The King Brothers Boxed Set

by Lisa Lang Blakeney

  "Nice to meet you, Cord."

  An almost smug smile spreads across Cord's face. Bleck! His arrogance is a huge turn off, but like all his other noticeable flaws, I dismiss it.

  "Want to dance?"

  I take a final gulp of my wine and set the glass down on the bar.

  "Sure. Let me run to the ladies' room first though."

  I'm either going to psych myself up, while I'm in the bathroom, to either dance with this guy and get to know him a little better or ditch him. I think I'm leaning toward the latter.

  "I'll be right here. You want me to order you another glass of wine?"

  "Are you trying to get me drunk, Cord?"

  "Maybe." He winks.

  Good grief.

  "Don't bother," I say as I stand off my stool and smooth my skirt down. "I don't put out on the first date . . . or the second."

  Cord grasps one of my arms. Not roughly but the contact is still unwanted.

  "Not a problem," he says. His mouth practically salivating and not in a good way. "I can wait."

  I don't mind the occasional one-night stand, it's the norm for a place like this, but a girl has to have standards, and right now I'm not too sure Cord will meet a single one of them. Sadly, at this point I feel like I'm just passing time. This guy seems like all the other duds I've met lately, and I'm bored already.

  As I decide whether or not I'm going to ditch Cord, I scan the periphery of the room, wondering if I'll catch a glimpse of one of the club owners. There are three of them and they're like rock stars in here.

  One is Elizabeth's fiancé and soon-to-be baby's daddy, Roman Masterson. Damn attractive but a real son of a bitch. While I can't deny that the two of them share something powerful, I wouldn't want any part of that type of love. I've always pictured my bestie with a soft-spoken, computer nerd, much like herself. Not Roman. He's too alpha. Too condescending. Too much.

  Then there's Roman's best friend, Camden King. Now he actually is a computer nerd, or rather a computer hacker, but there's definitely nothing soft about him. He's just another overbearing jerk who's always sporting what I call the "alpha scowl" across his face. I tend to avoid him at all costs, because I never know what he's thinking behind those cold eyes of his. It always seems like he's talking about me.

  And finally, there's Camden's brother, Cutter King. The one who's at the club the most. He's actually the worst one out of the three, because you don't tend to see his assholery coming. He smiles a lot. Laughs a lot. Flirts a lot. To the untrained eye he seems fun and easy going, but I know better. It's all an elaborate setup. A ruse. Because from everything that I know–he's not nice, he's not funny, and there's nothing easy about him except for the fact that he'll sleep with anything with a vagina.

  The only reason why I look for him is out of habit. To gawk. I can't help myself. Roman and Camden tend to stay in the background, tucked hidden away in the club's office upstairs (when they're here) but Cutter doesn't.

  He likes to stay among "his people." To hold court. It's a sight to see. Those women, or the "mindless minions" as I like to call them, are absolutely ridiculous when they're around him.

  Eyelids fluttering.

  Breasts heaving.

  Mouths giggling.

  All waiting for their self-appointed king to bestow his blessings of an eye wink, an ass grab, or a quick and dirty grind in the corner of the club.

  I observe the lunacy from afar. It's best that way. In fact, anytime I come to Lotus, I try to stay completely out of Cutter's way. This is mostly because I don't want to actually have to be forced to speak to him. I made such an ass out of myself the last time I did, that I refuse to risk a repeat performance. He probably thinks I'm in complete lust with him, which I'm not, it's just that he uncharacteristically threw me off my game that night.

  Admittedly–it was a train wreck.

  Three

  Sloan

  Six Months Ago

  Elizabeth's Aunt Juliette changed the venue for this year's Philadelphia-Montgomery Autism Awareness Gala, and by the looks of this place, it was a smart decision. In years past it's been hosted in the classically designed ballrooms of the some of the best hotels in Philadelphia including The Rittenhouse Hotel and my favorite–The Ritz Carlton, but this year it's being held in The Castle. An event space on the campus of a small, local university that's drop dead gorgeous and dramatically different.

  With its expansive entryway, dark mahogany wood floors, oversized staircases, and exquisite crown molding–the space literally looks like an old-world castle inside. I have a thing for interior design, so I really like how Juliette used modern touches to complement the old-world architecture of the room.

  I have a long history of coming to fundraising events like these. My parents were invited to a ton of them over the years and always brought me along. I didn't appreciate them much when I was young. I found them boring, pretentious, and I would've much rather spent my evenings drinking behind the bleachers with all the other over-privileged brats at my high school.

  As I look around the sea of attending guests tonight, while there are some good looking, single, men here I wouldn't mind meeting, I realize that not much has changed since I was a kid. Same crowd. Same social climbers. Same agenda.

  "Here to catch an investment banker tonight, Ms. Pearson?"

  Scratch what I just said.

  A lot has changed.

  Now it seems as if they allow anyone into these events.

  "Very witty," I say with a great deal of sarcasm to the dressed-up caveman seated next to me.

  He grins like he thinks that I am actually amused by his degrading question, even though it's closer to the truth than I care to admit.

  "Me. See. That. You. Found. Suit," I retort in the manner that Jane would speak to Tarzan.

  Then he lets out a deep belly laugh that garners us a few glances from the other guests at our table.

  "Let's dance, princess."

  Ick, I think to myself. I hate that overused, unimaginative term of endearment.

  "If you're going to address me, please use my name. It seems like you and your friend Roman have a problem with calling people by their God given names. Is that how they do things in your 'hood. Everyone gets a ridiculous nickname?"

  "You were much nicer when we first met. Why can't you be that girl again?"

  "I'm not even going to dignify that with a response. Now go away before people think we're here together. As if."

  I motion for him to shoo with the back of my hand.

  "Scoot. Shoo!"

  The asshole laughs even harder.

  I can't imagine what on earth I'm doing to encourage him. I sat on the edge of his chair for roughly ten seconds when we first met at Lotus. I was doing my flirty thing, not thinking much of it, and he's been giving me googly eyes ever since. Why I'm not inspiring that same type of adoration from the gazillion other men I've met over the last few weeks is anyone's guess.

  "Fine," I say in frustration. "I'll move then."

  As I motion to stand up, Cutter King grabs me around my waist with clear purpose. His eyes dancing. His grip strong. And he pulls me in toward his very large pecs. Then he stands up slowly. Making sure to slide his chest against my breasts as he rises to his full height.

  He's tall. Really tall.

  Muscular. Massive.

  Brick hard and built like a caveman.

  Strong enough to bash the head in of any intruder. Fast enough to catch any prey. And I'm not going to lie, big enough in all the right places to give me the fuck of a lifetime.

  "Save that dance for me, princess."

  Now I understand. Why Elizabeth always wears panties under her dress, and me going commando was a bad idea. Because what the hell is going to soak up all the wetness that the bass in Cutter's voice just produced between my legs?

  "I need to excuse myself please."

  And all I hear is Cutter King's arrogant, rumbling laughter echoing behind me, as I hightail it from the table to find
the nearest ladies' room.

  After cleaning myself in the bathroom stall, I exit to find myself in the company of two other women at the sink area. I politely nod hello and begin washing my hands with several pumps of lime basil hand soap.

  "This is quite an eclectic crowd," one woman says to the other.

  "Yes, it is. I think I saw an Action News truck outside too. This event is probably going to get some eleven o'clock press coverage."

  "That would be nice."

  "And did you see that guy with Juliette's stepson?"

  "The tall one?"

  "They're both tall."

  "I know who her stepson is. I'm talking about the one who looks like a Viking."

  The first woman looks at me in the mirror and cracks a small smile. At first, I wonder if she knows that I was talking to said Viking just a few moments ago, but that isn't it. She just seems a little embarrassed by the content of their public conversation and is probably wondering if I'm judging them. I cordially return their smile, but continue with my primping process in an effort to act like I don't care ... as well as to eavesdrop.

  "Yeah, him. I don't think I've seen him at this event before. I definitely would have remembered."

  "Me too. He's gorgeous."

  "And young."

  "And did you see those tattoos? I think he has more than the stepson."

  "I'd climb him like a tree."

  They both start giggling like they're sixteen years old again.

  Oh good grief.

  "He's too young for us though."

  "Yeah, he is, but it's all right to look," woman number one says giggling. Looking at me when she says it. "My husband looks at other women all the time."

  I bite.

  "I think it's totally fine to look," I add. "I'm sure the man you're referring to appreciated it."

  "Oh, my goodness, do you think he saw us?"

  "Don't worry. I'm sure a guy like the one (asshole) you're describing didn't give it a second thought. He's probably used to it. He may even enjoy it."

  Present Day

  It doesn't take long for me to spot him. Cutter is always the tallest man in the room. Covered in ink. Dressed much more casually than everyone else in a simple black tee, dark wash jeans, and a clean pair of black work boots. Standing powerfully at the end of the bar like he owns the place—which I guess is only right because he does. Towering over some Kardashian-built brunette who is staring at him like she desperately wants him to sire all of her offspring.

  It's like watching a car accident on the freeway. I should really mind my business and keep it moving, but I can't help but stop and stare. That is until he turns his head and cuts his eyes clear across the dark room to meet mine. I immediately dart my eyes away and hold myself stock still. Only remembering a moment later to breathe. Angry with myself that I've been caught rubbernecking.

  Remember who he is, Sloan.

  A manwhore.

  Remember who you are, Sloan.

  A woman with a brain.

  I raise my eyes back up. Meeting his head on. My plan is to stoically hold his stare until he turns away. My prediction is that it should only take a moment for him to become disinterested and turn back to his very attentive fangirl. Guys like Cutter have the attention span of a squirrel.

  Hmm, he's still staring.

  When one side of his mouth turns up into an absolutely hot, dirty, pornographic grin, I come to the conclusion almost immediately that my vagina is actually the real problem. The reason why I'll never have a half decent man in my life.

  It wants bad things.

  Tall, tatted, terrible things.

  Things that make it wet.

  I'm done with this stinking club. This is the last time I'm going to come here trolling for Mr. Wrong. I've got a weirdo waiting for me on the other side of the room who probably wants to hack me into teeny tiny pieces–and then there's this guy. Even more trouble. Taunting me with those perfect lips, those well-defined pecs, and that perfectly toned ass of his.

  Gratefully, I'm distracted by a phone call from my teenaged sister. A call that I can barely hear over the loud music.

  "Hey," I say in greeting while holding my opposite ear closed with my fingertip.

  "Are you out partying?" she asks in an almost accusatory tone.

  "Yes, I'm out, and I can hardly hear you in here. Are you all right?"

  "Um, yeah, but I need to talk to you."

  "Is it urgent?"

  I ask the question, but I can already tell by her tone of voice that she wants to talk to me immediately. Funny how everything with seventeen-year-old girls is a matter of life and death. I suppose I was the same way at her age.

  "Just forget it."

  "I'm not saying no. I just want to know if we can talk later. I can barely hear you, and I've been drinking a little."

  "Later's fine."

  "Good. Let's grab lunch. I'll call you with a time tomorrow. Is that cool?"

  "Cool."

  Before I can say goodbye, my sister already clicks me off the line. She's probably annoyed that I didn't make myself immediately available to her, but she's just going to have to deal with it. I do have a life.

  Someone taps me from behind on my shoulder.

  "I see you've lost your way."

  I turn around and notice that it's the weird guy once again. He's standing behind me at another bar next to some other guy who seems to know him. They're both staring at me with the goofiest grins on their faces. I guess I was so distracted by Cutter, that I didn't realize that Cord had been walking right behind me the entire time.

  "I thought you said you were going to wait for me over at the other bar?"

  "I didn't want you to have to push your way through this crowd once you finished up in the ladies' room. It's getting packed in here. This way I'd be easy to spot."

  He's right. It's definitely getting crowded, but I give him the side-eye anyway. Probably because he's a little too eager, a little too anxious, and mostly because every time I look at him all I see are flaws. His hands are small and soft. He doesn't look like he's worked hard a day in his life. His skin is pristine–no ink. In heels I can look him directly in the eyes, not up into them.

  "You didn't have to do that," I say faking a polite smile.

  "Sure I did. There's no way I'm going to blow my chance with Dan Pearson's daughter."

  And that my friends was the sound of Cord hammering the final nail into his "no way in hell" is he going home with me coffin.

  I'm definitely bailing on this loser.

  And at this rate–on the entire male species.

  Four

  Cutter

  My eyes and attention are laser focused on a thick-necked, average looking loser, who drinks and talks too much. Although I've seen him around the club a couple of times before, I wouldn't describe him as someone memorable. He's just your average Joe. Trying to prove his manhood by grinding on the asses of grown women on the dance floor. Dry humping them like he's at some sort of high school dance. Desperately hoping that he can take them home for what is probably a lousy lay by the end of the night.

  I usually don't pay men like him any mind. What any of these club losers do and who they hump is none of my business, and more importantly, dweebs like him pay the bills around here. They pay our inflated cover charge, they pay for the expensive bottle service from the bar, and they even order a plate or two of our overpriced signature spicy wings. Yet this guy just garnered himself some extra special attention from me.

  I don't like the looks of him.

  I don't like his style.

  And I certainly don't like what I'm hearing coming out of his mouth.

  Especially because he's talking shit about a woman. A woman who has been rambling around in my consciousness for no good reason at all and for much longer than I usually allow. Literally since the day we met.

  "You tap that?" the dude's prematurely balding sidekick asks.

  "Not yet. Soon though," the humper brazenly rep
lies.

  "I bet that's the sweetest piece of ass you're ever going to have the privilege of tasting."

  "Privilege?" he responds incredulously. "She's definitely hot, but I wouldn't necessarily call fucking her a privilege."

  His friend laughs at what he must know is a ridiculous statement.

  "Sloan Pearson is practically Philadelphia royalty and the most gorgeous woman in this club tonight. There aren't too many men I know that wouldn't want a piece of that. Myself included."

  "She's definitely sexy as hell, and her dad is a legend, but it's not like she's some sort of A-lister. Nobody even knows who she is. Plus, my family has money too. Trust me, the privilege will be all hers when I get inside of that."

  A-lister?

  Get inside of that?

  What grown man talks the fuck like this.

  "Your dad is in insurance, dude. He makes his money in the most boring way possible. Her father was the most famous ball player this city's ever seen outside of Julius Irving or Allen Iverson. Not to mention that off the court, his pimp game was legendary. He had some of the hottest women in Hollywood in his bed back in those days.

  "You must admit, that it would definitely be the talk of the office if you brought her on your arm to the company fundraiser next month. Hell, it might help you get that promotion you've been lobbying for. Just the attention alone you'll get with her on your arm will make you look good, because the last woman you brought to dinner was kind of average, and that girl is definitely not average."

  "True."

  "Doesn't look like it's going to be hard for you though. I saw the way she was talking to you a minute ago. Seems like she's wet for you already."

  "They all get wet for me, man."

  My kick somebody's ass radar is going all kind of wonky right now. I could easily bitch slap this dude into next week for disrespecting the most beautiful woman in the room. In my club of all places.

  "Ooh look, my favorite King brother is here! Can I buy you a drink, Cutter?"

  Before I get to do a little house cleaning, I'm interrupted by an attractive redhead named Lynn, who comes to the club almost every weekend, laughs at anything that I say, and is a sure bet. We've partied together a couple of times and the evenings have always ended in an orgasm and a smile. Yet tonight the promise of a happy ending is the furthest thing from my mind. I'm more interested in having a persuasive conversation with two certain dickheads.