Sinful Rewards 8

by Cynthia Sax

  I laugh, enchanted by his playfulness. “You’re an arrogant asshole.”

  Nicolas chuckles. “So you keep telling me.”

  He releases my hip and turns to Blaine. The two men shake hands, their words too softly spoken to hear. Bodyguards wait behind Nicolas’s friend. He must be important, wealthy, at risk. Are his men trained by the Organization also?

  My thoughts return to Hawke. I wonder what my former marine is doing, if he’s safe, happy, thinking of me.

  “A billion dollars, Bee.” Cyndi flies toward me, my best friend interrupting my musings. “You’re one expensive whore.” She hugs me hard. “Not that anyone will believe those rumors anymore or trust the gossip spreaders.” She meets my gaze, no hint of sadness in her green eyes. “Did you see Angel’s face when Rainer made that offer? The bitch almost swallowed that wicked tongue of hers.”

  Cyndi won’t forgive Angel, not this time. I glance at the tall blonde. Angel appears dumbfounded, as though wondering what the fuck just happened. There’s a gap between her and the rest of the crowd, no one wishing to associate with her.

  She’s an outcast as we are.

  I gaze at my best friend. No, Angel isn’t like us. Cyndi and I have each other.

  Nicolas returns to my side, his friend having disappeared into the darkness. “Are you ready?” My billionaire links his fingers with mine, an action noted by Cyndi.

  I brush away my pang of guilt. Holding hands with Nicolas isn’t betraying Hawke. I hook arms with Cyndi, proving this point to myself.

  “We’re ready,” I state.

  Chapter Seven

  THE THREE GOLIATHS, dressed in black blazers, black T-shirts, black dress pants, and yes, black army boots, standing at the front door look familiar. On a whim, I salute them. The men immediately straighten, click their heels together, and tap their fingers against their foreheads, returning the military greeting.

  Nicolas lifts one of his eyebrows.

  “Bee’s been drafted in the birdman’s army,” Cyndi declares. “His people are everywhere, so I wouldn’t mess with her if I were you.” She flounces into the club, bypassing the long line, her warning to Nicolas escalating my misgivings.

  Friends can hold hands. I glance behind me. Mack has his phone pressed against his ear, his lips moving. I suspect he’s tattling to Hawke.

  Which is okay. I tilt my chin upward as I enter the irritatingly strobe-light-illuminated building. Because I haven’t done anything wrong.

  Techno music pulses. Throngs of people dressed in designer slut gear gyrate, overpriced drinks in their hands. My view comprises of bouncing breasts and suit-clad backs, the women tall, the men even taller.

  “I see Cole,” Cyndi squeals. Before I can respond, she throws herself enthusiastically into the crowd, abandoning me as she always does.

  I cling to Nicolas’s hand as he weaves through the space, the masses parting before him as though he’s Moses of the nightlife. One woman dares to touch him. He tilts his head and a man in black removes her from the building.

  Every once in a while, Nicolas stops, waves at a frosted-glass column or a tiny oblong table or a fully staffed bar. His lips move and pride straightens his spine. Unable to hear a word he’s saying, I nod, trying to appear suitably impressed, a smile fixed to my face.

  It’s a lie. I’m not impressed. This is a club. All clubs appear the same to me. They’re crammed and noisy and stressful. My head pounds to the rhythm of the music.

  I glance back at Mack. If Dawg was here, he’d position me in a quiet corner, blocking me from hostiles, keeping me safe until Hawke arrived. Mack lowers his eyebrows. I widen my eyes, trying to appear as pitiful and as needing of his protection as possible.

  It must have worked because Mack pushes his way toward Nicolas. They talk, their heads bent together. They look back at me. I do my best puppy dog imitation, having learned this tactic from Cyndi. Nicolas nods and we move through the people-packed space.

  A man bumps against me, flattening my right foot, the foot already sporting the damaged toenail. Pure unadulterated agony shoots up my leg, fireworks exploding in my brain. I stumble. My grip on Nicolas’s hand is the only reason I keep upright.

  Mack tosses the man to the side, and the crowd stupidly cheers. Another woman rushes to take the man’s place, splashing cold apple-scented alcohol over my shoulder.

  Oh my God. My heart races wildly as I squeeze Nicolas’s fingers, holding on to him, my sole lifeline in a sea of madness. I’ll be trampled. Mack puts one protective arm around me, shielding me from the drunken idiots, and I stagger forward, my gaze fixed on my billionaire’s suit-clad back. If I lose sight of him, I won’t make it.

  I concentrate on placing one aching foot in front of the other. Hawke survived combat conditions in Iraq. I can survive Nicolas’s club. We walk and walk and walk. How damn big is this place?

  Finally, we arrive at a door. Nicolas waves his passcard over a security panel and ushers me into a luxurious office. The door closes behind Mack and there’s blessed silence, the soundproofing in the room impressive.

  A huge frosted glass desk dominates the space, two crystal glasses and an unsmoked cigar set on its surface. The chairs are black mesh and modern. Slashes of black paint on unframed white canvas hang on the walls. The overhead lighting is cool.

  Nicolas’s office looks nothing like his penthouse, the varying styles confusing me. “I didn’t expect your office to look like this.” My ears ring and my foot throbs with pain.

  His forehead furrows with thought lines. “It matches the rest of the club.”

  “Your penthouse is very different,” I explain.

  “My penthouse matches the rest of the complex,” Nicolas says as though I’ve made a silly observation, as though everyone matches his private spaces to the decor of the building.

  He shows guests nothing of his true self, safeguarding his soul from possible pain. Yet he shared everything with me—his deepest darkest secrets, his hidden shame, his hopes, his dreams.

  I gaze up at my billionaire, only now realizing how much he trusts me.

  “I’m honored to be your friend, Nicolas,” I say softly.

  “I’m a terrible friend.” Crimson streaks across his cheekbones. “You can make your call here.” He pries my fingers away from his palm.

  “Okay.” I nod, reluctantly releasing my real estate mogul, allowing him to emotionally retreat. Making a call must have been the excuse Mack gave him.

  “I have to work.” Nicolas slides his hands over my bare shoulders, his skin warm and smooth. “Your bodyguard will stay with you. There’s a table waiting for you in the VIP area when you’re done.”

  I must leave this room eventually. Disappointment weighs on me. “Thank you.”

  Nicolas looks at me, his brown eyes soft, a rare vulnerability on his gorgeous face. I summon a bright smile, ignoring Mack’s scowl and the agony in my toe, focusing on my lonely billionaire, on his unspoken needs.

  We don’t speak. There’s no need to say anything. Nicolas drifts his fingers along my arms, up and down, up and down, a comforting caress, laden with meaning. He’s here for me if I ever need him as a friend. I’m not alone.

  Nicolas presses his lips to my forehead. “I’m glad you came tonight.”

  We exchange another heated glance. Then he turns, strides across the room, and exits without another word or a backward glance.

  That’s his way. I stare at the closed door, bemused. He dislikes good-byes as much as I do. I slide my gaze to Mack.

  The bodyguard raises both of his eyebrows. He doesn’t have to say a word. I see the disapproval in his eyes, the judgment in his face, and it compounds the shame in my heart.

  “Nicolas is a friend,” I mumble.

  Mack’s laugh holds no humor. “Yeah, I always kiss Prick and hold his hand too.”

  I glower at him, not appreciating his sarcasm. “He kissed me on the forehead.”

  “Because you’re too damn short,” Hawke’s man retorts. “H
e couldn’t reach your lips.”

  “I’m not short. I’m average-sized.” I hobble over to the guest chair. “And if I liked Nicolas as more than a friend, don’t you think I would have taken the billion dollars?”

  “True. True.” Mack nods, his shoulders lowering. “Fuck. I almost took the billion dollars, and I don’t swing that way.”

  He studies me and I squirm, suspecting he can read me as easily as his boss does.

  “Hawke would die for you.” The bodyguard shares a truth I already knew. “That’s not a shitload of money, but it’s something.”

  “It’s a big something,” I agree.

  “Give the boss a call, reassure him you’re still his girl,” Mack advises. “I’ll wait right outside the door. Come out when you’re ready.”

  “That might be never.” I drop my gaze. “I’m not a fan of the club scene.”

  This confession pulls a genuine laugh from the big man’s lips. “That’s fuckin’ obvious to everyone except your rich friend.” Mack opens the door and a blast of noise razes the quiet. “Take your time.” The closing door returns the tranquility.

  I should take my time. I should delay my call as long as possible, clinging to that excuse to remain in Nicolas’s office. But I need to hear Hawke’s voice, missing my former marine with an ache rivaling the pain in my toe. Only he can make sense of this crazy night.

  I scroll through my phone’s database and press his number, wishing he were here. He’d take me into his arms, surround me with muscle and warmth, providing much-needed sanctuary.

  “Don’t leave the club until I get there,” Hawke answers on the second ring, sounding as unhappy as I feel.

  “Will that be soon?” I sink into one of Nicolas’s guest chairs, the seat deliciously soft and welcoming, tempting me to stay in this office forever. “Because I don’t like it here,” I whisper, covering my lips with my hand.

  “Did you see something that made you uncomfortable?” Hawke’s voice roughens.

  “I can’t see anything at all,” I confess. “It must be supermodels-drink-free night. Everyone is abnormally tall.”

  This doesn’t draw the expected chuckle. My military man is unnervingly serious. “Is that all?”

  “No.” I prop my aching foot on the other guest chair. My beautiful Louboutins are scuffed. I rub the dirt off the black leather. “Someone stomped on my foot, the one with the damaged toenail. I’ll lose it for certain now, and then I won’t be able to wear sandals for the rest of the summer.”

  There’s a pause and I realize what I’ve done. I’m whiny about losing toenails and he’s dealing with one of his life-threatening FUBAR situations.

  “Are you safe?” I press the cool phone case against my heated skin. “Do you need help? I can borrow a laptop or tablet from Nicolas and look at surveillance footage for you.” I wouldn’t ever have to leave the office.

  “Nicolas has done enough for one night.” Hawke is angry and I don’t know why. “You were the center of attention. Everyone was watching you.”

  What the hell did Mack tell him?

  “It wasn’t a sexy type of attention,” I explain. “They were judging Cyndi and me harshly. Angel made a scene. I tried to run, but Nicolas wouldn’t allow me to escape.” I take a deep breath, dreading my military man’s reaction to the rest of the story. “He offered me a billion dollars to have sex with him.”

  “And you refused because you’re not that type of girl,” Hawke replies. He hasn’t called me love or sweetheart, not once during our conversation. I’m the person he’s furious with, and I don’t know how to fix us.

  “That’s not why I refused.” I’m a pervert. If Hawke had offered me a billion dollars, I would have taken it, been his prostitute for the evening.

  But we won’t ever play those kinky games. He doesn’t have any money to spare.

  Hawke sighs. “I’ll get there as soon as I can, Belinda.” He ends the call without uttering another word.

  I stare at the screen. Hawke didn’t tell me to call if I needed him.

  Because he no longer cares.

  I touch the dog tags around my neck. He has walked away from me emotionally. His physical departure will follow. He’s leaving me as all of the men in my life have left me. I know this in my splintered soul.

  Damn him. My heart and toe ache. He made me care for him, ensuring he inflicted maximum pain. How could he do this to me? My stomach churns, bile clawing its way up my throat, and I want to run, flee this agony.

  I can’t leave the club. Drunken club rats will trample me. I can’t face Nicolas or Mack or Hawke. My gaze drifts to the crystal tumblers set on the billionaire’s desk. I can’t face them sober, I mentally amend.

  I rummage through Nicolas’s desk drawers and find a decanter of an amber liquor I can’t identify. It doesn’t matter about the taste, as long as it eases my emotional and physical pain, stopping my impending implosion. I search the space from carpet to ceiling, and I’m unable to locate clean glasses.

  Fuck it. I transfer two fingers of the alcohol into one of the dirty tumblers. Being exposed to some stranger’s germs no longer has the power to disgust me.

  Much.

  I rub the hem of my skirt over the rim of the glass, hesitating, aware that this is the way human race-ending viruses spread. Having watched a gazillion disaster movies, I know how global epidemics work.

  ’Course in a movie, a hero would rush to my rescue. In reality, Hawke, my hero, doesn’t care if I live or die.

  Fuck him. Fuck the world. I toss the drink back and cough, my throat burning and my eyes watering. Shit. This is strong stuff. A warmth spreads over my torso.

  Yeah, warmth is good. I pour myself another drink and down it as quickly as the first. A numbness replaces the warmth.

  That’s even better. I finish one more glass of Nicolas’s mysterious alcohol. The tumbler falls from my fingers and bounces on the thick carpet, the crystal splitting light into pretty rainbows.

  I peel my shoes away from my feet, no longer feeling my toes. I don’t need toes. I don’t need shoes. I don’t need anything.

  Curling up in the guest chair, I rest my increasingly heavy head on my bare knees. I’m supposed to be doing something for Cyndi, but I can’t remember what this something is. She’ll be mad at me too. I rub my fingers over my damp cheeks. Everyone is mad at me.

  My ears ring, the noise growing progressively louder. I stop worrying about Cyndi, Hawke, everyone else, my vision pixelating into tiny squares of color, the room shifting under my seated ass. Oh my God. I close my eyes. That last glass of alcohol was a bad idea. My body floats for one, two, three breaths, and my world goes black.

  Time passes. I don’t know how many minutes or hours or days I’ve been unconscious. It’s enough time to take the edge off my drunkenness, not long enough to restore me to full sobriety.

  My phone buzzes in my lap. I smile. It must be Hawke. He’s forgiven me.

  “Hello? Hello?” I mumble into the phone. No one answers. I gaze at the screen. Oh shit. That’s because I have a text message.

  Friendly: Go to private room #3 and strip in front of the glass. Good girls get rewarded.

  Friendly, I’m almost certain, is Nicolas. I have no idea why he’s continuing these challenges. There’s no possibility of a romantic relationship between us.

  But what the hell. I stagger to my feet, my legs spongy. I’m a good girl and I deserve a damn reward simply for surviving tonight. I wander toward the door. It takes two attempts to open it because the doorknob keeps moving.

  Mack waits outside. He gazes down at me and his eyes widen.

  “I need . . . I need . . . ” I blink, trying to collect my thoughts, holding on to the door for dear life. “I need to go to private room number three.”

  “You’re in no fuckin’ shape to go anywhere.” Mack moves directly in front of me, blocking my exit. “Where are your shoes?” He’s like a door himself, big and square and big. This thought makes me smile.

  I
look up, up, up, my body tilting backward. Mack hooks one of his arms around me, keeping me upright. “I have to go.” I hold up my phone. “Those are my orders, soldier.”

  “Where the fuck is Hawke?” Mack mutters, swinging me into his arms.

  “Not again.” I hang over his shoulder as he marches through the crowded club. “I’m always being picked up in bars.” I hiccup, the motion making me dizzy. “You won’t let me fall, will you?” I gaze down at the floor. It’s very far away. “Hawke would never let me fall.”

  Mack mumbles something I feel but can’t hear. A lady is screeching that oh, oh, she’ll never let me down, her words punctuated by a head-splitting boom, boom, boom.

  “You’re making me queasy,” I warn, the bodyguard bouncing as he moves. “Hawke walks smoothly and quietly, like a big kitty cat.” Rock’s dog tags hang down from my neck. “Dog tags for a kitty cat.” I laugh.

  Mack jostles me as he opens a door. The horrible screeching stops. I slide off his shoulder. Before I hit the floor, he catches me and sets me on a beanbag chair.

  “This is private room number three,” he announces.

  My beanbag chair faces a floor-to-ceiling glass window, the view being the dance floor. Other chairs are positioned around small cube-like tables. Glass bowls filled with black-and-white candy are set on these tables. A fully stocked bar lines one wall.

  “What’s the mission?” Mack asks.

  “Mission?” I giggle. “This isn’t the army, Mack. This is a nightclub.”

  “Don’t I fuckin’ know it.” He sweeps his big hands over his bald head. “What are we doing here?”

  “That’s a good question.” I think hard. “Oh yeah.” I remember. “I must strip.” I pluck at my corset. The hooks have decreased in size since I last used them.

  “Christ Almighty.” The man tears his gaze away from me. “I’ll complete a perimeter check and then you can do whatever you fuckin’ want to do in private.”