“You’re right,” I agree. It’s been ages since we sat together outside of a work environment and had a discussion. We didn’t even meet up for the holidays.
A waiter arrives to take my drink order, and when I look over at the bar, she is there. The shy goddess from the club. She’d been sashaying through my dreams ever since we met, and now here she is: live and in color, looking as stunning as the night that I first laid eyes on her. Tonight, her signature copper-colored hair is swept up into a loose bun, accentuating her perfect cheek bones, almond eyes, and glowing bronze skin.
“Did you hear me, son?” my father asks.
“No. Sorry. Would you repeat that?” I ask, turning to face him, but my mind is still with her, at the bar. There’s something about this mystery lady that makes me want to drink her in.
“Are you listening, Devlin?” he asks again.
I un-stitch my eyes from her long and toned dangling legs. She's been playing with her phone, but now she stretches a bit. She glances around the room, looking beautiful yet apprehensive. Like she doesn’t feel like she belongs.
She belongs with me, some inner voice says. It's strange how drawn I am to her, how I want to protect her, tell her she's more beautiful than any of the overly made up, practically naked girls flitting around the room.
She's real. And she's here. I have to get to know her.
I face my father as a group of slinky twenty-somethings enter, and know that I have to go to her.
“I apologize,” I start. “Usually when business is concerned, I don’t get distracted, but I have to be honest with you, my mind is elsewhere tonight.”
“Really?” My father gives a knowing laugh.
“Just give me five minutes, and I’ll be able to focus again,” I tell him, hopping up from the table. I button my suit jacket while scanning the bar.
How the hell? The beautiful woman had disappeared among the crowd that quickly. I push my way through the crowd to the front of the bar.
“Where’d the lady in purple go?” I ask the bartender, still searching.
The man behind the bar points toward the door, and all hope is not lost.
“I’m buying your cell phone,” I say to the helpful man behind the bar.
“What?” He looks confused.
I slap six hundred-dollar bills on the counter.
“I’m buying your phone,” I repeat.
He hands me a decent cell.
With a pounding heart and bounding steps, I work my way through the busy bar and toward the doors, quickly erasing the cell’s contacts and call log.
This can’t be the way that this ends. This can’t be the last time that I see her.
To make sure that I have the number, I call my phone.
Then I see her. Her copper hair, glowing like a beacon. She walks slowly but smoothly through the crowd. A few men call out to her, but with a smile she ignores them. Good. She's all mine.
I rush behind the enchanting woman; all while adding the only contact that she will need as far as I’m concerned.
“Excuse me,” I shout in her direction, nearly winded by the chase. I'm not sure what's come over me. I don't chase women…though it occurs to me, I've never had to. Normally one look at a girl, and she falls to my side. Or into my bed.
Her legs keep moving, but the sudden loss of ease in her body lets me know that she heard me.
There is a sudden quiet as the cadence of her heels stops and she allows me to catch up.
“Hello,” I offer as she faces me. “I’m Devlin and I think you’re beautiful.”
“Hello,” she responds, her plush, heart-shaped lips forming an O. “It’s nice to meet you, Devlin. I’m Ayron.”
She begins her walk again.
“Would you like to stay for dinner?” I ask her as I walk with her.
“You look like a nice guy, Devlin,” she begins the blow-off.
I take a deep breath and hand her the phone.
“Get to know me then. Just answer the phone,” I say, finding some of my original swagger. “I don’t want this to be the end before we begin.”
Her expression softens to a smile.
“I think I can do that,” she says sweetly.
I take her hand and kiss it, ready to do more.
Walking through my new home, I try not to be eager. The area where I purchased it is very well established; I love the charm of the old homes and new ones that were built to look old. Owning property in Prestville Park brings about a certain status within itself. My ex-girlfriend always wanted a home in this area. An area with regulations about what your home could look like, down to the dimension and color. I decided on a five-bedroom, four-bathroom, with a gray shell and large square windows lining the first level. As a bachelor, I have no need for all of this space, and honestly, it gets to be a little lonely sometimes, but buying the property after our breakup was better than sex.
Plopping down on a sofa in the entry living room, I feel like a seventh grader finding out his crush actually likes him back. Watching the fish in my aquarium is calming. The Angelfish swimming through my three-hundred-fifty-gallon fish tank are my favorite. They mate for life. The two named Mufasa and Sarabi are my favorites. If they are not swimming together, the other is near.
My phone rings and the name and number of the phone I gave to her pop up. I answer it without trying to act cool.
“Hello.”
“Hello. Is this Devlin?” her strong yet feminine voice inquires.
“Yes, this is he, and I am glad to hear your voice,” I say, loosening my tie and sliding against my sofa.
“And why is that?”
“Now I can add sound to my dreams.” It sounds like a line, but it's almost scary how much I mean it. Not that she needs to know that.
The laugh that rings through the phone warms my insides, causing a smile to spread across my face.
“Such a charmer,” she chuckles. “Do you provide every girl that you meet with sweet words and a smartphone?”
“Nope. Only the ones who have magical powers.”
“I’m almost afraid to ask. What kind of magical powers?” Her words are slow and deliberate.
“I seem to recall a certain woman with the same copper-color hair as yours disappearing from a dance floor not too long ago.”
Her chuckle is melodic.
“I’ll admit that there’s a pattern,” she teases.
It’s my turn to laugh.
“I plead the fifth,” she says.
“What is it that you do, besides be gorgeous?” I ask.
She pauses, as though she’s unsure about how to answer.
“I work for Masters in Style products as a finance executive,” I downplay. It’s alright for her to know that I am well-off, but the less she knows about the billion-dollar Masters Empire, the better. I try to keep my name out of the media, so it’s pretty easy for me to be discreet. Kevin, on the other hand, has linked up with so many people in the entertainment industry, which blogs and gossip shows are always looking for his next hook-up or exploit.
“That seems like a stressful job to have, watching other people’s money.”
“It can be,” I sigh, wanting to forget the current situation happening at M.I.S. “What about you? What do you do?”
“I’m a personal organizer,” she says flatly, without detail and no room for discussion.
“I want to see you again,” I counter. Maybe a change of subject will bring back the sweetness in her voice. Work is a subject that neither one of us wants to talk about.
“Well, you’re in luck. I happen to be free tomorrow for yoga.”
Chapter 7-Ayron
The yoga studio in the uptown area near my dream office is the perfect place to get to know Devlin and not let go of all of my morals. Seeing him in person again last night reminded me of how undeniably handsome he is. The fact that he chased me down and gave me a phone solidified my attraction. I wanted to rip his clothes off when we were on the dance floor; now, I want t
o be a record on his turntable. Even though Devlin would have gladly followed me home, I remained chaste. I walked to my car alone, walked into my home alone, and went to sleep alone.
I made it to the class early to scope out the place and speak with the teacher, Mandy, the granddaughter of a woman we used to clean houses for. There were plenty of people that I never got to meet that my grandmother worked for, but I got to spend time at the Gardner home with Mandy.
Several women chatter as they stretch their bodies in warm up, showing off their skills and limber muscles. I place my mat near the seemingly friendly women.
“Good morning,” I say to the women.
A sneering smirk spreads across the one lady dressed in blue.
“Are you new? Did you know that this is an advanced class?” she asks in a nasally voice.
“It took us six months to get into this class,” the other adds.
Maybe I should have chosen a different strategy to get him to relax. In order for this to work, he has to believe that this is something that I do regularly. When Devlin asked to see me last night, I wanted to sing in chorus, “Yes. Hell yes!” But I remembered my home training and the fact that this is a job, and a job only. I figured that yoga will help him de-stress a little and provide a gateway for us to eventually talk about his life and past. I have to treat him like any other client, even though this isn’t like any other circumstance. And one of the reasons that I am so successful is that I am able to build a relationship of trust with my clients.
I leave the leering ladies and make my way over to Mandy.
“I’m glad you decided to come!” she cries, shaking her blonde locks and reaching in for a hug. “I sure miss your wonderful grandmother. Her advice, with a side of her precious pecan pie, was a life saver.”
“I still miss her.”
“But one thing is for sure, you can’t miss my wedding,” Mandy adds, shoving a major diamond engagement ring into my vision.
“Wow, that’s a big rock,” I exclaim, touching the dangling ring that hangs on her thin finger.
“What about you? Any prospects?” she questions with a hop. “I remember that there was—” she paused in thought, “Lance. That’s his name. How are you and him?”
I recall the guy that everyone, including my grandmother, thought that I would spend the rest of my life with and shake my head.
“We aren’t—”
“Ayron,” Devlin chimes as he enters the studio dressed in workout attire. Others filter in behind him, filling up the studio.
The showy female students stop in mid-pose, and Mandy’s mouth nearly drops from her face at the sight of him.
I smile.
Those stretchy chicks may be able to touch their noses to their toes, but they don’t have access to a man like him, even if it is only temporary for me.
“Good morning, beautiful,” he says, sliding a hand around my waist.
“Good morning, Devlin.”
“Hello, handsome.” Mandy bounces with a smile.
“It’s starting time,” one of the students reminds her.
Mandy peeks at her watch and makes her way to the front of the room.
The meditation position, sitting still with legs folded next to Devlin, is easy, and I feel confident that this will go well.
“You got it?” I question my folding friend to the left of me.
“It looks a little easier on television,” Devlin says, with one leg still pointed forward. “Don’t worry, I’m very agile.”
As the class progresses, so does the difficulty of the moves.
The welcome crew of ladies throw side glances in my direction as they contort their bodies with ease into the positions that Mandy calls by name.
“I’m not so good at this,” the lumbering Devlin says after noticing the awkward position his body forms.
I whisper a laugh.
“It’s all right,” I continue in a low voice. “The point is to relax a little.”
Mandy places her body on the floor then lifts her lower half above her head and into the air.
My shoulders drop in defeat, and I look over at Devlin.
We are the only two still standing.
I try to hold a straight face, but he bursts into laughter and I join in shortly after.
The welcome crew shoots an ugly glance in our direction.
I tiptoe so I can whisper in his ear, though my legs are so tired that I lose my balance. I fall an inch and catch myself on his chest. God, it's solid. Strong. Perfect. I shake my head to clear my thoughts and stand back on my own two feet. “Let’s go get some tea.”
He slips a hand around my waist, pulling me closer to the warmth of him.
“Let’s do that.” He smirks.
Chapter 8-Devlin
I’ve heard the saying that you never miss a good thing until it’s gone, but didn’t know that it could apply in reverse. I didn’t know to miss a good thing until I found it. As a businessman, I find it important that I am taken seriously, especially being the youngest in the brood, so I don’t laugh much. I know how to charm when I need to, but playing is not an option. In the last hour with Ayron, I have laughed more than I have in the last month.
To my chagrin, after the failed class, we shower separately in our gender-appropriate locker rooms and dress in casual clothing. The tights and flowy tunic ensemble she emerges in more than demands my attention. No matter what this woman slips over her body, I want to take it off, and I know that I won’t be satisfied until I do.
We decide to leave her car at the yoga studio and I drive us to a coffee shop.
"Nice car." She trails a delicate finger along the door of my sleek, grey sports car. If she's impressed, she doesn't show it like most of the other women who'd gone for a ride in my car. I hold the door open and let her settle herself gracefully into the passenger seat.
"What kind of car is this?" Ayron asks.
"You don't know cars?"
Ayron laughs.
I shift into high gear as we hit the main street. Ayron squeals and presses her hand against the door. I smile at her, and she nervously smiles back.
"It's a Porsche Panamera," my hand slides the gear shift down, the motor thrumming beneath my palm. I glance at Ayron's thighs, wishing I could slide down there, as well. Instead, I throw her a cocky smile and say, "I only drive a Porsche, and I only drive fast."
People who buy sports cars and drive like they are taking a Sunday stroll annoy me. My time is important. Time is money, and I don’t play about my money. Many men have made the mistake of assuming that because my father is wealthy that I don’t understand the value of a dime.
In boarding school, Kevin never washed or even had his clothes dry cleaned, he simply bought new things. He bought clothes a month at a time and had whatever he didn’t wear shipped away. When he attempted to tease me because I had worn a shirt three times in a month, I had all of his deliveries rerouted to the city children’s shelter. Shortly after that, we became friends.
“Are you sure you’ve tried yoga before?” I question the beautiful woman by my side as we travel the distance to the place she requested. She was totally hopeless in the class.
Ayron reveals her nearly perfect teeth with a wide smile.
“You weren’t much better.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t have to catch me,” I tease. She nearly toppled over performing several poses.
“True,” she concedes. “You win.”
“So, are you better at picking tea than you are at yoga?”
“Let’s hope so,” she answers.
We enter the quaint shop with a few patrons and a strong aroma of coffee beans. I think of a small café that I frequent in Seattle, the rustic wood and metal décor a naturalist’s haven.
“That was fun,” I say to her when we take our seats face to face at a small table near the window after ordering.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” she says.
“I enjoy being with you,” I tell her.
&nbs
p; My father once told me that I have an addictive personality. I don’t necessarily agree with his assessment. However, I like what I like and if I like it, I want it.
Thinking about Ayron, I conclude that I still like her, more now than yesterday.
“Smooth,” she says, batting her eyes. “But I feel like there’s something that I need to confess.”
She takes in a deep breath.
I brace myself because there are many secrets that women can keep that can be devastating.
“I feel like there is a possibility that we could spend more time together, and I don’t want to lead you on,” she says, biting her luscious bottom lip.
“I prefer that you’re honest with me,” I respond with a lifted eyebrow.
I have experienced liars, women who clutch on to secrets in order to keep a man around and then let the craziness explode once they feel they have a man trapped. The lesson—never get trapped. I’ve been down that road, and I never want to go there again. Gisselle, my ex, was a woman for the unwell, for those who didn’t like sanity.
The waiter brings our drinks.
“Thank you,” Ayron says to the portly woman who wobbles away with an empty tray.
I take Ayron’s free hand.
“You can talk to me,” I assure her.
“How important is it to you that we be intimate?” she asks quietly.
I clear my throat. Every time I look at this woman, I remember her thick ass pressed against my dick on the dance floor. Fuck the cute words. Intimate? I don’t want to be intimate—I want to fuck the shit out of her until she falls over, but I can’t say those words out loud. Ayron doesn’t strike me as the bitchy type, but there is a certain level of respect commanded by her presence. The straightness of her back when she sits, and the graceful tilt of her head. Her poised posture is elegant during the day, but then there is the wild woman that escaped the night we pushed our bodies against each other all over the dance floor. I am ready to meet that wild woman again.
“Can I be real with you?” I scoot forward in the chair, nearer to her.
“Please,” she says.
“I’ve wanted to be inside of you since the moment I met you,” I tell her.
“Okay,” she says, sitting back. She withdraws her hand from mine. “That’s what I was worried about.”
Fast and Loaded: A Bad Boy Sports Romance Page 16
