Leo - Mr. Boss: The 12 Signs of Love (The Zodiac Lovers Series Book 8)

by Tiana Laveen

  “Always.” She smirked, eyeing him up and down once again.

  “I usually am. Like, for instance, I find it sexily odd that after all that dancing and sweat, I don’t smell any body odor coming from you… and I find it strange how, as feminine as you come across, you seem to have no qualms standing practically soaking wet in front of me… Well, not anymore, but you were.”

  …And you will be soon again. Soaking. Fucking. Wet. I’m gonna make that pussy rival a goddamn waterfall…

  “Hmmm, does that bother you?” Her brow arched.

  “Not in the least. It’s just different is all.” He sat straight, proud of himself, as if he’d scored the points back that he lost in the whole Sham Sam scandal.

  “You’re not honest all the time… Nobody is.”

  “I’m honest enough.” He ran his hand along his chin and stole a glance at her from the corner of his eye.

  “Well, you’ve already failed my honesty test. Not sure how you can redeem yourself in that department at this point.” She looked straight ahead, crossed her legs, and sat there like her word was bond.

  “What honesty test?”

  Like I give uh shit! Women and this bullshit… just fuckin’ silly. Here we go with the games women like to play… for fuck’s sake.

  “I told you the banana nut bread at the bookstore was delicious. Actually, it is the worst bread ever baked… ever known to mankind.” He couldn’t help but smile. The woman was a true piece of work. “It’s the only bakery item that I’ve ever purchased from them that wasn’t absolutely delicious. It’s almost like some cruel joke. Instead of you tellin’ me you didn’t like it, you played it off, said it was amazing so that you could get into my good graces… then into my pants. I know your type, Lazarist.”

  “Ohhhh my!!!” He said in mock fright. “I’m sooooo scared! She knows my type, everyone! Run for your lives! You know my type, huh? Well goody goody gumdrops for you. Got every guy pegged, right?” He burst out laughing. “Well shit, baby, you missed your calling. You should drop the dance shoes and go work for the FBI. They’re always in need of a few good paranoid women.”

  “Say what you will, but that whole entire lie, simple as it was, told me right then and there that you were full of shit.”

  “Hmmm, I see. And why would I choose to lie to you about such a thing, Ms. Jordan?”

  “Because you’re a control freak. You have to have things go a certain way. You also are a brat and you’re bossy.”

  “And yet here you fuckin’ are… in my car with me. Imagine that!” He cackled.

  The woman rolled her eyes.

  “Admit it. You must have your way, especially when it comes to women. You’ll say anything to get what you want… just like most guys but with you, you don’t give up.”

  “Okay sweet cakes, two things we need to address, aiight?” He held up two fingers. “First of all, toots, how do you know I don’t like my banana nut bread dry ’nd crusty as fuck, huh? For all you know, it may have been… may have been so delicious to me that I was speechless!” He had to catch himself as he tried to control a burst of laughter. The memory of the horrible food was enough to make him want to gag again, perhaps even throw up in his mouth a bit.

  The woman shook her head, then laughed.

  “You’re ridiculous…”

  He reached over and took her hand.

  “But you like me, don’t you?” She grimaced and wrinkled her nose, turning away like she didn’t want to answer. “You do!” He burst out laughing. “I know you do. All right, back on track though. Point numero dos! Secondly, my dear, how do you know that I didn’t know what you were doin’, huh?”

  She snatched her hand away and turned the radio up. He turned it back down, then cut it off completely as he pulled up to her apartment building. She reached for the door, but he grabbed her arm and turned her back towards him.

  “I’m serious… answer me. How do you know I didn’t already realize that you were on to me, so at that point, I was just tossin’ everything in the ring and tryna see what would stick?”

  “That’s the oldest trick in the book. You get caught with your hand in the cookie jar and you try to mind fuck a woman, tell her that, ‘Oh baby!’ Her voice dropped a few octaves as she attempted to imitate a man’s tone. ‘I knew you were standin’ there, honey! I was just playin’ with you.’”

  He smiled ever so slightly, then nodded.

  “Okay, but I did know you thought it was disgusting and I went through with my scheme anyway. Do you know how I knew?”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “You already called me ridiculous…”

  “Well, it bears repeating. Now how? This bullshit outta be good,” she said with a smug smile.

  “Because you hadn’t touched yours…” Her smile slowly faded. “If you thought it was all that fuckin’ wonderful, you would have at least pinched off a bit. Now see, in the art of mindfuckology and manipulation 101, which I am King of the Jungle at,” he said, pointing at himself proudly. “You have to play the part, baby… and play it well. First thing first, young grasshopper, never ever let ’em see you sweat. You save that shit for behind closed doors… curtain call. You don’t become king by wailin’ and bein’ all soft and squishy in the middle.”

  “Oh… so you’re cut off from your feelings and are unemotional? A genuine sociopath! Goodie! Look, Dad! I’ve hit the jackpot! This guy here is emotionally bankrupt. Whoopee!”

  She thrust her arms in the air and cheered, causing him to burst out laughing.

  “No… just the opposite, actually, honey.” He reached for her, leaned close, and traced his lips along the side of her warm, soft face, then planted a kiss along her jawbone. “I’m too emotional. I’ve just learned how to hide that shit really fuckin’ well. It’s a matter of survival. There’s a difference. The second rule you need to learn, sweetie, is that you can’t play a player. You’re not in my league.”

  “Who the hell do you think you are?” She chuckled, though he could see she was hardly amused.

  “I’m serious, and I don’t mean this in a bad way, okay? But you don’t play dirty. I do. I’m well-seasoned in filth. Now, I’ll give you your props, you’re a worthy opponent.” He waved his finger close to her face. “But you still need training and even then, you’ll never be like me. Guys like me are born, not just made. If you want to beat someone at their own game, you have to become him and learn all the rules. And since it would be unbecoming for you to ever turn into a motherfucker like me,” he said, his eyes narrowing on her, “I suggest you not even try. Stay sweet. Now, let’s get you inside, cleaned up, and ready to enjoy a delicious dinner.”

  She chewed on her inner jaw, probably a million strange thoughts whirling inside that mind of hers. When she reached for the door and started to step out, he gently bopped her ass. She turned in his direction like a woman on the verge of annihilation.

  “Dear Royal Pain in the Ass, Sir Jerk of Brooklyn, Duke of Hurl, Emperor of King-sized Fuckery, let that be your first and last time touching my behind without permission. You got it?” She winked.

  “Very creative names you rattled off,” he said, emitting a loud yawn. “Tell me you didn’t like it, though? Tell me you didn’t enjoy the way my hand spanked your firm, yet oh so beautiful, rump? I’m just markin’ you for later is all… letting you know that’s all mine.”

  “Has anyone ever told you what a dick you are?” She smiled sweetly.

  “All the time… Speakin’ of coveted cocks, I have one too. You wanna see it? It’s known as the eighth wonder of the world.”

  “Save that classy talk for your funeral. Is your stage name Count Cockula, by chance? Because you just keep biting my nerves and you sure have a lot of balls…”

  She slammed the door, but he heard her chuckle again as she reached inside her purse and pull out her keys. He turned off his car and joined her, eager to be around her a bit longer… and a bit longer after that.

  She’s a challenge�
� she’s feisty… I like this shit. I could get used to this…

  After a few minutes, they were inside her apartment. The place smelled like Cuban food and roses. What a strange yet pleasing combination.

  “Okay, make yourself comfortable.” She handed him the remote control and pointed to the couch. “Just give me, uh, twenty minutes or so and I should be ready.”

  He nodded, finding it curious that she didn’t believe she needed at least an hour to get all gussied up. As she hightailed it out of sight, she called out, “Help yourself to anything in the refrigerator should you get thirsty!”

  He then heard a door open and close… then lock. He smiled at that. Precautions…

  In his mind right then, he clicked and locked, too… He heard the sound of his front door opening and closing, locking then unlocking, time and time again when David, his father, would arrive at his doorstep. Sometimes the man would show up disheveled; other times, overly joyous, practically singing. Sometimes, his eyes would be bloodshot as if he’d been up for forty-eight hours straight, but the demented bastard was always pushing… prodding… poking the lion. David knew just what to say to make him fall apart inside, to turn and twist him on and off, jab the knife in that much deeper.

  ‘You’re a ladies’ man… soft-hearted… never should’ve married her… you hate your mother… your mother was a whore… your mother was a whore… your mother was a whore…’

  He headed to the large couch and slumped down onto it, holding the remote. He tossed it from one hand to the other as his heart thumped with pain, his brain full of stuff that felt like blades scraping the inside of his secret, private thoughts, carving them out like pumpkin seeds and casting the gummy mess onto the floor. He squeezed the remote a time or two, like a stress toy, but instead of turning on the television, he just sat there and closed his eyes. Cocking his head to the side, he sniffed the air…

  I love the fucking smell of her apartment… The odor of cooked food, comfort food no doubt, despite her obviously watching her weight for work ’nd all. I can smell her, too… her distinct scent…

  He groaned as he heard the muted sound of her singing against the crash of the water pouring from her shower. Strangely, he didn’t picture her naked at that moment; he pictured her happy… and that turned him on.

  What would make her happier?

  He wasn’t certain, but he definitely wished to find out.

  She thinks fast on her feet… she’s smart… and the way she dances, wow…

  He slowly got to his feet and began to look around, but was careful to not touch. In the corner he spotted a small bookcase filled with novels, some worn out and dogeared, others looking practically brand new. Thrusting his hand in his pocket, he took note that she appeared to really like the color blue, which appeared all over the place—on her throw pillows, in the abstract art on the walls, and on several containers that were various shades of blue, some with plants growing from them, others with odds and ends inside. He kept nosing around, here and there. Her coffee table had an assortment of magazines on it. He sat back down and thumbed through them.

  Let’s see… She reads Essence, Dance USA, People, Wired, Architectural Digest, and Time magazine…

  She has eclectic tastes in reading periodicals, I see… good, good… well rounded…

  He spotted an ink pen without the cap on the table, too. That sort of thing grated his nerves.

  His attention was drawn to three small milk crates bursting with hats and ballcaps in particular—everything from the typical black and white New York Yankees fare to the diamond studded denim ones with intricate and cool designs. He stretched his legs and ran his hand slowly up and down his thigh as he heard the water shut off. Closing his eyes, he imagined her stepping out, one foot at a time.

  I bet her bathroom is mostly blue…

  Seashells? Nah. Nautical? Hmmm… probably not, doesn’t seem the type. She seems like she’d have ballet slippers or something like that as decorations in there. Maybe theater masks, shit like that… Mermaids? It’s a possibility.

  He envisioned it all in his mind, painting various scenarios. The walls of her bathroom, the scent of the soap… He could envision her feet rubbing along an ultra-soft floor matt.

  It’s probably fuzzy. Chicks seemed to like fuzzy shit…

  A door opened and he quickly craned his neck in the direction of the sound. He hoped to get a peek of something forbidden… unclothed toasty, brown flesh for his eyes to feast upon. A blur dressed in a dark red robe raced past and entered another door, then locked it at the speed of light. The prey was pretty fucking fast…

  Flashes of him waiting patiently for his first ex-wife to come out for prom when they were mere kids entered his mind. He’d been excited to go out and spend the day and night with his beautiful girlfriend. They’d been looking forward to it for weeks. Mom had splurged on a limo and all on his behalf. He’d been in love then, helplessly in love…

  He’d never had that sort of feeling ever again…

  He hung his head, missing that pure, sweet love… the kind he felt when he knew he’d do anything for someone, even die if he had to.

  His love for Mimi had been different—so very different. It was nothing like what he’d had for Charity, not even close. With Charity, there was nothing she could do to make him stop loving her, not even when she’d stopped loving him…

  He rubbed his hands together, feeling a bit uncomfortable as those old thoughts resurfaced. He hadn’t thought about prom in over a decade or more; yet, it had been one of the happiest times in his life.

  Funny how something fresh and new could trigger something old and heartbreaking.

  But instead of running away from it, hiding it from the world, he sat there and forced himself to feel…

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A Lion Protects the Pride…

  IT HAD BECOME quite apparent to Lazarist that had Sky been wearing a paper bag, she’d look just as lovely. She knew what looked good on her, though, and how to piece an outfit together. As they sat inside Victor’s Café on 52nd street, one of his favorite spots to enjoy Cuban fare, he took that opportunity to delve deeper into all that was Sky, and for him, actions and observations were always the best teachers. He kept studying her as he placed his napkin across his lap. Her clothing interested him… it told him so much. The outfit didn’t look terribly expensive. But why would it have to be?

  This woman sweated and beat the air with her feet and hands for a living. She was in great shape—she worked hard for that.

  She sat there reviewing the menu, wearing flowy black pants that gathered at the waist and a black sheer top layered with a lacey camisole. Around her neck hung a simple silver chain with an opal pendant and she’d brushed her hair in an updo, a sloppy ponytail which exposed matching opal earrings.

  But her smell was what kept him inching closer… and closer. Whatever she’d sprayed on herself, he liked it. Resting his hand against hers, he smirked as she looked at his pinky finger touching her thumb. Her eyes soon drifted back to the menu… but she didn’t move her hand away.

  He leaned in closer, so close that when he breathed, a loose strand of her hair swayed a bit.

  “May I ask what you’re wearing? Your perfume…”

  When she turned to him, it seemed like the perfect distance to initiate a kiss. He stared into two dark brown pools of light… Damn, was she beautiful…

  “Bombshell by Victoria’s Secret.”

  “Victoria’s Secret?” He nodded in approval. “I have a thing for certain scents. A woman who smells nice really turns me on.”

  “Well, I’ll make sure to wear Le Horse Manure next time. If you were any closer to me right now I’d be pregnant… now scoot back.”

  They smiled at one another and he burst out laughing. Readjusting himself, he picked up his menu, though he already knew what he wanted. Her. But she wasn’t an option right then…

  Soon, my little pussy cat… soon… soon… soon…

  Momen
ts later, the waiter came to give a run-down of the specials and explained to the newbie, Sky, that side dishes were à la carte. The place was particularly crowded that evening, though he wasn’t terribly surprised—their food was pure perfection.

  “Let’s seeeee.” She teetered about in her chair as if she were dancing. He found it rather cute and amusing. “I’ll haaaaave… you know what? Just let me get the fritas cubanas and I don’t need any wine… just water with lemon is fine.”

  She closed the menu and handed it back to the waiter.

  “And you, sir? Nice to see you again by the way.” The man smiled.

  “Nice to see you, too!” Lazarist was darn right alarmed. Never in his entire life had he taken a woman out and she picked the least expensive thing on the menu, as well as refused a drink and his advances all within the same hour. Should this turn him on or should he question her sanity? He’d heard of such things but figured they were fables, something written in books of make-believe.

  “Mr. Zander?”

  “Ahhh, yes, sorry… I will get the assorted appetizers for two. I want her to try that.” He didn’t miss the smirk that crept across her pretty little face. “Then you can bring out my usual, the ten-ounce black angus skirt steak with plantains.”

  “Ahhh yes, the churrasco con chimichurri.”

  “Yes. I would also like a glass of your Cuba Libre.”

  “Of course.”

  The waiter took their menus and left, but Lazarist was still whirling from the realization that Sky was no ordinary woman.

  “So, tell me more about yourself…” He clasped his hands together. “I know how you got started dancing, I know you grew up in Brooklyn, too, but tell me—what do you like to do in your downtime besides read and go out clubbing with your friends?”

  “Well.” She cocked her head to the side. “I actually don’t like to go out clubbing too much. I do it just because.” She shrugged. “You know, to sometimes be with the group. I pretty much got that all out of my system in my twenties.” He nodded in understanding. “I enjoyed school as a kid. I was a bit of a nerd, I guess you could say.”