One And Done

by Cynthia Sax

  I bob my head and hurry away from him, fleeing both the man and the awkward situation.

  Azure said Tarun wanted me. I change back into my work clothes. She’s been encouraging me to give him a shot.

  Maybe I approached the sex offer in the wrong way. I return to my desk and the stack of papers awaiting me. Maybe I unintentionally insulted Tarun with my blunt proposal. Male pride is a fragile beast.

  I clutch my phone, tempted to call Smoke. He’d know. He’s the master of the pick-up lines.

  But I can’t call him. We’re done. Our relationship has ended.

  I think of the skinny blondes at the club and forego lunch also. My stomach rumbles in protest. I ignore it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  By five o’clock, I’m starving, both for food and for sex. Azure is still MIA. I don’t want to go home alone, don’t want to spend the evening watching TV.

  I consider going to Smoke’s club but he doesn’t want to see me and Tyrice might not let me into the building. I can’t deal with another rejection today.

  There are other places to pick up men.

  I wander out of the office building, weave between slower-walking pedestrians and head to The Eager Beaver, a bar on Front Street.

  Edward and I had a surprise date there years ago. He was attending a legal tradeshow at the Convention Center and ran across the road, dodging streetcars and lost tourists, to have a pint of beer. The accounting profession was coincidentally hosting a meet and greet at the bar on the same day.

  We didn’t know about each other’s plans. He spotted me sitting at the bar, and claimed the barstool beside mine, ordering an India pale ale, a classy beer for a classy guy. We laughed, called it fate. One beer became several. He took my drunk ass home and we made hot, passionate love.

  This night could end as happily as that one.

  I step into the darkened bar. Heads turn. Some men immediately dismiss me, looking away quickly. One clean-cut, dark-haired man makes a comment, his lips moving, and his friends snigger. They’re laughing at me.

  It hurts.

  Then I remember that I have the most magnificent tits a certain jaded player has ever seen. I stick out my chest, saunter to the bar, hips swaying and I select the same barstool I had claimed two years ago. Several gazes follow me.

  “What will you be having, miss?” The bartender, an older gentleman with gray hair and a twinkle in his brown eyes, wipes the wood in front of me with a cloth.

  “An India pale ale.” The words slip out of my mouth before I can stop them. Do I want another Edward? I’m supposed to be collecting experiences.

  The bartender pours me a glass. I pay. Hopefully this will be the last drink I buy for myself tonight.

  “If you must drink draught beer, that’s the most intelligent choice.” A man in an impeccably tailored, navy-blue suit, crisp white shirt, tightly knotted blue tie sits beside me. His blond hair is perfectly trimmed, his eyeglasses are spotless, and his hands well manicured. “Pale malts are crafted using the lightest and finest barleys.”

  “You don’t drink draught beer?” I smile at him.

  “No.” He lines the coasters up with the edge of the bar.

  Oh my God. My smile wavers. He’s OCD.

  Many serial killers are obsessive-compulsive. That’s how they remain undetected. They’re painfully precise and neat, covering their murderous trails.

  I gulp my beer. The alcohol warms my empty stomach.

  “Your button is undone.” He frowns at my blazer.

  I hastily fasten it, not wishing to give him a reason to slice and dice me. “Thank you.” I shift and the barstool squeaks under my huge ass.

  Mr. OCD’s attention moves to my seat. “Your barstool isn’t well maintained. You shouldn’t be sitting there.”

  “I know where I’d like her to sit,” a man seated to my right comments. His voice is raspy as though he’s been smoking a pack of cigarettes a day since he was born.

  I glance toward him. That might be possible. The man is sporting a 1970s-style handlebar moustache and more leather and chains than anyone should. A greasy, blue bandanna covers his head. His dark hair is longer than mine. He has skulls and crossbones tattooed on his fingers, 1%er inked on his neck.

  If Mr. OCD doesn’t kill me, this biker will.

  “Hi,” I squeak.

  “You here with the human calculator, sweet cheeks?” The biker inclines his head toward Mr. OCD. “Or are you a free rider?” He sweeps his hands over the big bulge in his blue jeans.

  Is he asking me how I want to die? “Ummm…”

  “That’s answer enough for me.” The biker grins, displaying surprisingly white teeth. “Beat it, geek, before I beat you.”

  Mr. OCD sniffs, stands, his posture regal, and he relocates to the far end of the bar, conceding me without a fight.

  My lips twist. Can’t a girl ask for a little loyalty from her serial killer?

  “You’re sexy as fuck, babe.” The biker puts one of his big arms around my waist. He smells of leather, guns, and gasoline. “All tits and ass with those blow-job lips.” His gaze drops to my mouth. “You’ll drain my cock dry and ask for more.”

  I swallow hard. This man makes Smoke sound like a Sunday school teacher.

  “Don’t worry.” The biker bumps his shoulders against mine. My breasts jiggle. “We’ll fill you up. My brothers at the club will want a turn with you too.”

  He plans to take me back to his motorcycle club and share me with his friends.

  I’d gain the experience I need. Quickly.

  If I survive. I’ve seen the TV shows. Bikers never let their women go. They’re sucked into a world of violence, drugs, and sex, spiraling downward until they overdose or get shot, their bodies discarded at the side of a gravel road.

  Wild-and-crazy Chelsea might risk that fate.

  Not boring, content me. I’m terrified.

  This encounter is outside my comfort zone.

  I pause.

  But isn’t this what I want?

  “Yeah, my brothers will like you.” The biker squeezes my ass. “You’ve got more cushion for the pushin’. How about we get out of here?”

  “I’d rather stay.” Alive.

  “Why?” The biker reaches behind him as though checking for a weapon. “You’re leaving with me.”

  Am I? My gut is saying run, run far away. But this is the same gut that trusted Edward.

  Shit. I’m confused and horny and slightly tipsy, having only alcohol in my stomach. I need a second opinion.

  My gaze flicks toward Mr. OCD. A sane second opinion.

  “Can I freshen up first?” I squirm, trying to escape the biker’s grip.

  He eyes me. “You gotta piss?”

  My face heats. “Yes.” I lie.

  He releases me. “Don’t take too fuckin’ long.”

  I hustle away from him. On the way to the ladies’ bathroom, I pass a side door. I note this possible escape route. It might be needed.

  Once I reach the sanctuary of the surprisingly clean bathroom, I press Smoke’s number.

  He answers on the first ring. “Baby, you clearly don’t understand the concept of fuck it and chuck it.” Voices murmur in the background. “You aren’t supposed to call me.”

  “This is an emergency. I—”

  “Emergency. Fuck. Bruiser, bring the car around. Now,” Smoke bellows. “Where are you, Jenella?”

  “There’s no need for you to come here.” Alarm bubbles within me. “It’s not that type of emergency.”

  “Where. Are. You?” Doors open and close. An engine rumbles.

  “I’m in the bathroom of The Eager Beaver.” I lean against the tiled wall. “I need advice, not a rescue.”

  “You’re not hurt?”

  “I’m okay,” I assure him.

  “You’re certain about that?”

  “I’m certain about that.” Would he be concerned if I were hurt? What happened to his hit-it-and-quit-it motto? “I’m fine.”

&n
bsp; “Fuck, baby.” Smoke blows out his breath. “Emergencies are serious injuries or death.” His voice grows raw. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

  Has he had those types of emergencies in the past? Is that why he doesn’t like relationships?

  “I’m sorry,” I apologize. “I shouldn’t have used that word.”

  “You damn well shouldn’t have.” Smoke has temporarily lost his sense of humor. “And I shouldn’t be answering your calls. Fuck. I can’t do this.”

  He can’t do—what?

  “Bruiser will be there in ten minutes. He’ll deal with your emergency.”

  There’s a click and silence.

  He ended our call.

  I stare at the phone. He’s sending his employee to deal with my emergency. I’d be pissed off if Edward sent someone in his stead but this is Smoke. He uses and loses women.

  Does he care for me? A little?

  I smile, hug the phone to my chest, and return to the bar to wait for Bruiser.

  Mr. OCD’s gaze moves to my face and then down to my hands. He frowns. My trip to the bathroom has likely scratched me off his kill list.

  The biker isn’t as concerned with hygiene. He stands as I approach, his chains rattling. “About fuckin’ time, sweet cheeks. My balls are turning blue.” His cock is hard, pressing against the button fly of his jeans.

  “I need a drink.” I reach for my glass.

  The bartender sweeps it away from me. “I’ll get you a fresh one, miss.” His gaze slides to the biker.

  My prospective date for the evening must have tampered with my drink. “Thank you.” I perch on the barstool. It squeaks.

  “There’s booze back at the clubhouse.” The biker scowls.

  The bartender places another beer in front of me. I sip the pale ale, turn the glass, write my initials in the condensation with my fingertips, dredging up the courage to tell the biker I’m not interested in him.

  “Babe?” He remains standing.

  I have to say something. It’s the right thing to do. “I’m sorry.” I’m not really sorry. This is the super polite Canadian in me speaking. “But I can’t go back to your clubhouse with you.”

  His face darkens. “That wasn’t a request. You’re leaving with me.”

  “No, I’m not.” The front door opens and closes. I stare down at my drink.

  “You are.” The biker grips my right wrist. Hard.

  My beer spills and a shiver of fear rolls up my spine. He’s hurting me.

  A massive shadow falls over me. “Is there a problem here, miss?”

  Bruiser has arrived. He looms large over me, dressed in black and silver, all menace and muscle. This is the man Smoke sent to save me.

  I’m safe. The tension eases out of my shoulders. No one will harm me now.

  The biker glances at Bruiser and scowls. “Back away. This ain’t your business.”

  “Miss Jenella is a special friend of Mr. Sheridan’s.” Bruiser’s eyebrows knit together. “That makes it my business.”

  “Mr. Sheridan?” The biker’s face pales. His hold on my wrist loosens. I yank my arm away from him, jump off the barstool and scurry to Bruiser’s side. “She’s Smoke Sheridan’s ol’ lady?”

  Bruiser opens his mouth.

  “Yes, I am,” I lie. In the biker shows I’ve seen, men leave other bikers’ old ladies alone. The other, more casual women are passed around. “I’m Smoke’s ol’ lady.”

  Bruiser, the biker, and the bartender stare at me.

  “How much do I owe you for the drink?” I reach into my tote for my wallet.

  “For Smoke’s woman, there’s no charge.” The bartender waves his hands. “I’m Patrick Tolever. I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself.”

  “I’m Jenella Whyte.” I smile at him.

  “I didn’t mean no disrespect, Miss Jenella.” The biker is all politeness now. “I didn’t know who you belonged to.”

  “That’s okay.” I hook my arm in Bruiser’s. “We should go now. Smoke will be waiting for me.”

  The bartender rushes to open the door for us.

  The limo is parked outside the bar. Bruiser guides me into the passenger seat, claims the spot behind the wheel, drives silently.

  “Thank you, Bruiser.” I force my breezy, carefree tone. “That went better than I expected.” There was no bloodshed, no fighting.

  “That could have gone badly, miss. That was a dangerous man you were with, a very dangerous man.”

  Yet that man was scared of Smoke. “Is your boss a dangerous man?”

  Bruiser’s gaze slides to my face and then back to the road. “It would be best to ask Mr. Sheridan that, miss. He won’t be pleased when I tell him about tonight.”

  I squelch the urge to ask him not to say anything. Smoke is his boss. Bruiser should be honest with him. “I didn’t know how to ditch the biker. He wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

  “That kind doesn’t.” Bruiser stares at the back of a bumper. “Respectable women go to bars in packs, not alone. There’s safety in numbers.”

  “Maybe I didn’t want to be respectable,” I mumble, gazing out the window at the stores lining Yonge Street.

  “You’re Mr. Sheridan’s girl. That makes you respectable.”

  I glance at Bruiser. “I’m not really Smoke’s girl. I said that to make the biker leave me alone.”

  “You’re not his girl?” The man’s eyes widen.

  “Your boss hits it and quits it. He doesn’t do relationships.” Why do I have to say this? Bruiser knows Smoke better than I do.

  “He didn’t do relationships before you.” He turns the limo onto my street. “I saw the look on his face when he received your call. No one has ever seen him like that. It scared the shit out of all of us.”

  I alarmed his entire staff. Damn it. I’m becoming as dramatic as Chelsea. “He thought it was a more serious emergency, that I was hurt.”

  “You could have been, miss.” Bruiser stops the vehicle in front of my building. “Expect a call from Mr. Sheridan.”

  “He won’t call.” I open the door and step into the warmer evening air. “He’s done with me.”

  ***

  My phone rings at three in the morning, waking me out of a restless sleep.

  “Good morning, Jenella Whyte speaking.” My default is business mode.

  “There’s nothing good about this fuckin’ morning.” Smoke is angry. Again. “You could have been killed. That guy you allowed to touch you got out of prison less than a fuckin’ month ago. Do you want to guess what he did?”

  “He killed a dozen women. He started his murder spree a decade ago by picking up a girl at a bar. His kills escalated until he was out of control. The police found a shoebox in his bedroom with the women’s lips. He cut them off and kept them as souvenirs.” I’ve watched a lot of serial-killer shows. My imagination is vivid.

  “What?” Some of Smoke’s anger deflates. “No. He killed a man.”

  Amateur. “You need at least three murders to be classified as a serial killer.”

  “He only needs one to end your life, bims. Why would you allow a man like that to touch you?”

  “First, I didn’t allow him to do anything.” I hold up one of my index fingers. “He touched me without my permission. Second.” I add a finger. “I was attempting to complete the sex-with-a-stranger challenge, one of the items on my list.”

  Smoke grumbles words I can’t decipher.

  “My choice was between the very scary biker and a guy with OCD. OCD is the mental health issue of choice for serial killers.” At least it is on the TV shows. “I didn’t want to have my head mailed in a box to some unsuspecting recipient.”

  “When faced with a choice like that, you pick neither. Neither,” Smoke emphasizes. “Fuck, baby. What am I going to do with you?”

  “The biker said I had blow-job lips. Does that give you any ideas?”

  My player groans. “I don’t need any more ideas, because, despite what you and apparently half of my staff believes,
you’re not my girl. We hit it once. That’s all I do.”

  “I understand.” I lie back on the bed, stare up at the dark ceiling. “That’s why I went to the bar tonight, to gain more experience. I also asked a man for sex during lunch. He said no.”

  “You asked a stranger for sex during lunch?”

  “He wasn’t a stranger. I knew him. Sort of. He’s a friend of a friend and I thought he was into me.”

  “He wasn’t.”

  “He might be.” I frown. “We meditated and he didn’t want to sully his mind.”

  “That’s a shit excuse. If a man wants a chick, he doesn’t care about sullying his mind. He’ll fuck her in the middle of a tornado, while his ass is on backwards.”

  I blink. “You’re saying he’d fuck her behind his own back?”

  “That’s right, baby.” Smoke chuckles and everything inside me loosens. He’s no longer angry with me. “You and your magnificent tits deserve a man who will fuck you like that.”

  “Mmm…” I picture his tanned face, black hair, sparkling brown eyes. “That’s how you’d fuck me.” I regret we won’t have that experience. “Where do I find more men like you?”

  There’s a long stretch of silence.

  “Leave that to me,” he finally says.

  “You’ll take care of me?” My voice turns husky.

  “I’ll take care of you.”

  I don’t know what Smoke is planning but I trust him with my future. He might hurt others. I remember the fear in the biker’s eyes. But he won’t hurt me. “Smoke?”

  “Yeah, baby?”

  “The biker was scared of you.”

  Smoke sighs. “I did a favor for his road captain when I was young. The club never forgets something like that.”

  When he was young, he knew members of a biker gang. Where were his parents? “Nana Zaire must not have liked that.” I prod, unable to leave it alone.

  “I hadn’t met her then.” He exhales heavily again. “Stay out of the bars, gorgeous.” Smoke ends our call.

  He hadn’t met his grandmother then. Why? Were his parents estranged from their parents? I set down the phone and think about Smoke. Every time I think I’m closer to figuring him out, I uncover something new.

  He’s the most interesting man I know.

  And he thinks I have magnificent tits.