Cash (Sexy Bastard #2) (27 page)

Tyler
shrugs. “It’s been gradual. Losses on a couple fights,
loans to cover him,” he says. “I hate to be the bearer of
bad news. But I double checked the ledger, and it adds up.”

“Fuck
me,” I say, and a blond woman in high heels and a dress so
tight she must not have exhaled all night turns toward us. She raises
an eyebrow at me, smiles like she might take me up on the offer.

And
with the way she wraps her mouth around the neck of that beer bottle,
keeping her eyes locked on mine as she takes a drink, I might just
let her.

Tyler’s
voice yanks me back to the problem at hand. “So what do you
want to do?” he says. “He’s offered his house as
collateral.”

I
shake my head. “This isn’t a swap meet.” Sometimes
people think that just because I run an illegal fighting circuit and
betting ring, I must be dishonest or inattentive to keeping the
books, or maybe just dumb. So they try to take advantage of me
occasionally. They think I won’t notice or care if they siphon
a little cash or don’t pay in full or don’t pay at all,
that I’m just a guy who made his money beating the shit out of
strangers while debutantes and their dates made their bets. All brawn
and no brains. But they’re wrong.

In
the ring, I didn’t mind being underestimated. It helped me win.
Some spectators think when you look like me, tall, muscular,
broad-shouldered, you won’t be agile enough to dodge a right
hook. So they bet against you. They don’t realize those muscles
aren’t just for showing off to the female members of the
crowd—not that I minded when they noticed. Those hard biceps
mean you’re strong, and those washboard abs make you quick, and
it all adds up to making my bank account big.

But
as the boss outside the ring, I can’t have people not take me
seriously. The Armani suits I wear on fight nights look damn good on
me but they don’t come cheap, so when I loan money I expect to
get it back when the handshake said I would. It’s only fair.
I’ve got a reputation to protect, not to mention a legitimate
business career to support, owning two of Atlanta’s most
popular nightclubs, a cocktail lounge, and Altitude, a bar some
buddies and I run together. I got to the top flying like a butterfly
in the ring, but I stay there because I sting like a bee outside it.

And
Jamie McEntire’s about to feel what I mean.

“You
know where this kid’s house is?” I say, clapping Tyler on
the shoulder. He nods. “Good,” I say. “You’re
driving then. Grab Valero and let him know that as soon as this crowd
clears, we’re making a visit.”

Tyler
leaves, and the woman in the tight dress with the lucky beer bottle
approaches. The dip of her neckline is as low as her skirt is short.
“Someone should wash your mouth out,” she says.

“Sorry
if I offended your delicate sensibilities,” I say, smiling.
We’re at an underground bare-knuckles fight.
Fuck
is hardly the most offensive thing she’s been exposed to
tonight.

“Not
at all,” she says. “I like a man who talks dirty.”
She takes a sip from the bottle, tipping it toward me. “Want
some?”

I
don’t think she just means the beer.

Over
her shoulder, behind her in the crowd, I see a guy in a
decent-looking grey suit. He’s standing with a few other
people but his attention is clearly fixed on her, watching. I tilt
the bottle back toward her with my index finger. “Who are you
here with?”

“No
one special,” she says, taking a step toward me. “Unless
you want some company.”

Women.
They smell good, they look good, they taste good, but they can be so
bad for you.

I’ve
been Grey Suit back there. Even in the shadows of the warehouse I can
read the look on his face, the narrowed eyes, slightly turned down
mouth. He’s a guy who knows that just because he’s the
one who’s taking this girl out tonight it doesn’t mean
he’s going home with her. Back when I was fighting, my
girlfriend at the time used the hours I was knocking guys’
blocks off to get her rocks off. She even slept with some of my
opponents, who I beat anyway, but still—I don’t know if
she was just bored or mean, didn’t love me or herself or both,
but when we broke up two years ago, I swore off relationships. My
motto is get in and get out, in all ways possible.

So
Tight Dress standing in front of me, just the right size to straddle
my lap in the front seat of my Audi, would usually be the perfect
ending to a night.

But
I can’t abide dishonesty, not even from a one-night stand. Like
I said: there are standards.

“Your
date’s not doing it for you?” I say, nodding at Grey Suit
who’s now standing by the door where people are starting to
exit. It must be after two a.m. by now and a weeknight, which means
most of these people are six hours away from clocking in at the
office tomorrow. Thrill seekers by night, executive decision makers
by day, that’s a lot of our audience, and even though I’ve
never been able to tolerate living that kind of rigid, conventional
lifestyle for myself, their money’s just as good as anyone
else’s. They may even have a greater appreciation for the
brawls, since bare-knuckles fighting is a far cry from whatever
uptight Fortune 500 company or corporate law firm they work at.

She
glances at Grey Suit, then turns back to me. “He’s okay,”
she says. That pretty mouth of hers widens. Despite the darkness of
the warehouse, her teeth gleam like white stones. “But you’re
Ryder Cole.” She runs her hand lightly over my arm. “And
I’m willing.”

My
bicep belies my intention to be behave, contracting instinctively as
her fingers linger on my suit sleeve. “To do what?”

“Anything
you want.”

I
lean close to her. “I want you to go home with the guy that
brought you and fuck his brains out like a good girl,” I say.
“But you can think about me while you’re doing it.”

I
cross to where Tyler waits by the door. Security will close up. We’ve
got business to attend to.

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Dylan

Movie reviews are bullshit, but I like to think the one that said I
have the 'eyes of a man before the kill and the smile of one who
enjoys it' got it right.

At least tonight, anyway.

I’ve spent almost the entire day working out, and though
there’s a dull ache flowing through my body, there’s also
that tingle of electricity I get whenever I stand still for too long.
A twinge in my muscles that makes me want to move, to find some
action. Luckily I know all the right places to find it.

I step out of the shower and towel myself off as I walk into the
bedroom, grabbing the beer I left on the desk and downing all of it.
It’ll take a lot more than beer to cool off the energy that’s
gathering momentum inside of me though. There’s a song with a
slow beat and a growling guitar playing, and the dusty light of a
dying LA sun highlighting parts of my room through the blinds. I grab
my phone as I settle on the edge of the bed and spin through the
contacts.

I pause before hitting dial on a friend. I could dress sharp and head
out to the bars of Los Angeles, get plenty drunk, and see where my
instincts lead me – most likely my place or hers – but
that’s not what I want tonight. I love the thrill of the chase,
but I’m ready for action right now.

Then there’s ‘Hot Ass,’ ‘Kinky Blonde,’
‘Finger Sucker,’ ‘Leggy Redhead,’ and all the
other girls with talents memorable enough to give them a special
place in my contacts, but even that won’t cut it.

Tonight I want something dirty. Something new. Something a little
dangerous. My body’s thirsting for a new taste.

I walk through the long hallway and down the staircase that runs to
the gigantic den of the mansion, big and empty but for the expensive
toys and random beer bottles lying around. I open the BootyCall app
on my phone and it presents me with a big green button, the word
‘chat’ written across it like a big understatement. I
swipe it with my thumb and hold the phone to my ear.

“Hey,” comes a dark, husky voice on the other end. Now
this is more like it. I pour myself some of the whiskey I keep on the
coffee table and stretch out on the couch.

“Hello there.”

“So. What you looking for?” she says, making it clear
what she’s looking for herself.

“I’m not sure. But I’ll know when I find it.”

She laughs, and it sounds like she’s making love to the phone.

“I like your accent,” she says. “Where you from?”

“I’m Irish.”

“Ooh,” she coos appreciatively. “You got money?”

It’s not my favorite question, but hey, this is Hollywood after
all. If I didn’t fuck girls who said stuff like this I’d
be a monk here.

“Yeah,” I say, smiling, “I’m fucking loaded.
You got a nice rack? Since we’re asking personal questions and
all.”

“Thirty-four double-dees. As good as money can buy.”

Again, it’s a weird turn of phrase, but I’ve heard worse.

“So what are you offering?” I ask.

She laughs a little, and I can hear her tongue rolling around her
lips as she does so. The combination of a husky voice and my
imagination is pretty cock-pulling, and I’m pressing the cold
whiskey glass against my boxers to keep my dick from bursting out
like something in a monster movie.

“I’m offering a whole night of the dirtiest, nastiest
stuff you could ever imagine,” she says, breathing into each
word like her body’s so hot even she can’t handle it. My
imagination is running wild. “We can do it slow…or we
can do it fast…I’ll be like hot chocolate in your
mouth…”

“How can I refuse…”

“…for only three grand.”

A cold shower could not have crippled my hard-on more. “What?!
Are you fucking kidding me?”

Her voice is all innocence now. “What’s the matter,
honey?”

“I thought this was a hook-up app, not a hooker app.”
That’s one thing I don’t do.

She giggles. “It’s worth it, sugar. If I like you, I’ll
even give you a discount.”

“Yeah, thanks, but no thanks. Paying for sex kinda kills it for
me, you know? Good luck.”

I cancel the call and let it show me the big ‘chat’
button again. I take a healthy swig of the whiskey in my glass and
decide to give it one more go.

I push the big button, bringing the phone to my ear. Someone picks up
on the other end, but for a few moments all I hear is silence.

“Hello?” I say. Another quiet beat. I’m about to
hang up when—

“Um…hello?”

The voice sounds quiet, feminine, definitely over the age of consent,
and too nervous to be a hooker. So far so good.

“Well hello there.” It’s not my best line, but her
hesitation tells me she’s new at using the app, which means
I’ll have to take it slow so she doesn’t hang up before
the fun even gets started.

“Hi,” she finally replies back. There’s an awkward
silence.

Wow, we’re off to a great start.

“So…” I say, trying to sound friendly. “What’s
your sign?”

She laughs, and it sounds nice. Genuine, soft, real – the kind
of laugh that you don’t get in Hollywood too often. I laugh a
bit too.

“Truthfully?” she says. “I’m…a
Scorpio.”

“Oh
really
,” I reply, drawing out the word,
insinuating this actually means something.

“Why does everyone always say it like that? I don’t even
know what it means! It’s the sign of revenge, right? And
jealousy? But that’s not me at all.”

“It’s also the sign of sex, death, and reinvention,”
I tell her. “You know, like rising from the ashes. Big emphasis
on the sex part, as it were.”

“Oh.” She giggles nervously, and I can practically hear
her blushing over the phone. “That explains a lot, I guess.”

“Does it, now?” I’m intrigued. “Explain it to
me. I’m all ears.”

She huffs out a breath, exasperated. “That’s not what I
meant! I meant, it explains why people assume things about me, not
that I’m some kind of nympho or something. I mean, it’s
garbage, right? Nobody really believes in this stuff.” She
laughs again, and I can feel the warmth in it. Or maybe it’s
the drink, because at this point I’ve lost track of how many in
I am.

“How very sensible of you,”
I say.

“I don’t know if I’m sensible. I mean, I’m
talking to a stranger on a booty-call app.”

“Booty-call app? I thought this was for ordering pizza.”

She giggles again, letting her nerves out, and something about it
makes me smile.

“Sorry, this is my first time using this. Have you done this
before?” she asks.

“What? Spoken to a woman with an incredibly cute laugh? Sure.
Not that often, though.”

“Haha! Very charming. But I meant used this app.”

“A couple of times,” I say, figuring the white lie will
help increase her comfort level. “You? Any internet dating,
or—?”

“Never. It’s not really my…thing. I guess you’d
say. This is pretty out of character for me.”

“Oh yeah?” There’s just something so undeniably
appealing about breaking in an uninitiated new booty-caller, I’m
happy to listen to her talk about her lack of experience.

“Yeah. I just saw something about it on TV and figured I’d
give it a shot.”

“People still watch TV?” I tease.

“Haha! Yeah…I dunno. It was kinda like…fate. The
timing was just a little too…perfect.” She sighs.
There’s clearly something upsetting her, and although normally
I’d do a 180 at the first sign of baggage in a woman, right now
it’s nice to know I’m not the only one having a rough
time.

“So signs are garbage, but fate is a thing?”

“Haha, I know. I’m a mess.” She tries to laugh
again, but I hear a tremor in her voice.