Cutslut

by Kim Jones

  CUTSLUT

  Kim Jones

  Contents

  Preface

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  1. 1

  2. 2

  3. 3

  4. 4

  5. 5

  6. 6

  7. 7

  8. 8

  9. 9

  10. 10

  11. 11

  12. 12

  13. 13

  14. 14

  15. 15

  16. 16

  17. 17

  18. 18

  19. 19

  20. 20

  21. 21

  22. 22

  23. 23

  24. 24

  25. 25

  26. 26

  27. 27

  28. 28

  29. 29

  30. 30

  31. 31

  32. 32

  33. 33

  34. 34

  35. 35

  36. 36

  37. 37

  38. 38

  39. 39

  40. 40

  41. 41

  42. 42

  43. 43

  44. 44

  45. 45

  46. 46

  47. 47

  48. 48

  49. 49

  50. 50

  Afterword

  CLUBWHORE

  PATCHWHORE

  Also by Kim Jones

  About the Author

  Preface

  I’m that girl.

  No.

  I’m not.

  Copyright © 2016 by Kim Jones

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  This book belongs to me. If you bought it, thanks! If it was loaned to you, thank you friend! If you stole it, you suck donkey balls.

  This book is also a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are of my imagination. I mean, really? You think heroes like this actually exist in real life? Well they don’t. If they did, people wouldn’t read about them, they’d go out and find their own real life book boyfriend.

  But honestly, it wouldn’t matter if the fictional men in novels existed or not. Women would still find something to bitch about. They’re too perfect. Too sweet. Dress too nice. Smell too good. We’re miserable creatures—women. Can’t be satisfied. Ever.

  So keep being imperfect, gentlemen. Truth is, it doesn’t really make it shit, anyway. But I do thank you. You’re the reason I can continue to make a living doing what I love.

  ISBN: 978-0-9910198-8-5

  FOR LACY.

  I GAVE JINX A BIG ONE JUST FOR YOU.

  Acknowledgments

  Some of these are the same in all of my books. Some different. I should make a better effort at acknowledging people. But really, who the hell reads this anyway?

  Last, last book.

  last book.

  THIS BOOK.

  To God for giving me the gift of life, writing and an eternal love.

  Reggie: All those nights spent in bed alone will be worth it one day. I hope. — Yeah… Still trying hun… 8 MONTHS LATER…STILL A SHITTY WIFE.

  Amy Owens: Don’t replace me. I’m trying like hell to be a better best friend. It’s just taking a little while. I dedicated this book to you, so I’m off the hook. I’M STILL A SHITTY FRIEND.

  Parents: We’re gonna get rich one day, I promise. — I know, I know. It didn’t happen with the last book, but this may be THE ONE. YEAH…THAT ONE WASN’T “THE ONE” EITHER. BUT….THIS MAY BE IT!

  Sisters: You’ll be rich, too. Maybe. Definitely. DON’T QUIT YOUR JOBS…

  Katy: Thank you for loving my Cook Marty. JINX. Your encouraging words help to breathe life into my characters. STILL DO!

  Aunt Kat: I don’t think I could’ve done this without your continued support. I LOVE YOU!

  Uncle Don: I never would’ve mentioned Aunt Kat without mentioning you—after all, I am the favorite…author. Who are we kidding? I’m the favorite niece, too. STILL THE FAVORITE

  Natasha: You held my hand. Well, in spirit. I’m not even sure you know about this book, but I’m keeping you here anyway. ;) I FINISHED THIS MOTHERFUCKER!!!! YAY!!!!!!!

  Josephine: You owe me 87 88 89 drinks. BY THE WAY… Now that you’re engaged, I’ll never get the bastards. STILL AIN’T MARRIED….SMH. STILL AIN’T GOT NO DRANKS.

  Sali: My first ever audiobook listener. I love you. I haven’t read this one to you yet. But I will. I DIDN’T READ THIS ONE EITHER. MAN… I’M SLACKING!

  HNDW: This may just be the one that gets that Bahama bottom rocker. Keeping my fingers crossed! HELL, CROSS YA FUCKIN’ TOES TOO. THIS SHIT AIN’T WORKIN’!

  Hang Le: The cover—perfection. Always!! STILL AWESOME!

  Amy Tannenbaum: Um…hang on. I’m checking my voicemail. Get back with you soon. This is book number 5 with you and you still treat me like a redheaded step child. But considering I still have nothing nice to say about you in the acknowledgements section of my books, I guess I’ll let it slide. YEAH… I GOT NOTHING.

  Chelle Bliss: My a big thanks goes to you. For helping me figure out this damn Mac. You rock. I still can’t figure it out. But you’re always there to answer my call!! Actually, I’m talking to you as I write this. STILL STRUGGLIN’ WITH THIS MAC. AND YOU STILL ANSWERIN’ THE PHONE!

  Paul Kirkley: You are too fine. Thanks for being sexy! YOU DIDN’T MODEL ON THIS BOOK…BUT YOU STILL SEXY.

  Todd Jones: You make my life happy. Thank you for being here. And mixing me drinks, getting me drunk and way behind on my work. It’s because of you I’m up all damn night doing this. LOOKY LOOKY TODDY PODDY! I MADE IT TO NUMBER 11! SUCK IT, BITCH.

  FORGY: THANKS FOR MAKING ME RE-WRITE THIS BASTARD AT 65K WORDS. :) LOVE YOU!

  ROSE HUDSON: WHATEVER I SAY ISN’T GONNA BE AS AWESOME AS WHAT YOU SAY….SO JUST KNOW I LOVE YOU AND I THINK YOU’RE PERFECT!

  JESSICA HAM: I LOVE YOUR FACE! I’D TOTALLY SHARE MY HUSBAND WITH YOU. ;)

  SLOANE HOWELL: I’M MENTIONING YOU BECAUSE YOUR GROUP HAS LIKE 5K PEOPLE, AND I’M GONNA SHARE THIS SHIT SO THEY THINK WE’RE FRANDS AND HOPEFULLY THEY’LL BUY MY SHIT. CAUSE I’M ALL ABOUT DEM DOLLAS!!!!! AND 3 ICE CUBES.

  HOUSE OF WHORES: KEEP BEING NASTY BITCHES!

  OLIVIA BROWN: I CAN’T THANK YOU ENOUGH. SO I’LL JUST PUT YOU A LITTLE SOMETHING HERE. IT’S ALWAYS GOOD TO HAVE FRIENDS YOU CAN CALL ONLY WHEN YOU NEED SOMETHING. ;)

  I’M FORGETTING SOMEBODY. I JUST KNOW IT. SO THIS ONE IS FOR YOU! PLEASE WRITE YOUR NAME HERE:______________________

  Prologue

  JINX—ONE YEAR AGO

  “Hey brother, can I get you a beer?”

  I stare up at the hang around, fighting the urge to tell him I’m not his fucking brother. Instead, I shake my head and dismiss him with a look. It still amazes me how completely unrecognizable I am without my cut. To everyone here, I’m just another guy attending the party. Little do they know I am the enemy. They’ve let a Devil’s Renegade come into their home just because he wore a white bandana and a hoodie that says, “I Support Madness MC.”

  Fucking idiots.

  But as an added precaution, I’ve made sure to stay in the shadows. Seated out of sight. Knowing if I stand, I’ll be a head taller than everyone else and draw unwanted attention to myself. Not that anyone would really question who I am. Even if they were brave enough to approach me, I’d just come up with some bullshit about being the dope man’s nephew. They’ll believe it. They’re too stupid not to.

  From my corner, I have the perfect view of the upcoming show. Madness’s infamous cutslut will be making her appearance at any moment. Cocks will swell. Jaws will drop. Mouths will water. She’s the complete show-stopping package. But I’m not here for a hard on. I’m here to collect. She took something that belongs to me. I
aim to get it back.

  The door opens and a hush falls over the crowd. Cain, president of Madness, walks in first. He doesn’t have to speak to deliver the threat. With a warning glare, we all hear him loud and clear, “Don’t fucking touch her.” When he’s confident the message has been received, he steps aside and there she is.

  It’s easy to get sucked into the thunderstorm of sex appeal she emits. With long, tanned legs, a slender waist and an ass you can sit a champagne flute on, she’s the epitome of sexy. Her short sleeveless dress shows off her toned arms that are covered from wrist to shoulder in colorful tattoos—making her appearance even more erotic.

  Endless waves of blonde hair surround her delicate face. Her nose is slightly upturned, chin raised, lips pressed into a permanent pink pout—an expression that says she knows her place. And you damn well better know yours. Some might say she looks proud. Snobbish even. But her eyes tell a different story.

  The wide, soft, emerald greens framed in long, dark lashes are so striking I almost miss the imperfection. They’re emotionless. Lifeless. Filled with a nothingness that has me temporarily forgetting why I’m here. For a moment, I want to pull her to me. Tell her I’ve got her. Take her away from this place. Then kill the men who stole her life from her.

  Like she stole from me.

  The thought is sobering. This girl is not innocent. My urge to protect her is just my natural instinct. I’d feel that strongly about helping any woman whose eyes held that same look of defeat.

  Wouldn’t I?

  Cain’s hand is at her hip and I bite my tongue to keep from growling at him like a fucking territorial Pit Bull. What the hell is wrong with me? This woman ruined my life. Took everything from me. I wonder if the years of my blood, sweat and tears she took paid for the Rolex on Cain’s wrist. Or that expensive designer dress she’s wearing. Those sky-high fuck-me heels.

  No. This woman is not a victim. She’s my nemesis. She’s the same bitch who haunts my dreams. Fuels my anger. Quenches my thirst for revenge—a revenge I plan on exacting in due time. Not today. Not tomorrow. But in that moment when she least expects it.

  Her name is Winter Tews.

  She’s my enemy’s cutslut.

  My MC brother’s sister.

  But very soon, she’ll be mine.

  1

  WINTER

  Standing outside room 421 at the Hard Rock Hotel in Las Vegas, Nevada, I ask myself, “Who is this irresistible creature who has an insatiable love for the dead?”

  A guy stumbles out of his room just in time to hear me talking to myself and shoots me a confused look. But his confusion turns to desire when his eyes rake down my body—taking in my fishnet stockings, stilettos and satin bathrobe. I flip him the finger before answering my question.

  “Me. Winter Tews. I have an insatiable love for the dead.”

  I mean, I must. Right? I’m here. At room 421. Visiting a man who may very well be meeting his death soon—depending on what I find out while I’m here. If that’s the case, it won’t be the first instance where a man living on borrowed time saw me minutes before he died. And just like all the other times, I’m not nervous or anxious. I’m just…here. I’m the girl in Rob Zombie’s smash hit, “Living Dead Girl.”

  I swipe the keycard and wait for the light to turn green before pushing inside—leaving the card on the floor outside the door for Cain’s men just in case something goes wrong and I need their help. They may not be here now, but in about ten minutes, they’ll be in the room next to us—waiting for the signal if I decide to give it.

  I make my way through the small entryway and into the suite. It’s nice enough—overstuffed couches, pictures of rock legends, modern decorations, Aerosmith playing through the many speakers.

  The bar is positioned in front of the floor to ceiling windows overlooking the top floor of a parking garage. Beyond it, I can see the twinkling lights of Vegas. Bright in color. Bold. Flashing. Designed to trigger the neurons in the brain that release serotonin. Leaving you with that happy, excited feeling. Too bad they don’t have that effect on me.

  “You’re early,” the voice says, moments before his reflection appears in the window. He’s not nearly as big as I imagined him to be. Nor does he look anything like the ruthless gangster Cain claimed he was.

  “Am I?” I ask, pouring a glass of scotch from the decanter. After scenting it, I take a sip and allow the smoky flavor to settle on my tongue a few seconds before swallowing. “Not bad.”

  “I got it for you. Heard Cain’s little cutslut was a scotch drinker.”

  Over time, I’ve learned to control the urge to stab anyone who refers to me as Cain’s cutslut. I still hate it, but I don’t let it show. So instead of cringing or stiffening at the remark, I pretend what I find out tonight will result in his death. The thought has me smirking when I turn to face him and ask, “Is that so?”

  He nods. “Yeah. They said you were sexy, too. Didn’t think you’d be this sexy. No offense,” he adds, flashing his gold teeth when he bites his bottom lip.

  I shrug. “None taken.”

  We stare at one another a few moments. Me completely at ease. Him less so. Though he tries to hide it, I can tell he’s nervous. He probably should be. This middle-aged, clean cut, chain wearing, gold teeth flashing bastard might very well be a notorious gangster, but if he wronged Cain, he’s a dead man.

  “Heard some other shit about you, too,” he says, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

  “Yeah? Like what?” I take another sip of scotch. It’s better than the last.

  “That Cain either shares you with people he respects and trusts, or uses you to gain intel on people he doesn’t.” My brow furrows in confusion and he doesn’t miss it. Who would have told him that? “So which one am I?” he asks in a tone that demands an answer. His confidence building now that he feels like he has the upper hand. “Am I someone he trusts, or someone he doesn’t?”

  Setting my glass on the bar, I notice the parking garage receipt and commit the level and lot number to memory before lifting an eyebrow at him. “You tell me, Mister.” My hands move to the belt on my robe—the satin cool against my fingers as I slowly loosen the knot. “Does Cain have a reason not to trust you? Or are you as loyal as you say you are?”

  His throat constricts as he swallows hard. I fight my smile at his reaction. Who has the upper hand now, asshole? His gaze drops to my hands, before travelling to the tops of my exposed breasts as I reveal the leather corset beneath.

  “Jimmy,” he rasps, his voice thick with desire. His hand moving to adjust his growing erection.

  Men.

  They’re all the fucking same.

  “Name’s Jimmy.”

  “Well, Jimmy, I was told to come here and show you a good time.” I slip the robe off my shoulders. “And I intend to do just that.”

  One foot in front of the other, I make my way across the floor to where he stands. In heels, I’m as tall as he is—making us eye level when I stop in front of him. I grab him roughly through his jeans, bringing him to his toes as he hisses through his teeth. The smell of smoke and whiskey lingers on his breath.

  “Walk…Jimmy.” With his cock in my hand, I urge him backwards—twisting my wrist and rubbing my palm against his crotch. His eyes flutter shut as his feet shuffle along the floor until he falls back onto the couch.

  Straddling his lap, I grind my hips against him. His hands are on my breasts—squeezing. Rubbing. Pinching. Pulling at the fabric to reveal my nipples that are hard from his touch. I play the role and throw my head back on a moan. Rock harder against him. Pretend like I’m enjoying this, when really, I’m slipping my hand into the pocket of his jacket and retrieving his phone. He’s too absorbed in my chest to notice. Too distracted by the feel of my body stroking along the length of his cock to pay any attention to what I’m doing over his shoulder—which is checking his phone for a passcode.

  It’s locked.

  Of course.

  “Shit,” I mutter, slippi
ng his phone back in his pocket.

  His mouth on my neck, he mumbles, “You like that?” He gives my breasts another squeeze.

  “Yes, but I meant, shit, I forgot to call Cain and tell him I’m here.”

  “He can wait.”

  “You know better than that,” I say, fisting his hair in my hand and forcing his head back. I kiss him hard, biting his bottom lip. “If I don’t check in, he’ll think something’s wrong. Might send someone over.” That’s enough to get his attention.

  Reluctantly, he pulls away and reaches for his phone. I reach between us and work his cock through his jeans—making sure to keep him distracted. He’s still careful enough to keep his phone angled so it’s out of my sight as he punches in the passcode. Not that it really matters. Once it’s unlocked, I’ll make the call and get what I need before I hand it back to him. That’s not the reason for the distraction.

  While he’s worried about me finding out the code to his cell, I’m stealing the keys to his Lexus. It’s not part of the plan, I just enjoy taking shit that doesn’t belong to me. With a twist of my hips and a steal grip on his cock, I slip his key fob from his pocket and tuck it beneath the thick lace of my garter.

  A moment later, he’s passing me his phone with absolutely no knowledge of my thievery. Or my ability to transfer data from his cell to mine with a few touches here and there. Just as I start to gather the info that will determine this man’s fate, the door opens and in walks Cain along with three of his brothers—Rut, Swipe and Theo.

  Cain’s eyes are on mine. Those dead, midnight blues giving nothing away. As always, they’re slightly narrowed—causing tiny crow’s feet to crinkle at the corners. His big six foot three, two-hundred-pound body is relaxed. His thick, muscular arms hanging loosely at his sides. Almost as if the heavy and worn leather cut on his back is weighing him down.