Back Off: Reed Security: Book One

by Robin Leaf

  His eyebrows come down, creating a line between them. “You think I was –”

  “If you need a side job to make some extra money,” I interrupt, smirking playfully and leaning away from him, “I can talk to Tony about keeping you on. Randy’s right. You will be a favorite.”

  He stands and crosses his arms over his chest. His eyes lock on mine, raising his eyebrow in judgement. I’m not sure what he sees, but he narrows his eyes.

  “You’re lying.”

  I force myself not to look away and smile. “No, you really will be a favorite.”

  “That’s not what I mean. You seemed upset when you left.” He’s in my space again in a flash, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me flush against him. “You want to know what I think? I think you felt what I felt. I know you could tell how dancing for you affected me.” His hands dig into my ass and pull me to him, crushing his cock into my core. “I saw your face, all flushed. I felt your breathing, rapid, almost panting. I heard your moan when I did this.”

  He runs the length of his cock along my clit, and I make a conscious effort to keep my moan in my throat.

  “I think you want me.” He leans forward and whispers in my ear, “And I think you don’t want to want me.”

  I take a shaky breath and hope it’s not obvious. “Well, you’re wrong.”

  He runs his nose along my cheek, and I feel him smile.

  “Pantalones con fuego.”

  God damn, my clit pulses hearing his rough translation of “pants on fire” come out of his mouth. When did he learn Spanish?

  I shrug. “You can think what you want, but I can assure you…” Pushing on his shoulders so he’ll step back, I look him in the eye, hoping I have the lady huevos to pull this off. “… I don’t want you.”

  The smile on his face remains as he studies my face. I work hard, probably too hard, to remain expressionless. His smile widens.

  “Okay, bailadora, then at least let me buy you something to eat. You can tell me about the dancers and why you think Beck is the guilty party.”

  Fuck. If I say no, he’ll be on to me. If I say yes, I’m torturing myself.

  God help me, I don’t want to say no.

  I roll my eyes and jump off the counter. “Fine. But I’ll buy my own meal, güero.”

  “Where would you like us to mutually buy ourselves our own meals?” he asks to my back, following me to the door.

  I stop and turn to face him before opening the door. “It’ll have to be somewhere not close, so we don’t run into anyone who works here.”

  “Are you ashamed to be seen with me, cariño?” he asks, winking.

  “I’m sure most women would be. No girl likes muscles, blue eyes, and tattoos.” I smile, hoping I hide how much I like that trifecta of traits on this particular man. “Actually, Tony has a strict ‘no dating’ policy at the club. I don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea.”

  He smirks. “We can always go to my place. I live in a pretty secure building.”

  No fucking way I’m going to his place. Alone with this man is nowhere I need to be. “Let’s just meet at Bucky’s Grill.”

  I turn to open the door, and he moves in close behind me, placing his hand on the door to stop me from opening it.

  “You’re afraid to be alone with me.” He states it simply, like he knows what I’m thinking. “You can trust me, but I think you can’t trust yourself.”

  Trust you? The only thing I trust about you is how you will shatter me.

  And no, I do not trust myself around you. No. Way.

  “You’re awfully cocky, güero,” I say, elbowing him playfully in his stomach. “I trust myself just fine. I really want a burger, and Bucky’s doesn’t deliver.”

  He chuckles and steps back. “Fair enough.”

  Ten

  Noah

  “When I didn’t see your purple monster in the parking lot, I thought I beat you here.”

  I watch Cristiana gracefully slide into the booth opposite me, her hair swinging around her shoulders. Hair that smells like apples. Someday, I will bury my face in that hair.

  I am glad she turned down my impulsive invitation to come to my place. I said she could trust me, but I probably would have made a liar out of myself.

  God, she felt good beneath me. She was seconds from coming, I know it. I could have nutted dry humping her on that stage, watching her face enraptured. And that moan, damn. When I pulled her to standing, I almost turned her around and stripped her pants down so that I could slide inside the warmth my dick had been nestled against for almost a whole minute.

  Thank God I remembered we had an audience. I wouldn’t have minded, but I wasn’t sure how she would have reacted.

  And when she bolted, I had my answer.

  “Do you still have her?” she asks.

  She locks eyes with me, and I realize I’ve been staring, lost in remembering what happened little more than forty-five minutes ago.

  I have to think for a minute, running through my brain for the question I can’t recall. She notices and smiles.

  “Princess. Do you still have her?”

  I sit forward in the booth crossing my arms on the table. “You remember her name?”

  She laughs, and I really like the sound. I don’t think I’ve ever heard her laugh.

  “You’re the only puto I know who’s loco enough to name your car, so yeah, stuff like that tends to stick.”

  “You know I understand the words you’re using now.” I fake pout. “Words hurt, Nana.”

  The smile falls from her face and she looks down at her menu. I again wonder if I crossed a line.

  “Yes,” I say, sitting back in the booth, taking a cue from her and picking up my own menu. It’s filled with greasy and cholesterol-filled options, none of which I eat. “I still have the car, but I don’t drive her much.”

  “Why not?” she absently asks, searching the menu too closely. I bet she already knew what she wanted when she suggested this place, which tells me her menu perusal is an excuse to avoid looking at me.

  “She’s easily recognizable. When I’m on a case, I tend to want to not stand out.”

  She glances at me. “So you do these cases all the time?”

  “No,” I shake my head, picking the menu back up. “This kind of thing isn’t my specialty. But I’m hoping if I help Tony with this problem, he’ll grant me access to the another club he owns for an important investigation.”

  I can’t believe I just told her that. She drops her menu and looks me in the eye, squinting as if she’s scrutinizing me. I hope she doesn’t ask…

  “Why do you want access to Couver?”

  Fuck.

  I stare at her, not answering, wondering how she knows about Couver. She goes back to looking at her menu, probably gathering that I’m not willing to talk about why I need access to a sex club.

  A teenage boy comes to take our order, and based on their friendly conversation, and the fact that he brings her a soft drink she didn’t order, it’s obvious Cristiana is a regular here. He walks away to put in our order, and she continues to look his direction, still avoiding me.

  “How often do you eat here?” I ask, raising my eyebrow when she finally turns my direction.

  “At least once a week,” she says. “Gotta say your grilled chicken sandwich with no bun is going to get a chuckle in the back.” She stirs her drink with her straw. “People don’t come here to eat healthy.”

  “After my injury, I was put on a strict diet. Plus, when I was a bodyguard, the kid I guarded had a similar diet, so I just kept up the regimen. Now I can’t tolerate grease and fat. I’m not sure if that’s because I’m just used to healthy eating, or if it’s part of living without a spleen.”

  “Was that the scar I saw?” she asks shyly, and it’s strange to see. This girl is not usually shy. I find I actually like this side of her.

  I nod. “I got injured in the military.”

  Her hand reaches across the table to pat mine. “I
know. And I know how much that had to suck for you. Fionn told me how long you wanted to join.”

  Luckily my response is cut off when the waiter sets a red basket with what looks like a piece of streaked rubber on a bed of three-day-old lettuce in front of me.

  Our food came out way too fast to be cooked fresh, but the way she eyes her burger… wow. There’s more bacon on that thing than there is meat. I watch her lick her lips as she lifts it to her mouth. Jesus, who knew watching her prepare to eat would be such a fucking turn on.

  She takes her first bite, and the look of pure ecstasy on her face is one I want to cause her to make. Her eyes roll back and she moans louder than she did for me, except this one is caused by a fucking bacon burger.

  Look at me, jealous of a burger.

  I watch her chew and swallow, lost in the pleasure of the experience.

  “A dios mío,” she says on a sigh, picking up a napkin and wiping her mouth. “You know what this tastes like?”

  I smirk. “Bad decisions and future regret?”

  She ignores me, keeping her lustful eyes glued to her burger. “My childhood.” She takes another bite, chews a bit, then speaks around it. “My grandfather used to take me to a diner when I was a child that made burgers similar to these.”

  Smiling, I pick up my knife and fork. “Why don’t you tell me about the dancers. Have you ever seen any of them spend too long with a customer or any weird exchanges.”

  She spends the next forty-five minutes discussing the dancers, detailing their personalities and quirks. All habits and rituals that she has witnessed are laid out for me. I learn that there is no back room for private dances like there is at a female strip club. Tony told her he was afraid of the liability. She assumes he’s probably protecting the dancers from women who might claim the men go too far or assault them, so they keep the dances out in the open. I’m betting he’s also protecting his dancers from getting propositioned or assaulted themselves by the horny women. It could go both ways.

  “Shouldn’t you write this down?” she asks halfway through our discussion, raising her eyebrow.

  “No need. I have a good memory.” I smile, cutting my chicken into small bites for something to do. My dinner is swimming in butter, which I avoid. I would stick to the limp, brownish lettuce and almost green tomato, but they are as equally unappetizing as the chicken. I’m not sure how much longer this girl will live eating here once a week. This place is heart-attack central. The subtle slimy film on the booth’s seats should have been a dead giveaway.

  “And what about Randy?” I ask, as she shoves the last of her burger in her luscious mouth.

  “What about him?” she barks around the bite.

  I watch her chew and swallow, and damn, it’s still so sexy.

  “Randy is a featured dancer at the club,” I explain. “He has access to more people because he gets more floor time. Does he have regulars?”

  She stops chewing and blinks, thinking through her answer.

  “Yes, some that are there several times a week.”

  Ah, we’re getting somewhere.

  “And does he ever disappear, even just momentarily, during a shift?”

  She shakes her head. “Randy would never –”

  “Ignore what you think about what Randy would or wouldn’t do, and answer the question,” I say calmly, raising my eyebrow.

  She takes the time to finish chewing and swallows, lifting her chipped, red plastic cup to wash the bite down with a long sip through her straw, the whole time never taking her eyes off me.

  “He goes to the dressing room several times during his shift.”

  Bingo.

  “Do any of the other dancers leave the floor during their shift?”

  She blinks once. “No.”

  I lean forward again, lowering my head to catch her eyes.

  “That doesn’t necessarily mean he’s guilty, cariño.”

  Her face turns hard. “Don’t call me that. And I know it doesn’t prove his guilt, because Randy would not do anything like sell drugs.”

  I smile at her naïveté. “People will surprise you all the time.”

  She sits back and crosses her arms, narrowing her eyes at me. “I’ll bet you it’s Beck.”

  Her sass makes me laugh. “Oh, no. I’m not taking that bet.”

  “Because you know I could be right.”

  “No, it’s because my gut says you’re wrong.” I lean forward. “And my gut? Usually not wrong.”

  My eyes don’t leave hers, daring her to push me more. She rolls her tongue in her mouth, debating whether she should say what she wants to say. So I decide to say something I know will push her.

  “Just like my gut was right earlier, when I know you lied.”

  She raises her eyebrow in question.

  “About wanting me,” I answer lowly, and I watch her eyes; they always give her away. There’s a slight bit of panic, just like I saw earlier. Why is she so against admitting that she wants me?

  “I tell you what, güero –”

  “Look,” I interrupt, “if you take exception to me calling you ‘sweetheart,’ it’s only fair that you stop calling me ‘white boy.’”

  She again rolls her tongue in her mouth. I wish she wouldn’t self-tame her sass. It’s what I like most about her.

  “Fine,” she sighs, rolling her eyes. “Like I was going to say, if you’re so sure you’re right about Randy, then I’d like to put a non-monetary wager on it. So, if I’m right about Beck, then you let me drive Princess.”

  “I knew you liked my car.” I smile. “And if I’m right?”

  She nods to me once, daring me with her expression, and shrugs one shoulder. “Name it.”

  I can’t hide my shit-eating grin. If anything pushes her comfort zone, it will be going to a sex club with the man she claims not to want.

  “When the time comes, you accompany me to Couver.”

  “Done.” She extends her hand to me across the table.

  Whoa. I didn’t expect her to agree, especially this quickly.

  I look to her hand and back at her face. “You’re that certain I’m wrong?”

  She motions with her fingers for me to hurry up and shake.

  So I do.

  And based on her reaction when I take her hand, I have a feeling she thinks she just made a deal with the devil, and I can’t deny that she’s right.

  Eleven

  Cristiana quickly opens the door to her small apartment, and moves to a full length mirror on the door on the opposite wall. When I get a good look at her, what I see about knocks me on my ass.

  “Do I look okay?” she asks, nervously fidgeting about herself, wiping under her heavily-made-up eyes. She slides her hand over her hair, which is slicked back into a high pony tail. Her hands smooth down the soft-looking grey dress. It’s sleeveless, but it covers from her throat to just below her fingertips on her thighs. She adjusts the black chain belt casually hanging at an angle around her hips. The black above-the-knee boots are the kicker, showing just enough of her muscular thighs to be a tease.

  She turns to look at herself from every angle. “I just don’t know if I’m dressed nice enough.”

  I close the door and move slowly across the room, focused on her fidgeting, and she continues her rapid speech.

  “I know you said to dress conservatively and not to wear any colors that would draw attention, but I just feel that this dress isn’t really nice enough, like I should be wearing some high-dollar designer to blend in with all the –”

  I place my hands on her upper arms, and she instantly freezes, then relaxes. Her eyes find mine in the mirror and widen. It’s the first time she’s looked at me since she opened the door, and the way she looks down my body in the mirror, I’m guessing she likes what she sees. When she licks her lips, I smile and clear my throat.

  “You look perfect, Cristiana.”

  She meets my eyes in the mirror and narrows them at me, focusing back on her dress, and the fidgeting resume
s.

  I lean down to whisper in her ear. “If it makes you this nervous, you can back out.”

  Her head whips around to look me in the eye. “I’m not nervous.”

  Liar.

  “I’ve just never been to an exclusive sex club before, and I don’t want to look out of place.”

  I turn her around gently and lift her chin to meet my eyes.

  “You look sinfully beautiful, better than J-Lo looked at the MTV Music Awards last week.”

  Her face softens, and she smiles, so I know I hit my mark.

  “You watch that stuff?” she asks, eyebrow raised.

  “It’s a tradition whenever Charlene and I are together. I was home last week for a meeting with my business partner, and she roped me into watching at her place.” I step back. “I also saw your parents.”

  “Yeah, you see them more than I do, güero,” she says quickly, pulling at the hem of her dress to try to cover more skin.

  I step up to her again, closer than I was before, and wait for her eyes to see me in the mirror. “What did I tell you about calling me that,” I say in a warning tone.

  Her eyes flash, but I’m not sure if it’s because my tone makes her angry or turns her on.

  She doesn’t react beyond the look, but still… I really want to know.

  “You know,” I begin, rubbing my chin, “I find it interesting that your mother has no idea where you work.”

  She rolls her eyes and opens the door behind the mirror, looking for a small handbag to carry. She comes out with two options, holding one up to the dress in front of the mirror.

  “That’s because she wouldn’t like it.” She switches to the other purse and inspects it. “I want her to be proud of me.”

  Fuck. She wants to please her mother, and here I am taking her to a sex club. This suddenly feels dirty and wrong.

  She chooses a handbag and starts to shove things into it.