Need You, Need Me (The Need Series Book 1)

by Lewis, Meghan

  I pull into the parking lot and turn off the car. I look around the lot, and there he is, staring right at me and shaking his head.

  Oh, I was wrong. This is going to be awesome. Jesus, help me.

  I get out of my car, get my gear and work clothes out of the back seat, and make my way to the door. Paul just stands at the end of the building. Weird. Without a word, I walk through the door, scan my card, and head for the locker room. The less said the better.

  I think this is the slowest I’ve ever gotten changed before. Training has taken on a whole new meaning to me thanks to Paul. After the night, that night, Paul kept his promise.

  First, it was weight training and self-defense classes. When I was where I needed to be physically, Paul graduated me to karate. Next were jiu-jitsu, taekwondo, and now MMA (Mixed Martial Arts) fighting. Hence, the reason we are here today.

  The fight itself was controlled. Every aspect of it, except me. The first two rounds were in my favor hands down. I knew it, he knew it, and everyone watching knew it. So when the third round came around, needless to say, he had something to prove and wanted to save his precious ego. I wasn’t trying to make him look bad. I was just trying to learn and use what I had been taught. There are no referees, no pads, and there sure as shit aren’t any rules when you work and do what I do for a living.

  The ref signaled for us to fight, and we came out. The third round was looking pretty good for me too until I spaced out thinking about the night of the beer bottle incident. In my defense, it didn’t sit well with me that he was whispering in my ear. But it wasn’t that he was whispering, it was what he was whispering, and then what he did next.

  With him behind me in a chokehold, he whispered just low enough for me to hear him: “That’s a pretty scar you got there, cupcake. Maybe I can give you another one to match.”

  As he was giving the threat, he ran his hand from my collarbone to the middle of my shoulder and then placed a light kiss on my neck. I bucked away from him, and he took advantage. Down we went, hard. Next thing I knew, he had me in an arm bar, and I was done. The look on his face when he got up made my stomach turn over. To add insult to literal injury, for a little fun, he decided to jerk my arm that he had in the hold after I tapped out and dislocated my shoulder. He didn’t even shake my hand.

  Chauvinist asshole.

  When I turned around to find Paul, so he could pop my shoulder back into place for me and talk about it, he was gone. Closing my eyes, I knew what I was in for, and I was going to pay for what had just happened.

  Unknowingly, I am running my fingers over my scar when I hear Paul yelling my name and snapping me out of my daymare. They don’t happen as often as they used to, but I still won’t forget; I won't let myself, and if that wasn’t enough, my body won’t let me forget either because there it is, every time I get changed or take a shower, staring me in the face. Shaking my head clear of my present thoughts, I pull on my shirt and make my way out to our “death ring,” as I like to call it. The gym keeps the room open the evenings after my fights, just in case I need a lesson or two. Kind of like today. All the staff knows Paul and me and have watched my progress over the years. When they see us after fight day, I get the I-would-hate-to-be-you look. That’s always fun. So with my wraps in hand, I push my flip flopped self in the direction of the fight room. If you walk around barefoot in a gym, then you are just looking to get some kind of foot fungus.

  Yuck, feet.

  I pass the main area where all the weight benches and mirrors are. The machines are all grouped together according to which body part they work. The cardio deck is raised on to a single step and lines the whole front wall.

  I make my way over to the doorway of the room and see that the screen blockers aren’t in front of the glass that separates the room from the gym. He wants everyone to see that I am about to struggle.

  That’s so sweet. I roll my eyes.

  Now granted, I’m not a small girl. I’m five-eleven and two hundred pounds of muscle now, thanks to Paul and his constant weight training, but I always feel like a small mouse when I’m next to him, especially when I lose a fight. It isn’t getting beaten that gets to me, it's knowing the disappointment Paul feels. As Paul walks into the gym, the room takes on an eerie sound because he isn’t talking. I sit on the floor and do my stretches and warm ups for the almighty hell that is about to rain down on me. Next, Paul comes over and tapes up my ankles, wrists, and hands. We don’t use headgear or anything else other than a mouth guard because why would we?

  With the room being opened to the gym, some members have slowed their workouts with nothing but confusion on their faces as I’m being taped up. The regulars that know us go on about their business because they know what’s about to commence.

  The occasional smart ass comment is thrown at us, but nine times out of ten, it falls on deaf ears. Other times, when I hear something that just doesn’t sit well with me, like today, I just turn, smile, and do my parade wave.

  “What are y'all doing, ballroom dancing?”

  I just keep on smiling because the comments stop. Everything stops when we start sparring.

  Paul is ruthless today. I knew it was going to be bad, but not this bad. After about an hour and a half of just brutal punishment, the skin on my right side rib cage has gone from a light tan to a purplish-blue. My right thigh is, what I think, going to stay permanently reddish-pink from deflecting leg kick after leg kick. Yeah, you could hear a pin drop in that gym. Ballroom dancing my ass, buddy. After another brutal punch connecting to my ribs, I’m done. Falling to my hands and knees then sitting back on my heels, I remove my mouth guard, take a slow and painful breath in, and look to the heavens.

  This is it; I am dying.

  Paul is on me in .5 seconds, grabbing my chin and forcing me to look him in the eyes.

  “Don’t you ever let that shit,” he points to my scar, “into your head again. Not in here, not at work, and not when you’re in a fight. Do you fucking understand me?” he yells at my face. Did he just spit on me? Ass.

  I swear the room is so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

  I can’t look at him anymore. I pull my face out of his hand and fall onto my back, welcoming the cold floor on my now very hurt ribs.

  No tears. You aren’t going to cry. Don’t you do it, I say internally over and over again, trying to convince myself that it is not something that needs to be done. Paul’s breathing has returned to normal after a few minutes as has mine. He holds up his fist to me.

  There’s my friend.

  After I reciprocate the fist bump, he hikes me up to my feet, slaps me on the ass, and says, “Time to go to work.”

  I love hot showers. They are one of my favorite things on this planet. Thankfully, I brought my work clothes with me, so my shower gets to run a little longer than usual. Apparently, I’m not your typical girl because I can be showered, dressed, and ready in twenty minutes and out the door. Today is no exception. I stop in the full-length mirror and take one last look over. My work outfit consists of black slacks, a black, sleeveless wrap around shirt, and thick-heeled, leather boots. My hair is still wet, but I can manage it better that way. I sweep it up into a neat and tight bun. I wear it this way because if trouble involving another female breaks out, my hair will not be an easy target. When something does happen between two women, I swear to God, hair is the first thing they go for, and my hair, being almost to my butt and red, is like a bull’s eye. My makeup is simple, yet nice. I’m not going out for a night on the town. As a rule, I wear absolutely no jewelry. Well, at least not anymore because I lost my favorite necklace and had an earring ripped right through my earlobe all in the same night.

  Not cool.

  With one last inhale and exhale, I walk out of the locker room. Some of the members are just finishing up their workouts, and I zero in on one particular smart ass. I drop my bag and walk calmly over to where he is curling thirty-five pound weights, and he stops and turns to face me.

  “Ballro
om dancing, huh?” I ask sarcastically. He says nothing, so I move in closer to elaborate a little. My lips are right next to his ear, but aren’t touching them.

  “I’d love to teach you to dance anytime you’re ready, princess.”

  He drops a dumbbell. I straighten up, adjust my shirt, turn, and walk away. Paul is standing where I dropped my gear and is shaking his head, but he’s smiling. He is dressed for work as well. Have you ever heard of the Man in Black? Well Paul does wonders with this specific color. He hands me my bag, and we walk out with me leading the way.

  “Was that necessary, May?” he asks.

  “Of course it was,” I say over my shoulder and then it is off to work.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Needless to say after everything that happened a couple years ago, Paul and I now take things into our own hands as far as work is concerned. He is no longer a bouncer; although, he still acts like my bodyguard sometimes, and I am no longer a shot girl.

  When people started hearing about the cop and girl that got stabbed, everyone went a little on edge when it came to going out downtown. It was just a question of safety, and the following months after my incident, people started doing just that: questioning whether their favorite bars and clubs were doing what they could to make sure everything was safe. To drive that point home, the club owners started to feel the hit of people staying in their homes to drink and have a good time, so Paul and I now offer our services. We make things safer for everyone and easier for cops and staff, but all in all, it’s about making sure that the people that come out to have a good time get exactly that. That is what we do now.

  Paul, being ex-military, added to his history as a fighter, is sharp as a whip when it comes to remodels and hiring the right bouncers. He’s not a contractor or architect, so his ideas for new layouts and video camera placements come from being in the military, sort of like a two-week long maneuver.

  I bring something different to the table. As my reputation is nowhere near as impressive as Paul’s, I have to use what I know when it comes to being a part of the team. I work behind the scenes so to speak because to be quite honest, I don’t like the attention that Paul gets. I pair up with whatever I.T. guy is hired, and we go through all camera angles and stations where the staff are at all times. I implement new radios to the staff, so they can have a direct line to anyone they may need; I also train the female staff. I do most of the important paperwork because, let’s face it, men suck at organizing things. After the radios are handed out, Paul and I spend a week with the staff. We let them know everything that is going on is essential to what we are trying to accomplish. We usually stay on a job for two weeks. The first week is for training the new people. Paul trains the guys, and I train the girls. I answer any questions that they may have about certain situations that might make them feel uneasy or uncomfortable, and I help them with the basic defensive skills that can down a drunk with ease and little force.

  Midweek, it’s my job to take everyone shopping for uniforms. Sometimes Paul comes if he needs a break from whatever task he is doing. Uniforms are based pretty much on the club or bar’s colors, and usually uniform day goes pretty smoothly. Once we reach the end of the first week, everyone is more than ready to go work. The following week is a slow open with the Grand opening being on Friday. After Saturday’s shift is over and done with, we have a short, all-staff meeting summing everything up as we say our goodbyes to everyone and hand out our cards in case something comes up.

  This week’s remodeling is a bar called Easy Go. The new owner completely gutted and remodeled the inside, taking Paul’s and my advice whenever it was given, such as having just one open space instead of rooms sectioning everyone off. This makes for better crowd control.

  Paul goes in early before they open up to make sure everything goes off without a hitch and that everyone knows what they are doing and where they are supposed to be. I usually head in when things are in full swing mid-night. I check and recheck everything Paul has. I don’t like attention.

  I walk into the side door and make my way to the office that houses the employee lockers, video monitors, and a sitting area for the staff to go and relax, take a break, or to calm down after something goes down. Taking care of the staff comes first.

  After unloading my stuff into a locker, I get my radio and earpiece and try to situate it. How does the earpiece always get so tangled in itself? I check the video monitors to make sure everything and everyone are where they should be. Looking for Paul, even though I already know where he is, I find him on the edge of the dance floor. He likes to watch people dance. I put my earpiece in and radio to him.

  “You know you could start to creep the ladies out if you stare any longer or harder,” I say with a smile on my face.

  “If it creeps them out, they wouldn’t be looking right back at me,” he radios back to me as he flips off the camera without looking.

  I laugh. Paul has always, and I do mean always, been a ladies’ man. No matter where we go, women will actually stop what they are doing to take in the sight of him. I can’t say that I blame them. He is very nice to look at. As far as ladies getting past the physical aspect of Paul and actually getting to know him, well, that’s where he draws the line.

  Watching him on camera, I notice he has a small sideways smile on his face, and his head is bobbing slightly to the music.

  Yup, Paul got some ass before he came into work.

  Shaking my head and laughing, I straighten up and finish getting ready to head out on the floor.

  Walking out on the floor always brings a combination of feelings for me. However, the pure adrenaline that encompasses this job takes center stage. A lot goes into making a place as safe as possible for the customers, and it all starts outside at the door. This club’s doorman is a good-looking frat guy named Jay. You know the type: he can get any girl’s attention. So when he turns on the charm, and the ladies come in the club, it’s only natural that the guys will follow. It is just human nature.

  Jay is laid back but takes his job seriously. Now when I say seriously, I mean once he wouldn’t let three girls in because they weren’t twenty-one, and their fake IDs were awful. He turned them away even after they offered to take him up to the DJ’s booth and give him what they said was an “earth moving blowjob.” That’s dedication to your job. I wouldn’t have believed it happened if Jay hadn’t turned on his mic and radioed the whole conversation to everyone that was on staff. Sometimes, we all need to laugh a little on the job to release some of the tension. After I went outside and confiscated their fake IDs, I informed them that they could stay and wait for the cops, or they could move on. To add a little dig to their already embarrassing situation, I told them that their daddies wouldn’t be very happy with them, and that seemed to take the wind out of their sails. On their way they went.

  After the doorman, there is the cover station. Shannon’s crazy ass wasn’t my hire, but she’s the sister of the owner, and word had it she had just adopted her tenth cat when Jacob asked her to come work for him. Brent, her bouncer, hates his station. He says she smells. I’ve gotten on him about being polite, but guys will be guys.

  Next comes coat and membership check. The lovely Sara is perched upon her stool and always has a smile on her face. Long, straight, blonde hair frames her oval face and bright-green eyes. I think just about every guy on staff has hit on or asked her out, but she plays for the same team, so they have all pretty much given up, except Dan, our incredible bar back. Whenever he isn’t running ice, kegs, or liquor, he is right next to Sara. I’ve heard they have become fast friends, but Dan is head over heels and secretly hopes he can change her preference in gender. The shit that comes out of his mouth is some of the most creative and funniest stuff I have ever heard. Good luck to him. I actually hope it works; they would be cute together.

  Walking into the main part of the club can be a bit overwhelming sometimes. For one, bodies are everywhere. They are packed in here like pickles. I sometimes think we sho
uld have hired more than the twenty guys we have, but they are trained, and they are ready.

  To the left side of the area is a giant U-shaped bar surrounding, what I’ve deemed, the alcohol island. No barstools are in sight because they can be mistaken for tools to mess up someone’s night. The lights always catch my eye. Every color you can think of flashes off the bar’s wood finish. Local artists’ artwork hang on the wall behind the bar in a huge case. This was my idea. Coming from a talented family of artists, I couldn’t think of a better way to get pieces sold and the artists’ names out to the locals. I smile every time I pass it and look up to see some of my family’s artwork hanging up there. I’ve heard they have sold a couple pieces. Tayler and her abstract; Austynn and her dots. I smile bigger.

  I take my usual spot on the other side of the bar where the bar and wall connect. I feel safer with the wall behind my back, and from this point of view, I can see just about everything and everyone other than those outside.

  As if he knew, Paul turns to the spot where I am standing.

  “How ya feeling?” Paul asks. I can hear his smile.

  “Rough, sore. You did it; why are you asking?”

  “You know why, May, so stop it.”

  “Yeah, yeah, hoping for a good night,” I say, changing the subject.

  “Yeah, yeah, me too. Watch section four. Four guys and two girls.” He is back to business.

  “Yup, already saw them.”

  “You are learning, May . . . wasn’t sure if you were going to catch that.”

  “Out,” is all I give him.

  I hear that same smile when he throws an “out” right back at me. Ass. Yeah, I saw section four alright, as soon as I walked in. The fourth cocktail table that lines the far wall is occupied by four guys and two girls. The girls, wearing too little clothing and way too much makeup, are putting on a show, and from the way the guys keep adjusting themselves, the slow grinding dance they are doing is working.