by Jaci J
I melt.
His fucking voice…
“Hey!” I hear a man shout. The man from the café I’m guessing. “Hey! Get away from her!”
I wish he knew how bad of an idea it is for him to play knight in shining armor right now.
T doesn’t move away from me, but he does twist his head to look at the guy. “You talkin’ to me?” he chuckles, like the guy is a joke.
He’s a little man with a big man complex.
I recognize his face.
I’ve danced for him a time or two.
He’s got the wrong idea about what type of woman I am; I don’t need to be rescued.
“Yeah! I know who you are, and I know you’re bad news.” The guy points an accusatory finger at T, a slight shake in his hand. If anyone is bad it’s him, paying for lap dances and not his wife’s chemo treatments.
That makes T laugh larder.
“How do you know she’s not harassing me? Trying to drag me into the alley and rape me?”
I’m sure my face reflects T’s.
Amusement.
T is just loving this. He’s laughing, and when the man doesn’t make a move to leave, T waves him away. “Get the fuck outta here. She’s fine.”
The man’s eyes swing in my direction, obviously not taking T’s word for it. “Are you okay, Coco? Is he bothering you?”
T looks at me.
“Coco, huh? He know you?”
I ignore T.
“I’m fine.”
The man looks me up and down, like he doesn’t believe me. “Are you sure?”
“Fuck, she’s fine,” T barks, his voice loud, people around us noticing. “I’m not gonna fucking hurt her.”
“You’re not? Where’s the fun in that?” I whisper, failing miserably to hide my smirk.
“Don’t fuck with me, Bailey. I’m close to losing it with you, and this motherfucker won’t be able to help you.”
I laugh.
T doesn’t.
“Be careful with this man,” the guy advises, like it’s helpful information. “He’s a Disciple.,” He spits the last part like it’s a sour taste in his mouth.
I don’t like it.
I might be scared to take things to another level with T, but it doesn’t have a damn thing to do with his club and everything to do with my recklessly fragile heart.
“Motherfucker, you might wanna get to walkin’ before I stop being so nice and start acting like the Disciple scum you think I am, you feel me?”
The man doesn’t argue and walks away, frowning and rubbing at the back of his neck uncomfortably.
“T?”
His attention returns to me. “Bailey?”
“I’ve gotta go. I’m late.”
6
T
SHE’S LATE.
The fuck for?
“Late for what?” I question, watching her face, looking for the answer in her dark eyes.
Wearing ripped black jeans and a white tank top, her hair down and straight, I can’t stop myself from looking at her.
Goddamn, the bitch is fucking beautiful.
She shrugs her shoulder, playing coy. I don’t like that shit. It’s the same way she acts when we’re in that room at her club, acting playful and secretive, making me question shit.
I need shit straight, not this evasive, playful bullshit.
“T,” she sighs, like she just can’t deal with me, patting my chest. “I’m late for coffee.” Pulling her phone out of her bag, she looks down at it and frowns. “Or, I was.”
“What’s that mean?”
If she was on her way to meet up with a date, I’m going to lose my goddamn mind.
If I can’t have her, no one can, and I mean it.
Yeah, I’m that asshole.
I don’t share.
“It means the person I was meeting had to go, and so I won’t be getting the coffee I really, really wanted.”
“I’ll buy you some damn coffee,” I offer, jerking my chin over at the coffee shop down the block.
I’ll buy her the whole goddamn coffee store.
Hell, I’ll buy her a goddamn coffee factory.
Bailey shakes her head, her dark locks swishing around her tan shoulders. “No thanks.”
No thanks?
No fucking thanks?
Just like that.
“Why the fuck not?”
She looks over my shoulder at my brothers still waiting on their bikes. They’re parked in front of the diner we’d just grabbed some burgers from, so they’re eating and bullshitting, content to wait for me. Hell, I don’t give a flying fuck if they take off without me or not if I can convince Bailey to let me buy her coffee.
“Listen, I think we should just be friends—”
“Friends that dry hump each other when we’re up in that private room at your club?”
Her cheeks turn pink, which is cute as fuck considering I’ve seen her naked more than I’ve seen any other woman in my goddamn life.
“That’s work.”
“And this is reality. I want you, and if that means I’ve gotta buy you coffee and take your ass on dates, then that’s what I’ll do. I’ll show you I’m not a bad guy.”
She rolls her eyes. “The bad is what I like.”
“Then what is it? You want me sweet?”
“No.”
“You want dates? Flowers? Movies and shit?”
“You make it sound like a chore.”
“Never had to work so hard on anything in my goddamn life, Doll Face. It is a fucking chore.”
That makes her smile. “Good. I don’t want it to be easy for you.”
“Of course you wouldn’t. That’s not you.”
She ducks under my arm and brushes past me. “You coming?” she calls over her shoulder.
I make quick work of catching up with her as she makes her way to the coffee shop. Grabbing the door handle before she can, I pull it open for her. She pushes past me, her hip rubbing against my cock, and she chuckles.
The little shit enjoyed that.
The place is busy with people in line and tables almost full. She looks at me in question.
“Grab a table and I’ll get in line.”
“You don’t know what I like.”
“You like long walks on the beach and a man with a big cock,” I joke.
“T,” she admonishes, shaking her head and biting that fat, bottom lip.
Christ.
She’s lucky I don’t take her ass down right here and fuck her on the damn table next to the old bitch going to town on a bagel.
“You denyin’ it?”
“Twenty-ounce blonde white chocolate, double shot,” she tells me before turning away to grab a table.
I have no fucking clue what that is, but I order it anyway when I make it to the counter. The lady taking the order looks at me like I’m fucking crazy, probably because the drink is girly as shit, and she’s confused as to why a big asshole wearing leather is asking for it.
“Anything else?” she asks, her eyes big.
“A couple of those muffins,” I tell her, pointing at the case.
She finishes taking my money and bags up our muffins before making the coffee and telling me she’ll bring it to our table when it’s done.
Sliding into the little chair across from Bailey, I watch her eyes widen when I push a box of four muffins in her direction. “I agreed to coffee, not muffins,” she huffs, pulling one out of the box and picking a piece off the top before popping it into her mouth.
Watching her eat is sexy. The way she puts the piece and the tip of her finger in her mouth, sucking it clean, and then licking her lips when she’s done makes every ounce of blood drain into my groin and swell six times its normal size.
Jesus.
Adjusting my cock, I lean back in my chair and toss my arm over the one next to me while spreading my legs, giving myself some goddamn room.
“Good?” I ask.
Bailey nods, smiling around her fingers
and the piece of muffin she’s holding to her lips.
Christ, those fucking lips. I dream about those lips and the shit I know she can do with them. I imagine my cock sliding between them, her tongue swirling around the head. Her fist pumping the base, and my balls tightening before I come in her mouth.
I groan, catching her attention.
“Hey, eyes up here,” she orders, pointing two fingers at my eyes and then at hers. “You watching me eat is making me self-conscious.”
“Why? It’s sexy as fuck.”
She laughs uncomfortably. She’s embarrassed, which is weird as fuck because I’m so used to her acting sexy and confident when she’s around me. “Me eating is sexy?”
“You doing anything is sexy.”
She rolls her eyes.
“You do that shit a lot. Might have to break you of that habit.”
She barks out a laugh. “Ha. I’d like to see you try.”
“What are you doing tonight?”
She rolls her eyes, again. I’m making a fucking mental note of that shit.
“Working.”
“Skip it.”
“Skip it? For what?”
“For me.”
“For you?” she questions.
“Let me take you out.”
“You already have. We’re having coffee, and we’re out while doing it.”
“I’ll take you to dinner.” And then back to my bed.
I don’t tell her that shit for fear of her getting up and walking out on me.
She looks like she’s fighting with the idea, and I’m pretty goddamn sure she’s going to say yes, but she surprises the hell out of me and pisses me off at the same time when she tells me, “No.”
“No?”
She can barely contain her smug ass smile. “Nope.”
Stuffing the last bite of her muffin into her mouth, she stands up, taking her coffee with her. Walking around the table, she bends down and puts a hand on my shoulder. “I’m not saying yes, because I know when it comes to you, I won’t be able to tell you no.”
What the fuck?
She kisses me, the taste of blueberry and cream on her lips, and walks out while I watch her go, mad as fuck and confused as hell.
BAILEY
Tonight’s a good night.
A damn good night.
As far as work goes, I’m killing it.
It’s midnight, and I’ve already pulled in a grand. My dances are on point and my outfit makes me feel confident. I’ve got my head high and money on my mind, and I try like hell to keep it that way.
Too damn bad T doesn’t feel the same way.
Dancing wasn’t on my list of future professions. In fact, on my long list of possible career choices, this wasn’t even in the top one hundred. But when times got tough and my money got low, I did what I had to do.
I busted my ass.
If anyone tries to make me feel bad for shaking my tits for good money, then they can kiss my G-string wearing ass.
“Damn, girl, you’re on your third shot in thirty minutes. You okay?” Dolly, the bartender asks, looking at me from behind the bar.
Tonight, I need it.
“The Disciples are here.”
“Aren’t they always?”
“Yeah, but he’s here,” I tell her, nodding over to the main floor area.
Sitting front row and center, T watches me, intently and heatedly. He’s got his arm thrown over the back of the bench seat he’s on, his legs wide and his eyes hard. He’s been here for hours watching me.
Waiting.
I don’t know what he’s waiting for.
He and I are not going to happen.
“Oh boy,” she whispers, wiggling her brows.
“Yeah. It’s just one of those nights.”
Good money.
Bad company.
Dolly gets on her tippy-toes and leans over the bar and looks over at T, her eyes growing wide. “Got anything to do with the big dude in leather who’s been here all night watching you?”
“It might,” I mutter, shooting back the shot of rum sitting on the bar top while glancing at T, who is still watching me.
His eyes are like magnets, pulling me in.
“Not a bad reason to be drinking.”
“Also, not a great reason to be drinking,” I point out.
Dolly smiles, shrugging. “At least he’s hot.”
“At least.”
T is hot. Tall. Built. Muscles cut from stone, hard and sculpted. A strong jaw and nose. A beard. Jesus, that beard. Those blue eyes, always heavy and heated. And the tattoos. The fucking tattoos.
I want him, bad. I want him more than anything I can remember wanting in a long damn time, but I know better. Or, at least, I should know better.
We’d never work.
I’ve dealt with a lot of bad shit in my short life, and most of that shit revolved around bad relationships, either with my dad, an ex, or some man in my life. Lying. Cheating. Disappearing. Abuse. I’m not looking for a repeat. I don’t know T well enough to know if he’s like the rest, but I know enough to know that it feels like he might be, and that’s not a chance I want to take. Even if I really, really, fucking want to.
“Coco,” Sonny prods, pulling me away from the bar, his bony hand cold against my skin. “The senator’s here. He’s looking for a private dance.”
“Did he ask for me?”
Sonny shrugs. “You’re the best I got.”
“Upstairs?”
He jerks his pointy chin up at the stairs and I head up toward the room.
I can feel T watching my every step, but I don’t look at him.
I can’t.
Entering the room, I find a man in a suit sitting in the chair, waiting for me—T’s chair.
I school my features, putting on my mask.
“Hi,” he says, looking me up and down quickly, diverting his eyes when I catch him looking at my body. “I don’t know how to do this,” he chuckles, his hands fidgeting.
He’s unsure and self-conscious.
Is he feeling guilty for being here, for looking at me in next to nothing and liking it?
Maybe it’s because he’s married. Or maybe it’s because he’s a freak and trying to control it. Either way, my body is making him blush.
“Nothing you need to do,” I tell him, swaying my way toward him. “Just sit back, relax, and enjoy.”
He smiles, watching my hips move.
I’m good at my job. Damn good at it. In a matter of minutes, he’ll be comfortable and relaxed. He’ll be digging into his wallet and handing over his money, all because I’m good at what I do.
Standing in front of him, I bend over, giving him a good look at my ass.
He reaches out and touches me. It’s not a forceful touch, but it’s a touch nonetheless.
“No touching,” I tsk playfully, smiling at him from over my shoulder.
He doesn’t say anything, just sips his drink and places his hand back in his lap.
I move my body to the beat of the song, my mind on T and the way he touched me in his room at his club. So lost in the memory, I’m slow to realize that the senator’s hands are on me again.
“You can’t touch,” I tell him more firmly this time, and he gives me some sick self-deprecating smile, sliding his hand away slowly like a scolded school boy.
“You’re beautiful,” he professes, like his words will do something for me, something that they don’t do coming from any other man.
His words mean nothing to me.
My back is to his front, my body grinding up and down, I use my hands for support on the arms of the chair to squat, but I don’t touch him.
“So damn gorgeous,” he breathes, his voice soft and reverent.
“I know, honey,” I coo, continuing on with the act of a seductive temptress.
I’m just earning my money.
“Wish I could take you home.”
When I don’t say anything, he puts his hand on my hip, his fingers slippi
ng under the waistband of my thong. “These are pretty. Rather they were off…” He starts to tug them down.
My discomfort level skyrockets.
He went from shy to sleazy in seconds.
I’m not surprised.
Men like him never stay sweet and shy for long.
“Don’t touch me!” I snap, giving him a hard look.
“Why the hell not? I’m paying for it,” he says calmly, but his grip tightens.
“You’re paying for the dance, not me.”
“Those rules are shit.”
About to open my mouth to say something, it snaps shut when something hits the door.
“Bailey! Open the goddamn door!” The door rattles with the force of T’s fist slamming against it.
My body tenses.
“What the hell?” the senator exclaims, looking up at me with accusing eyes. “What the fuck is going on?”
I don’t get the chance to answer because T starts hammering on the door again. “Open the fucking door, Bailey! NOW!”
Shit, he’s pissed.
“Who’s Bailey?” the idiot asks, like it fucking matters.
“Bailey!” The door rattles, the wood bowing when a body hits it. “Open this fucking door before I break it down!”
I’m stuck, my feet cemented to the floor for a solid second of confusion.
“Bailey!”
I finally move.
Running toward the door, the senator’s hand tightens on my waist, the other grabbing my arm. “Fuck off!” he shouts at the door, pulling me onto his lap.
I’m stunned stupid for a moment.
T hits the door with his shoulder—or a shoe I’m guessing—because the way the wooden door gives startles me. It bends, like rubber, pulling away from the frame.
Wood splinters and the door cracks, finally giving way, and then the whole thing comes crashing in.
I jump at the same time the senator jerks, but he doesn’t let me go.
T comes barreling into the room, his expression full of rage.
For a single moment, he does nothing but stare at me, at the senator’s arms wrapped around my waist, and a flip switches.
Pulling his gun from the back of his pants, he walks around him, the barrel of the gun at the back of the senator’s head.
I’m shocked.
I’m stunned.
I’m turned on.
7
T
