Theirs to Pleasure: a Reverse Harem Romance

by Stasia Black

  Wanting. It’s always the most dangerous thing. The wanting. Hoping.

  I thud my forehead against the door. What the hell is wrong with me?

  I’m not supposed to want Kennedy Benson.

  Every time I screw him, I’m supposed to imagine how it leads him that much deeper into my trap. How it’s getting me that much closer to my goal.

  A new life for Enzo and me.

  I bang my head against the door, harder this time.

  Enzo.

  God. I need to hear my brother’s voice.

  I pull away from the door and head to my closet, immediately going to the very back where, under the small cache of underwear and bras I’ve bought online, is the small disposable phone I picked up while I was out for groceries the other day.

  Grabbing my robe from a peg beside the closet door, I head for the balcony. As soon as I open the door I’m hit with a strong ocean breeze. I close the balcony door and breathe it in.

  Kennedy’s apartment is beyond ostentatious with this balcony that stretches the length of both the master and main guest bedrooms. I double-check and yep, it’s still lights out in the rest of the condo. Whatever that sleazy gangster guy wanted must be keeping Kennedy busy. I shudder, remembering the way the man took his time looking up and down my body. Calculating. Like I was a piece of meat and he was determining the best cut.

  Ugh.

  And that’s the kind of people Kennedy does business with.

  Of course it is, idiot.

  I shake my head at myself. Just because I’m stupid enough to let myself get blinded in a few stupid moments of orgasmic bliss doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten my mission here.

  I suck in another breath of fresh air and then dial Enzo’s number.

  It rings. And rings. And rings some more.

  “Damn it, Enzo, pick up,” I whisper, pulling my robe tighter and pacing back and forth on the balcony.

  It’s about to go to voicemail. Damn it, it’s not like I have many chances to call. Kennedy barely leaves the damn house—

  “Yo,” my brother’s voice comes over the line. Well, I think it’s Enzo. When did his voice get that deep?

  “Enzo?”

  “Scar? That you?”

  “Yeah, it’s me.” I sink down on one of the plush lounge chairs on the balcony and lean back. God, I feel like it’s been months instead of weeks since I’ve heard his voice. “How are you? Are you getting enough food? And staying safe?”

  He laughs. “Fuck, Scar, you don’ gotta worry no more. The 12th Streeters got our backs. We got family now. Familia. It ain’t like before.”

  I sit up straighter on the lounge. “Enzo. Just be careful. You know we can’t trust—”

  “Nobody but ourselves.” He laughs again, in the off-handed way he does when he’s blowing me off. “But Scar, you got it wrong. I got brothers now. It’s not just you and me anymore. Like, Francisco, he got vision. He’s making something of hisself and he says I can make something of myself, too.”

  “I’ve always said the same thing. And why are you talking like that?” I stand up and walk to the railing, trying to peer around the side of the building to double-check Kennedy’s still not home. “You have perfect grammar. Stop talking like a thug. And we always said we’re going to get out of this town. After this is all over, we’ll have the money we need to make it happen. We’ll go somewhere nice, somewhere we can afford. We’ll start over. You can finish high school and go to college—”

  “Francisco says college is for chumps,” Enzo cuts me off. “For fucking silver-spoon boys who don’t know shit ‘bout what it means to live in the real world, on the streets. That shit don’t got a fucking thing to do with the real fucking world—”

  “Language,” I snap.

  “Aw fuck, Scar, don’t be frontin’.”

  “What does that even mean?” Who is this boy and where did my sweet brother go?

  I hear some voices in the background and then shuffling.

  “Enzo?” My fingers grip the stone banister. “Zo?”

  A slick voice comes over the speaker. “Scarlet, it’s been too long.”

  My blood cools but then I manage a calm, “Francisco,” in greeting.

  “It’s been too long as in what the fuck has your sweet ass been doing instead of checking with me every two days like I ordered you?”

  My jaw goes tense but I manage to keep my voice placid. “It’s not as easy as I thought. I don’t have time by myself and don’t want to call while Kennedy’s in the house.”

  It’s a lame excuse. But what else can I say? That I didn’t know how to call and talk to my brother after having sex with our enemy and coming so hard my legs were liquid for hours afterward? That getting to know the man himself has been much more confusing than I thought it would be and my emotions have been getting all jumbled up? “He’s been working from home—”

  “I don’t want to hear your excuses, bitch. You his whore yet? Greasing that cock up good with your dirty little cunt on the regular?”

  “Shut up,” I snap. “Tell me my little brother is not in the room right now or so help me God, I’ll—”

  “You’ll what, bitch?” Francisco laughs, such an ugly sound that I pull the phone away from my ear. Then I hear him talking.

  Damn it. I’ve got to calm down and get back in control of this interaction. Obviously Enzo’s not in the room because I don’t hear him losing his crap on Francisco for insulting me. He might have changed the way he speaks to imitate this asshole, but I know my brother. He’s fiercely protective of me.

  I reluctantly pull the phone back to listen.

  “—tell you what you’re going to do. You’re going to drag your slut cunt to Leavenworth and Ellis for a meet tomorrow. It’s time to remind you what’s at stake.”

  I shut my eyes and fight to control my breathing. You had no other choice but to go to the 12th Streeters and ask for their help, I remind myself. You can deal with this asshole. It’s all part of the bigger plan. Just play along a little longer.

  “Fine.” I smile tightly even though he can’t see it. “Time?”

  A pause, then, “Two. My ass oughta be outta bed by then.”

  I roll my eyes. Then my jaw clenches, thinking about Enzo staying with these men. Those cross streets he mentioned are right smack in the Tenderloin District. Even the homeless avoid it unless they’re looking to score—and even then, they only go during the daytime. That place is freaking scary. And it’s the 12th Streeters’ territory. I hate that I had to leave Enzo behind while I do this.

  “I want to see my brother. Bring him.”

  Francisco just laughs and hangs up the phone.

  Bastard. I wish I had the luxury of throwing or smashing my phone like they do on TV, but I don’t get to be a spoiled brat. I breathe out, feeling my nostrils flare with every exhale and listening to my blood rush in my ears.

  Calm down. Rage does nothing. It won’t change anything. God, how many times have I learned that lesson over the past six years? Raging at life won’t change it.

  No. Calm, meticulous planning will. Measuring risk vs. reward. Taking action only when it’s absolutely necessary, usually when there’s no other choice. And never, ever letting passion dictate my actions.

  It’s how I was able to put aside the fact that the 12th Street Gang was involved in my father’s downfall and go to them for help in getting revenge against Kennedy Benson. He’s screwed them over, too, and I needed their resources. The enemy of my enemy is my friend and all that.

  Nine years ago, Bianchi’s, the restaurant that had been in my family for three generations was in a bad spot—the restaurant was aging and revenue had been down. Dad knew he needed to update if we had a hope of surviving to a new era, so he took out a loan from the bank. Two hundred thousand dollars to renovate and update the peeling eighties-era booth linings, expand the kitchen, get new flooring, repaint, put a new face on everything. It would’ve worked too—we had a loyal customer base who came because they kn
ew we had the best Italian food in the city. But we needed more than the aging San Franciscans who remembered Bianchi’s in her glory days—we needed to bring the glory back.

  But before we could even bring the contractors in, Kennedy Benson decided he wanted our restaurant. So he sicked the 12th Streeters on us. They broke dad’s leg, extorted him until soon all the money from the bank loan had gone into theirs and Kennedy’s pockets. We lost the restaurant within six months.

  And God, that was only the beginning of the losses.

  I shake my head and squeeze my eyes shut.

  I got so sick, then right as I was getting better, we lost Dad. The house was in foreclosure by the time I got out of the hospital. Enzo and I had been homeless and running ever since.

  Until I decided enough was enough.

  A knock comes from my bedroom door.

  “Scarlet?”

  Kennedy’s voice sends an odd tugging sensation through my chest. I rub at my sternum, frowning. I step back into the room, sliding the balcony door shut and then padding over on the plush carpet to the bedroom door.

  I don’t open it or respond.

  “Scarlet?” Kennedy calls again. His voice is so deep. It has this growly, rumbling quality that just draws you in. The first time I talked to him at the homeless shelter, it startled me so much I had a hard time sticking to my lines.

  I’d prepared so much for the moment. My Norwegian mother had been a model and I’d inherited her looks. No matter that I hated her for leaving Dad and me when I was just eight months old, her DNA worked in my favor. Dad never talked much about her, but in the old pictures he had of her, she always looked cold and calculating. That had to be me.

  At least until he asked if I wanted soup with that damn rumbling voice of his.

  “Scarlet, please open up. I just want to talk.”

  I swallow but don’t say anything.

  “Fuck,” I hear him curse through the door, probably not meant for me to hear. “I’m sorry for what that bastard said to you. And shit, for not decking him. I just… It’s complicated.” He pauses and I imagine him running his hand through his hair like he does sometimes when he gets frustrated. “Christ, I hear how lame that sounds.”

  There’s the slightest thud like he’s lifted a hand to the door. Or maybe a fist?

  “Fuck, there’s no excuse. Scar— could you please just open the door? Your light is on and I know you’re awake.”

  Still, I don’t say anything. Damn him. Damn him to hell. I squeeze my eyes shut and, as if of its own volition, one of my hands rises to the door. I imagine his hand on the other side, the wood between us no barrier at all. I imagine his skin touching mine and a shiver runs through me.

  I squeeze my eyes shut even tighter and jerk my hand away.

  “Stupid,” I whisper to myself.

  “Scarlet?” Hope colors Kennedy’s voice. “Did you say something?”

  I raise my head and curse myself internally. Awesome, now he knows that I’m standing here like an idiot.

  “It’s fine, you don’t have to say anything else. Just listen. I’m sorry for tonight. Just the ending, I mean,” he hurries to clarify. “What happened with Yang. Everything before that was—” He breaks off and I feel my own cheeks flush. “—It was amazing. More than amazing. It was— You just— Shit,” he stops with a laugh. “I told you I’d talk and now all I can do is stick my foot in my mouth. Anyway, you’re just amazing.” Then he pauses again and I hear him mutter, “Amazing? Find another fucking word, Benson.”

  I clap a hand over my mouth so he doesn’t hear me giggle.

  “Anyway,” he says again, “I just wanted to let you know that I had a really wonderful time with you tonight and I think you’re really special and…yeah. I feel pretty stupid telling all this to a door. Feel free to give a guy a break any time now and open up.”

  Silence. In spite of myself, my hand creeps back up to the door.

  “All right. Good night, beautiful Scarlet.” His rumbling-over-rocks-voice is so soft, so gentle as he says my name.

  It’s not fair. I stare at the door. At my hand, reaching for him. Reaching for something it shouldn’t. Someone I shouldn’t want. Can’t want.

  And yet I jerk open the door anyway.

  To an empty hallway.

  Kennedy gave up.

  I close the door just as quickly as I opened it and lean my back against it breathing heavily.

  What am I thinking? What would I have done if he was still standing there? Invited him in for a nightcap? Had sex with him in an actual bed?

  God. I scrub both my hands down my face. Rules. There are rules to this. I swore there would never be any beds. That it would be too intimate. That what I would do with him would only be fucking. I wince a little inside even just thinking the word. I’ve always thought cussing is crass. Not for me.

  But that’s exactly why it’s how I should think of what I do with Kennedy. It’s just a part I’m playing with him. It’s not me. I can’t keep losing sight of that like I have been.

  I look desperately toward the balcony and beyond. I’m not giving him my real self. I’m not. In the distance, I can see the Golden Gate Bridge.

  Soon Enzo and I will be out of here. If everything goes according to plan, we’ll have enough money so that if we play our cards right, we’ll never want for anything again.

  Because wanting. Wanting is always the problem.

  Chapter 11

  I was tempted to wear my old get up of the men’s flannel and over-sized overalls to my meetup with Francisco but changed my mind at the last second. Getting out of the house wouldn’t have been hard. I could have worn one of my cute new dresses with my old clothes stuffed in my giant purse so Kennedy didn’t wonder why I was going out dressed like the bum I used to be.

  But no, Francisco’s doubted from the beginning that I can pull this off, so I wear one of my cute new summer dresses. Not my best or worst quality outfit, nothing too showy or provocative. Just womanly. Just enough to show that I know what I’m doing without being obvious that I’m trying to make a point.

  Still, I’m rethinking it as I walk down Turk Street and head into the Tenderloin District. This isn’t an area where you simply get catcalled. More like propositioned with the expectation of follow-through.

  “Suck my cock,” says an older homeless man with a beard sitting on a stoop outside a rundown townhouse. He stands up and grabs his crotch. Then he unzips and just pulls it out, right there in broad daylight in front of God and everybody else on the street. A younger guy in a cut-off muscle shirt throws a can at the flasher.

  “Ignore that dirty fuck,” the young guy says. “Let me titty-fuck you and cum all over that angel face and I’ll hook you up.” He gives a head nod toward an alley and turns like I should follow him.

  Oh my God. I hurry quicker down the sidewalk, appalled. Then I laugh at myself. What, Scarlet, a whole week and a half of a warm bed and hot showers and you forget what this life’s all about?

  I know this area. I know what goes on here.

  “Don’t be a tease, puta,” the young guy calls after me. “You know what we do to puta bitches here who think they’re too good for the neighborhood? You learn to eat dick real fast.” He starts cackling, sounding high off his ass, and a couple of his friends who were standing around beside him start cracking up, too.

  Damn, damn, damn. Why did I ever agree to meet in this area? What if Francisco just lured me here to screw with me?

  I quicken my steps even as logic attempts to fight alarm. No. He needs me. I’m his golden ticket to a hell of a lot of cash and he might be a class A bastard, but he’s not stupid. Well, not that stupid.

  Speak of the devil and he appears.

  Francisco steps out from the next alleyway, two of his guys flanking him. Francisco is only medium-tall, but he’s broad and built, and he has a meanness about him that you feel at first sight. His eyes are deep set, beady, and calculating. And they’re zeroed in right on me.

  I
trip a little, taking in a sharp, startled breath.

  Crap. Get it together. Don’t show weakness.

  “Where’s Enzo?” I look around Francisco and the other two, trying to see my brother.

  Francisco smiles lazily. “He couldn’t come.” Then he eyes me up and down. “You two even really related? You don’ look nothing like each other.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. Enzo and I have dealt with that BS our whole lives. I’m blonde, pale, and blue-eyed. Enzo’s Italian-Hispanic origins give him completely different coloring.

  “Different mothers,” I snap. Neither of them were winners. Enzo’s mom was a fling Dad had right after my mom left. The woman wasn’t interested in being a mother any more than my mom, but she realized it as soon as she got pregnant. My brother always jokes that his bio-mom’s Catholicism is the only reason he actually made it into the world. He wears a cross and would sometimes drag me to Mass because of it.

  “I bet your mom was hot,” Francisco says, eyes lingering on my chest.

  Speaking of BS. If I don’t keep this an even playing field between us, I’m screwed. “It seems like you’re forgetting who came to you with this prospect in the first place.” I step right up to him. “And who’s about to make you a very rich man. You need me so I’ll thank you to show me a little respect.”

  Francisco spits on the ground at my feet. Disgusting.

  “I think you’re the one who’s forgetting her place, bitch.” Francisco closes the gap between us and shoves me up against the wall, hand at my throat.

  Crap. What the—

  “Let me go,” I try to choke out, clawing at his hand. This bastard thinks he can just— I kick at his shins. He growls and his hand goes so tight there’s no air.

  Oh God, oh God, he pushes even harder and forces me up on my tiptoes.

  I calculated wrong. So wrong. He doesn’t care about revenge. About the plan. About anything. He’s a maniac.

  I blink and try to gasp for a breath. My hands grapple at his huge hand. How long since I got a breath? My eyes feel like they’re bulging, and I can see a satisfied grin come across Francisco’s face.