy the ladies.”

  “Always do.”

  You couldn’t go to a club in LA without dealing with cameras and crowds. Call it a job hazard. Call it this country’s sick obsession with people they’ll never actually know. What it all really meant is that work never ended for me. I had to smile and take pictures and wave to the people. Don’t get me wrong, the job was cool as fuck, but it was also a job that went 24/7. Fortunately, this club had added perks, like private entrances off the beaten path. I slipped in unnoticed and said hi to my favorite bouncer, Dan, before anyone caught sight of me.

  “Is that Jack Steele?”

  I turned to see a group of beautiful women staring from across the bar. Legs as far as the eye could see, fake tits on full display, skimpy little dresses that barely held it all together. The tabloids always said I had a type, and goddamn if I hadn’t already found it.

  “Maybe I’ll come collect you later.” I shot them a wink and sidled up to the VIP area for a drink or seven before I started my assessment of the club activities.

  Personal Rule: never hook up with the first girls you see. Never.

  Bartender Gregory was working tonight. I preferred looking at Bartender Lucy (trust me, she loved that title no matter how much she bitched) but BG knew how to make my drinks before I even asked for ‘em. I was barely at the bar for three seconds before two neat whiskeys were in my hands with a shot of Patron to kick it all off.

  Here’s to the freakin’ weekend, am I right?

  “They say drinking alone is bad for business.”

  I shot the Patron before hunting down that sexy voice. What I found was easily the sexiest woman I had ever seen: velvety dark skin wrapped in tight red lace, a face da Vinci would kill himself to paint, and a mane of curly hair I wanted to fist. Hello, Jack Steele’s Type. Nice to meet you.

  “In a club, are you ever really alone?” I sipped on the first glass and offered her the other. “But a lady as beautiful as yourself is welcome to join.”

  She took the glass and drank it like she knew what the fuck she was doing. Major turn-on right there. I don’t know why whiskey got branded as a man’s drink, but anybody who could drink it with me and avoid the neon pink shit was already skipping down the hall to my bedroom in my mind.

  “I’m Jack.”

  “I know.” She shot the rest of the drink and rested her hand on my chest. “I’d be half-blind to not know who you are.”

  “Guilty.” A dozen other shitty come-on’s went through my head first. That’s the thing most girls don’t understand: we’re rarely cool naturally. There’s a lot of shit we filter out. “I’d try to guess your name, but I think I’d be here all night.”

  She laughed a little, deep and throaty. The last embers of memory of the three girls I met downstairs disappeared. “You can call me Alison. That’s safe enough.”

  “Alison?” I took another sip and openly checked her out. The word Fire stuck out. “Not something exotic like—”

  “Boy, please.” The look she gave me was full of attitude that I loved. “Don’t even go there.”

  “I just meant someone as beautiful as you should have a name
as equally sexy. Like Naomi or Scarlett.”

  She laughed. “I think Alison is sexy enough. I wear it well, anyway.”

  “That you do.” I toasted her with my glass. “Tell me, Alison, what do you do when you aren’t looking to-die-for in red?”

  Her eyes darted away for a moment. “I work in the industry, like everyone else.”

  Immediately, red flags started flying and a mental alarm echoed in the back of my brain. “Is that right?”

  “Actually, I’m a casting director for an upcoming movie and we’ve been trying to get a hold of you to—”

  “Hold up.” I set my jaw. “You’re here to ask me about a role.”

  “Yes.” She didn’t falter. Not once.

  “You dressed up like that, got in here, came on to me….all so you could pitch me your script?” If I hadn’t just gone through the week from hell, I’d probably be more upset. This kind of thing happened surprisingly often. I just didn’t see it coming from…her.

  I felt a little used, to be honest. She taped her tits up and put them on display just to yank them away and hand me a script instead.

  “I’ve been trying to get Bobby to talk to you for weeks, but he refuses to even talk to you about it because he says you’ll get typecast. I told him that’s bullshit. This character is a hardass, sure, but he’ll stretch your acting chops harder than anything you’ve ever done before. The audience will see a whole new side to Jack Steele. This role was practically made for you, Jack, and I mean that literally. We’ve got Denver Latmini and—”

  “This is a Latmini flick?” I interrupted her. I hadn’t really been listening, but the name brought everything to a screeching halt. “You told Bobby about a Latmini movie and he wouldn’t tell me about it?”

  “Yes.” She continued talking for god knows how long. I stopped listening and shot Bobby a series of Go Fuck Yourself texts.

  Bobby countered with: ‘You don’t want it. Trust me.’

  And that’s the thing: I trusted him. However, Alison was practically begging while trying to eye-fuck me, which was a weird combination of shit, let me tell you. And, lest we all forget, she tried to trick me into reading her script that my agent had dubbed shitty.

  Could a Latmini script ever be considered shitty?

  Not the point.

  I leaned back against the bar and sized up the girl who’d probably ruined every other girl in here for me tonight. The girl who would never actually let me get up her dress. The girl who defined cocktease.

  “I’ll tell you what.” I interrupted her again. She immediately closed her mouth. “I’ll give it a quick read through if, and only if, you show me how badly you want me to consider it.”

  Watching her jaw drop as a million ideas whizzed through her head was the cherry on top of my week.

  “Don’t get your panties in a twist just yet.” I crossed my arms and nodded to the dancing booth in the corner, currently unoccupied, with a shiny pole in the middle. “Let’s see what you’ve got. If I like it, I’ll read it.”

  Her eyebrows shot up immediately. I expected her to fold like my mother’s meringue (don’t ask), but she quickly straightened her shoulders and hooked her finger through the gap between of my buttons. She smiled as she did so and leaned closer, hot breath lingering on me as she spoke. “Let’s go, then…”

  THREE

  ALISON

  This boy didn’t know what he was in for.

  I expected this behavior, to be honest. Jack had more than a bit of a reputation (see also: this insanely tight dress) and his kind generally tended to be hardasses, pitching ridiculous and often perverse requests to get what they wanted. He didn’t disappoint, which is to say he basically played into my hands. You mean I didn’t have to awkwardly avoid taking off my clothes to make him read the script? I just had to spin around the pole a few times?

  Mission accomplished.

  What Mr. Hot Shot in the button-down over there didn’t know was that I danced my way through college. Literally. School was expensive and my family had exactly zero dollars to spare. It wasn’t something I advertised, or brought up ever, but it was almost like riding a bike: you never forget how to do it.

  The DJ started spinning Finger Eleven’s Paralyzer, an old favorite from the Strung Out Kitten. We’d all done at least half a dozen routines to it back in the day. It wasn’t my favorite, but a reliable song that I wouldn’t have any issue with. Why was he even playing this song, anyway? It was at least a decade old. I swore on my dead grandmother’s afghan that this damn song was following me. Every club I ever went to, it played. Like the DJ somehow knew.

  Jack Steele followed me like a puppy to the booth in the back of the VIP area. He was, as advertised, devastatingly sexy and oozed a sort of charm that a girl with sense would back away from. He read like a coiled viper.

  Even though I knew what I was doing, almost like it was second nature, my stomach turned in circles. I hadn’t done this in public in years and one of People’s Sexiest Men was sitting at my feet, sprawled out on the booth, eyes trained only on me.

  Okay, boy. Let’s do this.

  I closed my eyes and let the liquor and the music fuel my limbs while I took a cursory spin around the pole, letting my body hang from my left arm. I switched, did another revolution, and switched back.

  “You’ll need to do better than that to get me to read that shitty script.” He wore a shit-eating grin that I was sure usually melted a million pairs of panties.

  I wasn’t wearing any, so I could pretend I wasn’t fazed.

  “I didn’t know you were so well-versed in the fine art of pole dancing,” I replied.

  “I am as well-versed in the fine art of pole dancing as I am in the fine art of spinning gold. But watching you spin in that baby circle isn’t going to get me reading.”

  I hooked a leg around the pole and bent over into a backbend. A solid kick of my foot and I was spinning upside down, breasts all but threatening to burst out of the dress because I hadn’t dressed for this level of pole activity.

  Suddenly, I was concerned about my lack of undergarments.

  My spin was met with a cocked eyebrow by Steele, and he settled into the booth with his whiskey and an air of intensity that nearly rocked me to my core. He wasn’t just watching me; he was devouring me with his eyes.

  I righted myself and did a series of complicated spins and turns to the beat, a signature move of mine from back in the day. The urge to close my eyes was strong, to get lost in the song and just let my body do its thing.

  Some people turned their noses up at stripping, thought those of us who indulged were harlots or worse, women with no future. They failed to see the raw power in spinning on a pole. The sheer strength alone required to perform a hip lock walk-down or a Chinese flag was almost cataclysmic. The average person couldn’t get up here and hold themselves on the pole with nothing more than ab muscles.

  But I could.

  The Chinese flag attitude was always a winner. Hanging upside down, legs at a forty-five degree angle, nothing but my arms to keep me as I spun in a slow circle. I kept that one to a minimum so he couldn’t get a full look up my dress, but I fully appreciated the jaw-dropped, bug-eyed stare he gave me when I did it.

  Eventually, I lost myself in the music. Fully. This was no longer a dance for what was essentially my work life: this was something my body missed. My limbs stretched and tightened, my mind went blissfully silent, and all that mattered was the pulsating beat, the feel of cold steel between my hands, the heat of the eyes glued to me as I dipped and twisted and spun.

  There was something so freeing in losing yourself to the music, but even more so in commanding the control of your sex, of your body, of your power. Jack thought he was getting the upper hand here: a free show, an eyeful of my goodies on display as if he claimed them by beating his chest and demanding it. That’s how most guys were.

  Thing is, they didn’t have the upper hand. They didn’t own me or the dance, they didn’t even own the request.
Everything I did on this pole, on this stage, to this music belonged to me. He was only allowed to watch because I let him. I mean, yes, I also needed him to read for us tomorrow, desperately, but I could have pressed harder. I could have used my feminine wiles in a million other ways. Instead, I put my heels on this platform and I ran my hands across my lace-wrapped breasts and I made him sit in the booth, hands to himself, while his eyes grew wider and his jeans noticeably tighter.

  I swung my head back, letting my hair cascade down my back and over my shoulders like a tidal wave. Jack leaned forward, as though in a trance, but I only winked and spun myself upright. Out of touch. Fully drenched in want.

  The surprising thing was how aroused I found myself as I slid down the pole with my back, my hands braced against my knees, offering just the tiniest flash under my dress while my heart pounded in my chest. I wasn’t loose. Just because we danced like this didn’t mean we were ever loose. But Jack Steele was one of the sexiest men in Hollywood.

  He was tattooed in other women’s sex. He was a notorious party boy with a conquest line that would make Ron Jeremy blush, or so the rumors said, but in that low-lit booth, with the music loud and the drink strong, I could see exactly why so many women climbed into bed with him.

  Arm sprawled lazily across the back of the suede, legs spread wide and dominating, something I always hated when I visited my family in New York. Close your damn legs, guys! But Jack, in this moment, was radiating raw power. He was sex in the flesh. His eyes were so blue I thought I could fly in them, almost electric. They never left my body, hugged every curve.

  And I let him for two whole songs. For two songs, I was his muse. I spun and dipped and winked. I teased him with just enough skin to hook his interest but never satisfy it. Jack Steele was the kind of man who wasn’t interested once he was satisfied. It was on to the next big thing, on to the next chase. I wanted him to want me bad enough he’d come crawling to the reading just for one more taste.

  As my last song came to an end, I swallowed down the nerves bubbling in my chest. Dancing always made me feel bold—it was everything else that worried me.