by Aubrey Cara
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“Wyatt is not nice. He’s a walking erection you looked more than happy to hop on.” I gasp in outrage, but the ass ignores me and keeps going. “And what is that shiii-stuff about you downplaying how smart you are?”
“Maybe I like being a bit of a mystery, and FYI, I do not want to hop on his anything. What the hell is your deal? If you have such a problem with me, why are you coming over tonight?”
“I don’t have a problem with you. I have a problem with you having a slew of problems and thinking it’s no problem to go out and date horny idiots while you’re still getting your shiiii-stuff together.”
“Oooh, careful there. You wouldn’t want to break one of your own rules.”
I’m not at all surprised when he growls at me for that. However, I’m shocked when my nipples pebble. His feral rumble seems to shoot tingles straight down to my special bits. It’s disconcerting. I lock my knees together hard. I refuse to acknowledge tingles.
Refuse.
The fire demon named Hank is not, not turning me on.
“Speaking of rules, princess, I think I’m adding on to the list. No dating.”
“That makes no sense. That rule is stupid. I’m not doing that.”
“That makes perfect sense. And you’ll adhere to my rules if you know what’s good for you.”
You and what army are going to make me? I silently say to myself, scowling at the buffoon. “Whatever. Why don’t you mosey on and let me get back to work?”
When Hank’s towering form leans over the desk, I fight the urge to shrink back in my seat. Why won’t he just stalk off like the lumbering beast he is? His cheeks are flushed as red as his beard, and his eyes are shooting sparks. He looks like he’s about to breathe fire. The muscles in his forearms are flexing like he’s holding himself back from grabbing me as he braces himself on the desk. Hell if I don’t notice he is all kinds of sexy angry.
“Careful, little girl.” The deep rumble of his voice is taunting. “You don’t want to be put over Daddy’s knee again, do you?”
All I can do is huff my indignation, my mouth opening and closing like a fish. My mind blanks and my panties flood remembering the last time I was over his lap. I can feel my face is all kinds of red.
No, I do not want to be put over Daddy’s anything, but why does just the thought of…no! No, no, no!
Giving me an appraising smirk, he says, “Huh, maybe you do. You never cease to surprise me, princess.” Chuckling, the asshole finally turns and walks out of the office. I try not to cringe at the truth in his words.
With a shaking hand, I open the desk’s left-hand drawer and pull out the pack of smokes John keeps there. It takes me three snicks of the lighter before I’m finally able to light my cigarette. Taking a long drag, I let the rich smoke fill my lungs. A modicum of tension leaves me as I exhale.
I know I’m breaking one of Mr. Buffoon’s cardinal rules, but I could give a shit. My body, my rules. I’m done with the ass. There is no way I can take his money. It would be like living under the reign of terror. Straightening my spine, I reason I’ll just have to figure something else out. I’m not going to let him be the boss of me, and I’m going to tell him that, too, just as soon as I see him.
Halfway done with my smoke, I’m feeling calm again when the object of my musings strolls back into the office. He stops in his tracks the second he sees me. His dark expression when he spots the smoke in my hand, is my only warning.
“Are you smoking?” His amber eyes snap with fire and brimstone as he rounds the corner of the desk, bearing down on me. It’s on the tip of my tongue to sass “obviously” when he snatches the cig out of my hand. Before I can react, he smashes it into the ashtray, then easily plucks me out of my seat and shoves me over the wide surface of the old desk.
Maybe it’s the uncomfortable feeling of cold wood and ledgers underneath me. My paralyzed brain finally comes back online with a vengeance, and I kick out right before his wide palm cracks down across my ass with stinging force.
“Ahhh! What the hell are you doing?” I shriek, trying to grab at the hand in the middle of my back effectively holding me down.
“It’s called a spanking, princess. This is what happens when you break my rules,” he says with a smack, smack to my ass.
“Don’t you dare!”
“I always dare.” This statement is punctuated by three more solid vicious swipes to my rump.
“You have no right. Ahh, dammit, that hurts!” Trying to squirm out of his hold only results in getting my ass smacked hard enough I go up on tiptoes. Shit, I swear under my breath gritting my teeth as he whaps me again.
“We had an agreement, or have you forgotten?”
“I’m not taking your money!”
“Too little, too late. We.” Smack. “Shook.” Smack. “On.” Smack. “It.” Smack.
“Ahhh! I’m unshaking. I’m unshaking!”
“Sorry princess, no takebacks,” the asshole says on a laugh.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” I’m outraged when I look back at him. A huge grin splits his damn face. Meanwhile, my poor ass is throbbing. I want to reach back and rub my rump, but the brute has my wrists pinned to the small of my back.
“You know, I believe I am.” The smiling bastard pulls me into a standing position then quickly grabs my wrists again when I try to hit him. “That was a warning. Next time you’ll get the real deal, young lady.”
“Real deal?” I sputter. That felt pretty real to me.
Unbelievably he plants, a kiss to the middle of my forehead, his beard scratching before he sits me back down. He cages me in, his hands braced the arms of my chair.
“Now,” he says. “Be a good girl and get some work done. No more smoke breaks.” With that, he tweaks my nose before grabbing the cigarettes and lighter from the corner of the desk and leaves the room wearing a huge grin.
What the hell just happened?
My ass tingles and throbs in a way that’s making me aware of a spreading heat. I’ve just been held down and spanked, and it turned me the hell on. Again. What’s worse, I’m pretty sure Mr. Buffoon knows it, too.
Oh god why do I find that hot?
I’m attracted to the man.
Like, eggs-are-dropping-from-my-ovaries-like-paratroopers-from-the-sky-on-D-Day attracted to the man. I drop my head, thumping it against the desk then twice more for good measure. Ugh, I have horrible taste in men.
I should date his good ole pal Wyatt just to spite Hank. And why not? It’s not like the great ox is interested in me. He’s made it quite clear what a bundle of crap he thinks I am. Not that I care. He can dislike me all he wants. So what if he is the first guy to ever take an instant dislike to me? I don’t like him, either.
My tiddly bits like him, and my tiddly bits are stupid. At one time, they liked Cody.
My tiddly bits know nothing, is the last thought I allow myself on the subject before I immerse myself back in numbers. Numbers are good. They make sense and don’t spontaneously spank people. And tonight, when the guys come over, I’m going to flirt and laugh at everything Wyatt says, because he has dimples, and I bet he doesn’t spank.
I am going to date. and I’m going to date Hank’s best friend. Raising both my middle fingers to the empty doorway, I stick out my tongue in an act of immature rebellion.
Take that, Hank Buchannan.
Glancing in my rearview mirror, I do a double take. I’ve been so caught up in pointedly not thinking about getting spanked by Hank—and focusing on how the hell I’m going to get through an evening with him in my house—I don’t immediately notice the big fancy black SUV trailing behind me.
I don’t exactly live in a built up area, and people’ round here have beat-up Pontiacs and Fords. Not Escalades.
I’m not sure how long they’ve been following me, but when I pull into my driveway they’re right behind me.
Taking a deep breath, I try to calm my rising anxiety. No r
eason to jump to conclusions. Maybe they’re lost. Yeah, because Escalades don’t come with GPS. Ugh, I have a sinking feeling a new level of hell is about to present itself to my life.
Sitting tight in my Jeep, I watch from my rear view mirror as a stocky man with a cowboy hat climbs out of the driver’s side door. Out of the passenger side comes a huge chubby guy with thinning hair, wearing a most unfortunate combo of skinny jeans and high tops.
Steeling my spine, I swing my door open and hop out. I might as well meet them head on. Besides I need to stop them before they reach the house and my little brother.
“Can I help you?” To keep my nervousness at bay, I’m clutching my keys so tight I can feel the metal cutting into my skin. I try to relax my grip a little.
“You can help me all right, beautiful girl.” The musclebound Latino cowboy says this giving me a once over that stops at my breasts and doesn’t go much higher.
Uneasy, I take a step back and raise my chin in indignation when he laughs at my telling move. “We’re looking for Dylan Dawson. You know where we can find him?”
“Not here,” I say, hoping like hell Dylan doesn’t pick this moment to pop out of the house. “What do you want with him?”
“He owes…a friend of ours some money.”
“We paid that,” I huff, outraged, before I can stop myself.
“You didn’t pay shit, or we wouldn’t be here.” The overgrown Backstreet Boy twangs.
“Yes, I did.”
“Boss man didn’t receive no payment. Who did you pay?”
“I didn’t exactly catch any names.”
“What did they look like?” This logical question comes from Cowboy Casanova who is still leering at me.
Dammit. I should have gone in despite Cody’s protests. “It was an apartment complex in Dixton. I gave my boyfriend the money and let him go in.”
“I hate to tell you, beautiful girl, but your boy paid the wrong guy.”
“No, that’s not possible.” But I know when it comes to Cody it is not only possible but probable. A sick feeling fills my stomach.
Midnight Cowboy raises a brow, and Mr. Chubby Boy Band snickers.
“Here,” he says handing me a black business card with gold lettering for Sugar Daddy’s Gentlemen’s Club, a strip club between Gibson and Dixton.
“What’s this?”
“You come in and see the boss, tonight. I bet he’ll be more than happy to work something out.” From his tone, it is crystal clear exactly how I can settle my brother’s debt.
I glance down the road leading up to my driveway. Hank and Wyatt are going to be here any minute.
“I can’t. Not tonight.” I’m more than a little anxious for them to leave, but I’m hoping it doesn’t show. “Tomorrow, first thing. I’ll be there.”
“Bossman really isn’t an early riser. You’ll be there tonight before midnight, or we come back.” The Latino cowboy gives me a patronizing wink before he and the bloated Backstreet Boy head to their Escalade.
I watch them leave, feeling a false sense of relief even as my gut clenches. We’ve been granted a very temporary reprieve but tonight someone is going to have to pay the piper, and I know it’s going to be me. It’s always me. A weight settles on my shoulders as I trudge up to the house.
“What did those guys want?” Dylan is anxiously waiting for me. It is obvious he peeked out the window and saw me talking to those thugs but didn’t move to come outside. Seeing him still covered in bruises that have turned a sickly green and brown, I can’t help but feel grateful he hadn’t come out and made things any worse.
“Money. Cody double crossed us. Whoever he paid wasn’t the person you owe money to.”
All the blood drains from Dylan’s face, making his bruises sickly stand out from his pale skin. Part of me wants to protect him from the truth, but he’s the one who got us into this mess. Unfortunately, it is still going to be up to me to get us out of it. There’s nothing Dylan can do to help now.
“What are we going to do?”
“We are going to clean up the house. Some guys from work are coming over.”
“Candi, you know what I mean. Those guys—”
“Can wait until later. Don’t worry, Dylan. I’m going to take care of it.”
Pain flashes across Dylan’s face, making him appear so young and broken. “We’re not kids anymore. You don’t have to take care of everything yourself. I can fix this.”
But I don’t believe that, and he doesn’t either. He is in way over his head, and we both know it. “And get yourself killed? I’m going to take care of it, and everything’s gonna be fine.”
“Great,” he snarks with a sarcastic bite as he walks away. “I just love how everything is always fine.”
I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to throw something heavy at the ungrateful ass’s head. Maybe things weren’t ever fine, but at least I didn’t decide to become the world’s shittiest drug dealer.
“You know, at some point you’re going to have to let me help,” he says turning.
“At some point, you’re going to have to learn how to be helpful, then.” I’m swamped with absolute remorse the second the words are out of my mouth. Dylan’s lips draw into a straight line of hurt and frustration. “I’m sorry, Dyl, I didn’t mean that.”
“Yeah, you did,” he says, slinking away. He doesn’t even slam his bedroom door. It’s quietly shut in defeat at the end of the hall, and the silence that follows is deafening.
6
HANK
“You’re in an awfully chipper mood. You finally get that dead bug out of your ass?” Wyatt asks, his cocksure smile spread across his face.
We’re on our way to Candi’s house, and I have to admit I am feeling chipper. Spanking Candice has really improved my mood. Hell, just the prospect of spanking Candi again makes me smile like a loon. The afternoon practically flew by, and the prospect of seeing her is not all that bad.
“I’m pretty happy myself,” he says. “Candi’s hot.”
That knocks a dent in my happy. “Yeah man, I wanted to talk to you about that. Candice is in a weird place, right now. I don’t think it’s a good time for her to be dating.”
“Dude, when is it ever a bad time for a hot chick to be dating?”
“Did you just dude me?”
“It was called for. You’re being ridiculously big brother here. You got a bone for her or something?”
My grip turns to a stranglehold on the steering wheel as I give a noncommittal shrug. “She’s not really my type. I’m just looking out for her.”
“Ha! Now I know you’re full of shit. You’d have to be dead and dickless for that girl not to be your type. But if you want to play all coy, that’s fine. It just narrows the playing field to numero uno.”
“I’m trying to remember...why did I bring you to Texas with me, again?”
“So you could be close to greatness.”
“Yeah, no. That’s definitely not the reason.” Truth is, Wyatt’s like a brother to me. It’s not completely his fault I now want to smash his face in. I was dreading coming back here to Gibson and wanted someone familiar to have my back if shit goes sideways. I doubt it will. Slater made it sound like things were all but wrapped up.
I’ve been doing contracted assignments for the government since my military days ended rather abruptly. I worked my first assignment with Slater, years ago. He’s been deep undercover for the DEA for the past few years. Now he’s posing as the owner of The Painted Hussy, a strip club a county over. He’s been working to take down a guy named Maxwell Huntington, a drug smuggler who has a side business in the flesh trade and also happens to be a strip club owner.
Slater’s backup, Phillipe Martinez, a guy who runs Club Muchachas, met and lost his shit for one of his club’s dancers. She’s about to go into labor with his kid any day, and Slater needs someone he can rely on. That’s why I’m here. Plus, I have a legit reason to be in Texas. I’m not some planted agent who might fall under suspicion. I�
��m just a guy who’s come home to work his dad’s bar and brought his best buddy.
A best buddy who’d better keep his dick in his pants.
I pull into Candi’s driveway behind her Renegade and cut the engine. The house is underwhelming and has an air of decay. The sagging roof is a patchwork of places where there obviously were leaks and they replaced a few shingles at a time. The wooden siding is so worn through it’s crumbling in spots.
Before Wyatt gets out of the 4Runner, I stop him with a hand on his arm. “I mean it man. She’s—”
“A big girl, who can take care of herself. Unless you’re calling dibs.”
Fuck. For a wild moment, I think about doing it just to keep Wyatt away from her. Instead, I clench my jaw and remain silent.
“Suit yourself, man,” Wyatt says getting out and grabbing the grocery bag from the back, and I wonder why the hell I don’t just call dibs on Candi. I did see her first. Recalling how much I’ve seen of her, I’m getting a semi and have to redirect my thoughts.
When Candi greets us at the door, I can’t help but think her smile seems forced. And when we step inside, I can’t help but think she wasn’t exaggerating. Her house isn’t much. The furniture is old and beat up, the carpet stained and bare in spots. The house has the kind of musty smell no amount of cleaning will get rid of.
“Hey Dyl, come on out and meet my friends.”
A stocky young man with a shock of dark hair but eyes just like Candice, joins us in the kitchen as we’re taking out the groceries. It’s obvious the kid’s been beat to shit.
Candice introduces us, and Wyatt holds out his hand, playing the diplomat per usual.
“Hey, man. Hate to see the other guy,” Wyatt says in joking reference to all the kid’s bruises.
“Yeah, football accident.”
Wyatt and I exchange a quick look. Earlier, Candice told us the kid was in a car accident, and the discrepancy hasn’t slid past either of us.
“Must have been a rough game.”
“Did you bring charcoal?” Candice says over brightly from the sliding glass door to the back patio. “I think we’re all out.”
