1001 Dark Nights: Bundle Fourteen

by Kristen Ashley

  My hand absently rubs my now soft belly. Once full of life and promise, and now, completely void. And through all this, I feel . . . nothing.

  One

  20 years later . . .

  Jonah

  Well, shit. I didn’t think the headache to fuck all headaches could possibly get worse. Between the strobe lights and the crappy music, my brain feels like it’s twenty-four hours off a three-day bender. The stench of stale beer, sweat, and perfume swirl in the air, topping off my list of cranial irritants.

  And add to that the gang of silverback gorillas at the table behind me. They grunt and holler at the stage, likely beating their chests for attention. Amateurs. I turn and give the frat-boy pussies a look that has them all sitting with their mouths sealed shut.

  My head is going to explode, and it’s putting me in a fucked-up mood. The only reason I agreed to come to the strip club was the hope that pounding a few beers might take the edge off the pile-driver in my head. So far, not so good.

  With one long pull from the bottle, I check out the half-naked girl on stage in front of me. She’s a typical Vegas stripper: bleach blond hair, dark tanned skin, and huge fake tits. There’s an identical one for every slot machine on the strip.

  “That chick’s been eyeball-fucking you all night.” Blake yells to be heard over the music. “You gonna hit that?”

  I glare at my training partner. After all, it’s his dumb ass that talked me into coming here tonight.

  “May as well.” Getting rid of this headache is my first priority. Since the booze isn’t helping, maybe some female intervention will. “But only if she’s off soon. I’ve got to get out of here. This place is killing my head.” I attempt to rub the pain away with my fingertips.

  Blake raises an eyebrow along with one side of his mouth. “I better get going too. I need my beauty sleep if I’m going to keep kicking your ass.”

  I give him the backside of my middle finger.

  His knee connecting to my temple in training today is what got me in this brain-thumping predicament. I make a mental note to pay him back with a solid ball shot next time we’re in the octagon.

  “Right. You kicked my ass.” I tilt my head, indicating his fresh black eye and bloodied lip.

  Maybe I should feel worse about flipping the switch on him as I did. But he of all people should know better. He’s seen what happens when I let the monster out. If I get hit hard enough, my brain goes into protection mode. I go feral. I can’t help it.

  I’ve learned to control it during training, for the most part. But Blake’s knee hit hard out of nowhere and set me off. Luckily, I was able to rein it in before I really hurt the bastard.

  “Hey, sexy,” a seductive voice purrs in my ear.

  Feminine hands run from my biceps, down my chest, and still on my abdomen. I turn to see the blond stripper from the stage resting her chin on my shoulder, biting on her cherry-red bottom lip. She slides her hands back up, skirting around to my front. Her long, naked legs straddle my thighs and she leans in close, placing her assets at eye level.

  “I think I know you.” Her hips undulate in front of me to the beat of the music.

  I yawn. “Is that right? And where is it you think you know me from?”

  I study her face, trying to pull up something familiar from my memory and coming up empty. There’s no way I’ve had sex with her before. I would have remembered. And if I had, that would have a direct effect on how this night will end. I do not hit the same honey pot twice.

  She allows her weight to drop so that she’s sitting straddled on my lap. I feel the familiar stir of arousal as my body responds to the heat and friction, but nothing else. I know her type. They’re all the same: fake—from their practiced, ditzy voices to their ass implants. These women are good for one thing, and she seems more than ready to go. Perfect.

  “I’ve seen you on all the billboards.”

  My eyes roll to the ceiling then squeeze shut at the throbbing in my still-aching head. I don’t have time for small talk. “You want to get out of here?”

  Her face lights up and her eyes sparkle. “Sure.”

  What a surprise.

  “Can we go to your place?” She’s practically bouncing with excitement.

  I can almost see the dollar signs flash in her eyes, she’s so transparent. This chick is all about status, the money, and the right to brag that she bagged a fighter. She’s looking to snag someone with cash that she can lead around by his dick. Her porn-star looks and willing sexual prowess turned on so bright, she’s hoping to blind me so I’ll think I’m in love. So fucking predictable.

  “No. Yours.”

  I’d never take a woman to my place. Seems to me if a guy brings a woman home she suddenly feels like she can set up house. Before he knows it, she’s making breakfast and stuffing his bathroom drawers with tampons. Poor shmuck looking for a one-night stand finds himself with a live-in wife. When she finally does leave, the guy’s fucked because she knows where he lives. He never calls, but she doesn’t care. She’ll just show up at his house or, even worse, drive by or park across the street and stalk him.

  No thanks.

  “Fine.” Her reply sounds deflated. The excitement tarnished, but I can tell, this chick doesn’t give up. “I’ll meet you out front. Give me five minutes?” She perks up, her thin eyebrows high on her forehead, anticipating my answer.

  I nod.

  With a long, firm grind of her pelvis on my crotch, she disappears into the crowd. Blake has his tongue down the throat of a busty redhead.

  “Hey, bro. I’m gonna bounce.” I say it loud enough for him to hear.

  He doesn’t break his lip-lock, but waves me off with one hand while skillfully sliding a fifty-dollar bill into the girl’s g string. And they say they aren’t prostitutes.

  I down the dregs of my beer, throw some cash on the table, and head for the door. The club is busy for a Tuesday night, and the bar is three-deep, standing room only. People move out of my way a little quicker than usual, probably due to the don’t-fuck-with-me look this headache is giving my face.

  Shoving through the club’s front door, I’m hit with desert air and cigarette smoke. The flashing neon sign makes everyone’s skin look pink. I scan the parking lot and consider bolting. Maybe a hot shower and good night’s sleep are all I need.

  Just then, a small hand grabs my elbow. Too late. The stripper looks up at me from under her eyelashes. She licks her lips and presses her tits against my arm. She slides her hand into my palm and laces her fingers with mine. “I hope you’re ready for some fun. One night with me and you’ll be begging—”

  I pull my hand from hers. “Where’s your car? I’ll follow you.”

  Her eyes flash with something that looks like disappointment.

  Chicks and their inflated ideas about romance. This isn’t a date. This isn’t an all-night sexual rendezvous. This is simple: Itch. Scratch.

  She nods her head in the direction of her car. Feeling a little bad for my brush off, I walk her to it. I’m not a complete asshole.

  She settles in and turns the ignition. I take off to my truck, telling myself that going home with . . . Ah hell, I don’t even know her name.

  Oh well. Won’t be the first time I bang a nameless face.

  It’s a short drive to her apartment. I back my truck into a spot in the visitor’s section to ensure a quick departure. She waits for me at the bottom of the stairs.

  “I’m right up here.” She runs her hand down my chest hooking my jeans with her fingertips.

  “Don’t.” I remove her hand.

  Her eyes narrow before they soften into something more sexual. It’s as if she wants to be pissed at me, but doesn’t want to lose the prize.

  “If control is your thing, sexy, just say the word.” She spins around and I follow her up to her place.

  Once inside, she throws her bag on the couch and walks back to what I assume is her bedroom. I head towards the glowing clock in her kitchen. It’s almost mi
dnight. Pulling a condom from my wallet, I vow to be home and in bed by one.

  I walk down the short hallway to the room with the light on. She’s lying on the bed, naked. The visual alone has my body charged and ready.

  “You want to hit the light?” I work the button fly of my jeans.

  Her face twists in anger. “What is it with you?” She props herself up on her elbows. “No touching. No foreplay. No lights! What do you think this is? Some quickie with the stripper?”

  My hands freeze at my fly. Is she kidding? Of course that’s what this is. I shrug. No use in leading the girl on. “Yeah.”

  Her eyes sweep my body from head to toe then back again. “Whatever.” She rolls to the side and clicks the light, plunging us in darkness.

  Much better.

  I focus on the task before me: Meeting a need, no connection, no feeling anywhere above my waist. A goal set before me, a finish line that I’m racing to breach so I can go home and get some sleep.

  She moves for a kiss, and I turn away. She tries to engage me in dirty talk. It’s easy to ignore. Finally, she gives up, allowing our bodies to take what they want.

  Still completely clothed, except for the fly of my jeans, I stand from her bed to leave. This girl probably has something more to offer a guy. But that guy ain’t me.

  Just the thought of having some needy chick hanging on my arm, making me buy her crap, taking up my time with her petty issues about girl shit makes me shiver. I need to get the hell out of here.

  “Will you call me, you know, if you ever want to hang out again?” Her small voice reaches my now-sated brain.

  Fuck. This is uncomfortable.

  I grab my phone and press a few buttons. “What’s your number?” And your name. She rattles off seven digits, and I pretend to program them into my phone.

  “Right, I got it. Go to sleep.”

  I have a Jiminy Cricket moment with my conscience. “Thanks for . . . that.”

  She mumbles something I can’t quite make out and I slip from her room.

  ~*~

  Raven

  “Holy crud.” Shooting straight up in bed, I cover my ears. “Stupid thing.” I pound quiet my obnoxious alarm.

  Usually waking on my own, I forget how that thing buzzes like a swarm of bees with megaphones glued to their butts. Next paycheck I’m clock radio shopping.

  The heels of my hands dig into my eye sockets to rub away my sleepy haze. Why did I stay up so late? I swing my legs over the side of the bed and push up with a big, feline stretch.

  Coffee. That’s what I need. I step in the direction of my kitchenette and kick the large wooden box on the floor.

  “Ouchie, ouchie, ouchie.” Cradling my injured foot, I give the darn box my most evil glare, the evidence of what kept me up so late, punishing me still.

  The box is full of every Car and Driver magazine I own. I got sucked into some old issues last night and couldn’t put them down until I kept falling asleep and face planting into the pages.

  I shove the box under my bed and stir together my morning pick me up. A few teaspoons of freeze dried granules, cream, and sugar. Voila. A perfectly crappy cup of coffee.

  I plop on the edge of my bed and gaze around my small but cozy home: four walls, one window, and one door. The doors to my bathroom and closet are nothing more than shower curtains on rods. Not my first choice, but the rent is cheap, and it’s close to work—like right above it.

  Work. I check the time.

  “Twenty minutes? Plenty of time.”

  After sipping my coffee, I strip out of my PJ’s and jump in the shower. The heat from the shower combined with the caffeine help to chase away the last of my drowsiness.

  Wrapped in a towel, I open the top drawer of my dresser and gaze at my bra and panty collection. “Good morning, my pretties.”

  It’s my little addiction. Over fifty percent of my paycheck goes toward my balance at Victoria’s Secret. Vivid memories of my mom folding her laundry flicker before my eyes. Yes, her lingerie was appealing, but the reason why she—no. I shake the memories loose. Not going there.

  My eyes scan each perfectly matching set. What color do I feel like today?

  “How about you?” I grab the purple satin and lace duo and slide them on. Something about wearing beautifully sexy stuff under my uniform always brings a smile to my face.

  With a quick dry of my hair, I pile it on top of my head. Throwing on a tank top, I slide my blue uniform coveralls up over my hips, tying the long sleeves around my waist. A swipe of mascara and a couple passes of cherry Chapstick and my look is complete.

  Keys in hand, along with a small can of cat food, I’m out the door. Hopping down the stairs to the alley, I scrunch up my nose at the smell of rot and debris from the dumpsters.

  “Good morning, Dog.” In a crouch, I pet the black alley cat that showed up at my door months ago.

  “You hungry?” I pop the lid and place the can of food on the bottom stair, smiling at his answering meow. Dog scarfs it down, as he does every morning, and I rub behind his ears.

  “I still can’t believe you like it out here.” I won’t try to take him inside. Last time he clawed my arms until they were bloody. Whatever terrible thing happened to him ruined him for others. I can relate.

  “I’ve got to go to work. I’ll see you tonight.”

  Leaving Dog to his breakfast, I round the corner of the building to face the garage front by the bay doors. Through the window, I see Guy sitting at his desk with a grim look on his face. Not unusual for him.

  I throw open the door, hearing the bell jingle above head and getting Guy’s attention.

  “Mornin’, Ray.”

  “Good morning, Guy. How was your night?”

  “Shit! Got sucked into some stupid show about a bachelor and some bimbos who were all trying to get his rose. Those girls were pathetic. And drunk!”

  I giggle at Guy’s retelling the episode of The Bachelor, one of the few shows I get on my tiny television.

  “Watched that stupid show for an hour, and that sorry sack still couldn’t make up his mind.”

  “That’s what happens when you give a guy a choice out of twenty-five beautiful women. Why choose one when he could have them all?” I shrug and grab the schedule for today from his desk.

  “Them all? Hell, I couldn’t stand to listen to just one of them talk for more than five minutes. They’re irritatin’.”

  I didn’t have the heart to remind him that he did, in fact, watch the entire hour-long show. How irritating could they have been?

  He points to the schedule in my hand. “You got a couple oil changes waiting for you in the bay. You do what you can. I got Leo comin’ in to close.”

  “No Mickey today?”

  “Nah, he’s got some shit going on at home he needs to deal with.”

  I throw my backpack into a locker.

  “That’s too bad. I hope everything’s okay.”

  “Oh, he’ll be fine. Little shit always works through stuff. Even when we were kids, our mom always said Mickey could shine his way out of shit storm. Anyway, better for you to work solo since you’ll be taking over the place someday.” He gives me a wink and goes back to the papers on his desk.

  Butterflies dance in my stomach when I think about owning this garage. Guy has no children, and he’s the closest thing I have to a father. He and his brother Mickey took over Guy’s Garage from Guy senior when he got sick. Mickey’s kids have fancy city jobs and want nothing to do with this place, so they’ve asked me to take it when they retire.

  “I’ll be in the bay if you need me,” I call over my shoulder while heading out.

  I take a deep breath, allowing the smell of gasoline and oil to soothe me. The garage has always been my sanctuary. I plug in the boom box and hear Stevie Wonder’s “Superstition” fill the silence.

  Lost in my work, buried under the hood of a ’99 Ford Explorer, the rumble of a powerful engine draws my attention. A deep bass beat accompanies the engine’s
growl as it pulls up to the bay. I attempt to figure out what kind of car it is just by listening, one of my favorite games. My guess is a large—no, a very large—pickup truck. American made.

  I hear rather than see Guy head out to greet the truck’s driver. The engine and bass go quiet, and I faintly make out a deep voice. The low vibration sends a tingle down my body and goose bumps race across my skin. What in the heck was that?

  I check my forehead. No fever. Hm.

  “Ray! Ray, get out here!” Guy’s beckoning call yanks me from my thoughts.

  I grab a towel to wipe my hands.

  “Ray! Now!”

  Jeez, he’s impatient.

  Walking through the bay doors into the Las Vegas sun, my eyes adjust to the bright light.

  A monstrous, black, Ford FX4 pickup looms out front. Ah-ha! I was right. It’s a twin turbo, kitted out with thirty-five inch wheels, black rims, and a six-inch lift. The limo-tinted windows and black headlights make it look alive. Whoever drives this beast has a passion I can relate to. My gaze swings to the truck’s owner to commend his choice in automobile.

  “Nice Ford—” I’m frozen, feet glued to the asphalt, voice stuck in my throat, and gawking at the Universal Fighting League’s local-celebrity-hot-guy, Jonah Slade. At my work!

  He’s well over six feet tall, six-five if I had to guess. A jersey-like, sleeveless shirt hangs artfully from his broad shoulders. His well-muscled arms are covered with brilliantly colored tattoos that beckon to be touched. My fingers itch to trace each swirl, to touch him to see if he’s real.

  He clears his throat, making me lift my gaze to his face while continuing my appraisal. He’s wearing a black baseball hat backwards with dark, almost black hair peeking out around his ears. His strong, square jaw frames the fullest, most sensual pair of lips I’ve ever seen on a man.

  “Ray, this is Jonah Slade.”