“It’s a crostini,” Wes corrects. “But I thought you’d like this as an opening course.” He nods to my plate, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Men are sometimes clueless, aren’t they?
Again, I poke the baby eggs with my fork. “Why would you think that? And how many courses are we talking?”
“Five.”
“Five courses for just you and me?” I squeak temporarily, then swallow thickly to center myself, which is harder to do since Nash isn’t here. “And where is Garrett? Doesn’t he eat dinner with you?” Who doesn’t have supper with their sixteen year old child? I always ate meals with Trish when she was his age.
“I thought you’d like a night of exquisite food, and some peace and quiet.”
“And why would you think that, exactly? Or is that what you wanted, and assumed I would, too?” Yes, it’s confirmed; men are clueless.
I can tell Wes is taken aback by my quick retort when his eyes burst wide. Then he recovers quickly, schooling his features once more. “Listen, Gwen,” he starts.
Uh oh. He’s going all dominant A-hole on me. I can sense it in his tone. This isn’t good. My guard goes up, locking into place.
He continues. “I have a plan that I stick to when I hire new women. Zoe assists them in purchasing a new wardrobe. They attend a nice, quiet meal with me over pleasant conversation. And we end the night strolling along the edge of the pond—”
“Then you sleep with them,” I tactlessly cut in.
“Now that’s uncalled for,” he grumbles, and my belly whirls at the sound. These stupid feelings have got to stop. “I thought we had this conversation earlier about you being judgmental.”
“I’m not acting judgmental, Wesley, if I’m stating the truth. You wine and dine these women, and then they fuck you. That’s how you hook them. Am I right? I mean no offense. I truly don’t. I can understand how women would enjoy your company. You’re an attractive man. You live in a fancy house. You have a fat bankroll and connections. I’m well aware of these things. But what you don’t understand is that’s not me. I didn’t meet you, and, no offense, swoon at your feet. If you wish to feed me while I’m stuck here, fine, I’m grateful for that. But I don’t need,” I shove my plate away, my temperature rising, “three hundred dollar meals … or expensive clothes.” I pluck at the fabric of my dress…
“You’re not going to buy me. If that’s what you think might happen. I’m sorry. It doesn’t work that way. I’m thrilled to be here to help Garrett, and had assumed we’d be having a nice meal with him, too.” I inhale a deep breath to relax. It does little good. “If you knew me at all, or cared to know me at all, you’d respect the fact that I’m not in my comfort zone here. I don’t do fancy houses, or eat baby fishies on bread.” I gesture to my plate to drive my point home…
“You said that you know what you like and what you don’t like. Well, so do I. I don’t like eating meals that could feed an entire family for a month. I like jeans and t-shirts. And I’d be much happier eating a cheeseburger and French fries instead of something pretentious. Especially if I know that you use this tactic on all of your new employees.”
Wes’s face becomes redder and redder with anger the longer I blather. And just when he goes to open his mouth to respond to my word vomit, I continue with it, not allowing him to speak. I’m not done yet.
“You were right when you said I judged your employees. Frankly, that is something I’m ashamed of. But it’s kind of hard to take them, or this situation seriously, when it’s so, pardon my French, fucking weird to begin with. But, you want to know something?” I don’t wait for him to answer the rhetorical question. “I think your assistant, Zoe, is amazing. She helped me today when she bought clothes that I didn’t want to buy. All because she knew they’d please you. The even stranger thing is, I don’t even know why I care. I shouldn’t care about any of this. I should just walk out of his house, return your money, and never look back.”
This time, Wes doesn’t care if I’m not finished when his arm shoots out, and his hand grasps my forearm, making me forget my words. It’s hot and hard against my flesh. I lose my breath. Oh no.
“Please don’t leave.” His words are surprisingly soft and gentle, filled with something I can’t put my finger on.
For a couple of agonizing moments, I delight in our small connection. Then I shake out of whatever fog his touch has put me in, and push his paw off. He lets it drop without protest.
“I never said I was leaving,” I remind. “I want to stay and help Garrett. But this—” I wave my hand toward the food, and then my dress. “This stuff has to stop. I won’t have fancy dinners with you unless it’s at some event you need for me to attend. This isn’t a social thing, Wes. This is a business transaction. Nothing more, nothing less. And I’d like for you to respect that.”
I’m done. I’ve said my peace. No more Gwen rants.
Wordlessly, Wes shoves his chair back as he rubs the back of his neck. Seconds or minutes, I’m not sure which, tick by at a snail’s pace before he breaks the pregnant silence. “Okay,” he sighs, his sad eyes cast downward. “I will try to be respectful. But I would like for you to realize this is also different for me as well. I hire people, they obey me, and they wish to make me happy. You do not.”
The need to shout, “You’re right. I don’t,” tingles the tip of my tongue. Nevertheless, I keep my trap shut.
He keeps on. “I think it would be in our best interest right now for you to please go back to your room, and put on something you’ll be more comfortable in. Then I’d like for you to please meet me back here in half an hour. I promise to fix this.”
For about half a second I wonder if I should deny his reasonable request, and pout in my room for the rest of the night. Except, the seriously heart-wrenching look on Wes’s face has me caving big time. I don’t know if it’s those puppy dog eyes or his frown, but he’s sorta breaking my heart. If this is a ploy, he’s a marvelous actor. If not, I’m done for. He makes me want to wrap my arms around him, and give him a hug. Which isn’t good for either of us. Hell. I’m even afraid to smell him, in fear of getting turned on when I do. That sounds screwed up, I know. But it’s been nearly two days since I’ve climaxed, and I desperately need a release—or six.
Heeding Wes’s request, I agree to meet him back here in thirty minutes, then leave the dining room without another word. Down hallways, I stroll until I take the final turn to my bedroom, in this house that could comfortably fit a family of twelve with its long corridors, tall ceilings, and larger than life size.
In my room, I change into a pair of my comfortable jeans and one of my Harley t-shirts that Nash bought me on one of his runs. Then I do a once over in the mirror to pass some time before meeting Wes back in the dining room two minutes early. It’s quiet in there when I return and find him staring thoughtfully out of the wall of windows just as the sun dips below that final edge of the horizon. It’s stunning.
Not wanting to disturb him, I wait in silence for the last of the day to bleed into night. It’s like we’re sharing this moment, yet, not. Since I’m not even sure he’s aware that I’m standing across the room from him. He looks so peaceful, now dressed in a pair of yellow and black Batman pajama bottoms that I find oddly sexy. Especially the way the cotton cups his exquisite ass. He’s also barefoot and wearing a cutoff black tee that exposes his toned arms. Jesus. His body is carved with diamond cut precision, and those tanned biceps are simply biteable. Damn it. No, they’re not.
“Are you enjoying the show?” he teases with his back to me. I can see his reflection in the window, where our gazes clash. He smiles, and I fidget. Crap, I wonder if he noticed me checking out his assets. I sure hope not.
Disregarding his comment, I reply, “I’m here and ready for whatever it is you have planned … within reason.” I add the last just to be on the safe side.
“Great.” Wes claps once then pivots on his heel and walks straight through the dining room and past me, into the hall. “Foll
ow me,” he says, and I comply.
Down the hallway I just came from, we pass room after room, including mine, until we stop in front of a set of white double doors. Wes doesn’t hesitate to shove them both open at once. A massive bedroom is sprawled out before my very eyes. The bed itself has to be custom made, since there’s no way they make regular mattresses that big. Jet black and stark white encompass the entirety of the space, alongside random pops of color—like the ocean blue throw pillows, or a red box that sits atop the black dresser. Since I’ve arrived here, I wondered if Wes had a thing for white. I figured he had to since my bedroom is colorless. Now my question has been answered. It’s obvious that he has a thing for monochromatic interior design.
Wes wades into his room, and I glue my feet to the floor, refusing to budge. I understand he said he’d fix things, but he never did elaborate on what that meant. Under no circumstances did I consider him asking me to his room. There’s no way I’m setting foot in that space. I’ll just stand out here in the hallway, and we can carry on a conversation like this.
“Are you coming?” he calls, having disappeared from my line of sight.
“I’ll wait out here!” I holler into the vastness, my voice echoing.
“Don’t be silly, Gwen. Come inside.”
“This is your bedroom. I most certainly won’t come inside.”
He sighs loudly from somewhere. “My master bedroom has a retreat built back here. It’s like a small family room. Why don’t you come in and see for yourself? It’s harmless. I promise. I didn’t think you’d want to sit in my large living room. A cozier setting seems more your speed. Or did I get that wrong?”
No, he definitely didn’t get that wrong. Small, simple spaces feel more at home. It probably has to do with the fact that I’ve always lived in quaint places. Even though my parent’s Victorian is decent in size, it’s nothing compared to this. And my mother has always filled the place with knickknacks and little things that make it feel homey.
Wes’s house feels impersonal. There are very few pictures anywhere. And those that are scattered around are usually made of actual art. However, from where I’m at, I can see a picture of Wes and Garrett standing together on some beach. It’s resting on his nightstand. The sight of it is what breaks down my barriers enough that I willingly shuffle my feet inch by inch into the spicy, man-scented room.
Around the corner, I come to a comfy alcove that has a short couch, flat screen TV, coffee table, and chaise lounge. Along the far wall, there’s a set of glass doors that open to what appears to be a private patio, complete with fire pit and loungers.
Relaxing on the couch, looking right at home, Wes unobtrusively watches me take in the space. Then he pats the cushion beside him, smiling non-threateningly at me. I take the bait and round the back of the couch to sit. It’s awkward at first, but I quickly adjust to our closeness.
Taking a deep breath, I smell the aroma that encapsulates his room more potently as it emanates from him, enticing all of the pleasure centers in my brain. For a split second, I close my eyes to bask in it before stamping down the heat it percolates in my belly. One final moment, and I swallow an impending groan of sexual frustration and dial back my hormones. As predicted, I knew this would happen if I caught his scent. Smell, taste, sight, touch, and hearing—they’re magical gifts that we were born with, but when they work against me to make me feel things, they steal a part of my strength—my will. It’s not fair.
Unfortunately, men—beautiful, sexy, virile men—are my downfall … my kryptonite. Nash being the most tempting of them all. But right now, he’s not here. Wes is. And what he’s unknowingly doing to my senses is wreaking havoc over my body. It needs to chill the hell out. I knew I shouldn’t have come in here because by doing so I had to let my walls down. And letting them fall is not a good thing. This … this was not a good idea.
A hand startles me as it touches my thigh, stalling my breath. “You okay?” Wes’s voice is concerned.
Numbly, I nod without looking at him.
He’s still touching me.
“You sure? You’re breathing awfully hard. Please don’t have a panic attack on me. I promise nothing is going to happen in here. I’m not going to make a move on you. It’s just two business associates having a casual meal. I said I’d fix this, Gwen, and I have. Please trust me.”
Okay. Alright. I can pretend that his pajama pants aren’t turning me on. And that this isn’t weird. Or that me being in his bedroom isn’t both a turn on and off. I’m a sexual woman. I have been for as long as I can remember. No matter how many times I tell myself otherwise, it’s true. If it weren't, I wouldn’t be wet right now from thinking about his bed that’s a few feet away. Or his hand that’s on my leg, and what those fingers could do to me. Sweet Jesus, like I told ya, I’m ten ways of fucked up.
Leaning back into the couch, I ignore my naughty thoughts and focus on something else. “I’m fine. No problems. So what’s up with the pajama pants?”
Wes removes his hand from my thigh to pat his own. “Batman not casual enough for ya? I think I’ve got some Underdog ones in my closet,” he jokes, and that’s all it takes for every single strand of tension to leave me, melting into a puddle on the floor. Thank heavens.
Chuckling, I turn just enough that I can sort of face him so we can talk. It’s nice, even if his proximity is a bit too close for my liking. “I just never pegged ya for a cartoon pajama pants guy.”
“What kind of pajamas did you think I wore?”
Evasively, I shrug. “I dunno. I have to admit you’re more complex than I first thought. So I would have initially said nude. Now, I’m not so sure. But I can say Batman wouldn’t have been any of my guesses.” This time, I grin, because I can’t help it. The way he’s looking at me, all open and relaxed, is pleasant. Much better than a stuffy five-course dinner.
“I do sleep nude. These are just my throw on lounge clothes. I’m not much of a robe guy. My son has told me since he was little that my suit and ties were boring. So for every Christmas, and my birthday, he buys me a pair of printed pajama pants. At first, I thought they were stupid. Now, they’re a tradition that I’ve grown to love.”
Awe! That’s so damn cute.
For the next half an hour, Wes and I carry on about Garrett and his quirks. From video games to hating to read, all the way to his distaste for anything green … including green jelly beans and green chewing gum. It gives me a chance to get to know Garrett a little better, and by association, Wes, too. His face lights up when he talks about his son. The love he feels is so palpable that it seems to float into the air, and capture me as well. I find myself laughing at his stories of Underdog pajama bottoms and Garrett’s strange obsession for milk. It’s warm and comforting. Before we know it, a woman pushing a hotel tray quietly enters his room and places two plates of disassembled cheeseburgers and fries in front of us, along with an array of condiments.
“I didn’t know what you liked on your burger, so I told her to bring everything we had,” Wes comments while assembling his burger. He’s so close that our knees are a hairsbreadth apart. Except this time, I don’t freak. I let it be, and create my own stacked masterpiece.
Just as I whisper my thank you, he lifts the ketchup bottle. “Do you want some?”
I nod.
Instead of handing it over, he squirts the ketchup into the corner of my plate. The sweetness of the gesture hits my heart a little too hard. I don’t think anyone but Nash has ever done anything remotely that nice for me before. After he’s done dispersing the red yumminess on my plate, he does the same to his. Then, we dig in. The burger is juicy perfection as I take bite after bite, holding back the orgasm sounds I want to unleash. It’s that fucking good. Wes has some talented chefs on his hands. I guess that’s one of the perks of being rich.
Once we’re finished, I lean back on the couch and curl my legs onto the cushions to get more comfortable. Reaching over, Wes slips my shoes from my feet and tosses the black throw off the bac
k of the couch over my legs. I’m kind of in shock at yet another domesticated gesture, so my words evade me as he begins to speak.
“Now that you’re fed and relaxed, why don’t you tell me more about yourself?” He, too, gets more comfortable as he hikes one leg up, so we’re facing one another. His bare foot touches mine, and I’m okay with that, so I don’t move.
Not a fan of talking about myself, I change topics. “Why don’t you tell me more about your businesses? I’ve heard about your employees. Yet, you’ve never said what it is you do.”
In hindsight, I probably should have Googled Wesley King before coming here, even though I’m not sure when I would have had the time. My phone didn’t have range in the mountains on our way here. And afterward, he confiscated it. It was part of the deal, so I let it go without a fight. I don’t use it much anyhow.
Wes appears stunned by my question when his brows jump and forehead crinkles. Maybe it’s because I’m asking about him and not talking about myself. Or perhaps it’s because he assumed I already knew what he did. Not sure which.
When he doesn’t reply right away, I add, “If this is something I shouldn’t ask, tell me.”
Rapidly, Wes shakes his head. “No, no. That’s perfectly fine, Gwen. I guess most women know about me, and what I do. I take it that you don’t?”
When I, too, shake my head, he keeps on. “I’ve dipped my toes in an abundance of lucrative businesses over the years. But for the past six to seven, I’ve spent most of my time building partnerships with about forty different strip club owners, acting as their silent partner. I not only get a cut of their profits, but I also place my own contracted strippers in these joints to increase quality and clientele. They want to boost profits and to do that they need talent. I provide that.”
Now I know why I didn’t Google him. If I’d have known he owned a bunch of strip clubs, I would have never agreed to the bet in the first place. When they were talking legit businesses, I guessed modeling agencies or something. Not nudie joints. Although, I’m not sure why I’m surprised. I shouldn’t be. Those blondes do look like strippers. Not that stripping is a bad thing. It pays the bills. Like I’ve already said about Kelly, who works in a strip club, you can’t be in that business forever. Looks fade. Then what are ya gonna do?
Nowhere (Crimson Outlaws MC #1) Page 12
