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The King Brothers Boxed Set Page 21
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"I can't tonight, babe," I say apologetically. "Maybe next time. In the meantime, your first round is on me."
As if on cue, Lynn giggles, although I haven't said anything funny. I've long since come to the conclusion that it must be a nervous tic of hers.
"Are you working or something tonight?" she asks with disappointment.
"I'm always working, darlin'," I explain. "But buy me a scotch next time?"
I offer Lynn a flirty wink to end the conversation, and then head back upstairs to take a call in the office. I'd rather stay on the main floor and deal with this jerk that Sloan has attracted into her orbit, but my brother Camden has evidently been on hold for five minutes.
"Why didn't you call me on my cell?" I ask without saying hello.
"I did. You never hear the damn thing when you're downstairs."
"Why aren't you here yet?"
"Why do you sound agitated?"
"No reason."
"I'm not coming. I'm staying home to get some preliminary work done on one of the Miami fixes."
I'm in a business partnership with Camden and our best friend Roman. While we own several businesses including a dance club and a restaurant, the bulk of our income comes from fixing problems for affluent clients. In other words, saving the asses of the wealthy people or companies who can afford to pay us. We've recently acquired a few new clients in Miami.
"Computer work?"
"Obviously."
My brother is a tech genius. If a fix requires any sort of complex computer research or hacking then he handles it.
"So why can't you do that here?"
"I'm dead in the middle of altering some dude's credit report, and I don't feel like stopping just to come by the club to check in if that's okay with your needy ass."
"What do you mean my needy ass? You're a part owner in the club last time I checked, asshole. If you enjoy sharing in the profits then you need to do your share of the work."
"Let's talk real talk, Cut. The club is your thing. Half the women lining up at the door every night are there to catch a glimpse of you. You are the face of Lotus now, like it or not. Roman and I are practically silent partners at this point."
"You're just proving my point."
"What point? That no one can run the club like you."
"No, my point that you and Roman are acting like silent fucking partners when you're not. That's not something we ever agreed to. When Joseph gave Lotus to Roman, we all agreed on a three-man partnership. You know I wouldn't have ever agreed to anything else."
I can't believe my brother's lame attempt to back pedal his way out of his responsibility to the club. I know the real reason why he hasn't been showing up. I share an assistant with my brother and Roman named Jade, but she's also my brother's girlfriend, and recently she's moved into the carriage house with us. I love the little snow pea to death, and I'm happy that she makes my brother happy, but their relationship has changed Camden in ways that I don't understand. Ways that have made me think twice about ever settling down with a woman.
"Is Jade at the house too?"
"Yeah she's hanging back with me for a little while."
"So, it's just me at the club tonight," I say with an icy attitude. "Again."
Jade usually works some nights at the club with me.
"I know you've been carrying some of the weight lately, but that's the beauty of a three-man partnership. We can't all share the load equally at all times. Sometimes there's going to be situations when one of us has to step up and the others fall back. Fortunately, we have that flexibility."
"That sounds like a really bullshit way of explaining why you two slackers never come to the club anymore or the tapas lounge for that matter."
"Would you chill out. I'm still handling business, Cut. I'm just doing it at home today."
"Monkey business."
"How many times have I been on the computer half of the night hacking into someone's personal life online, while you were at some titty bar watching women spin their asses around a pole. Let's not get into a pissing match about who works the hardest around here."
"That's different."
"It always is."
"My distractions are temporary and unimportant. They don't interfere with work. I can get up and leave at a moment's notice. Your distraction lives with us and seems to be the most important thing on your to-do list lately."
"I'm not going to tell you again, asshole. I am working. But speaking of distractions, you seem to have a few of your own. What about that bet we made a while back?"
"What bet?"
"Oh, now you're suffering from memory loss? The bet where you get in between the glamazon's legs for a thousand bucks plus breakfast cooked by my woman. Does any of that ring a bell?"
Glamazon is Roman's nickname for Sloan. Now all three of us have gotten into the habit of using it but rarely to her face. She'd definitely rip us all a new one.
"Obviously I was just messing with you that day. I wasn't remotely serious."
"Uh-huh."
"Jade would never have agreed to her part of the bet, and you wouldn't have allowed it even if she had. Someone is being a little stingy lately."
"You know the rules. We mutually agree to share a woman who’s willing until one of us doesn't want to anymore."
"I get it. You don't want to share anymore. Fine."
"You'll understand one day."
"Kill me if that day comes."
"Hey, I just got a text from Rome. There's a job tonight. Room 2456 at The Four Seasons. It's Newman again. Newman's easy."
"Why can't you or Rome handle him?"
"You're the closest to the hotel and the situation is time sensitive. Marco can run things at Lotus until you get back. He knows the drill. I'll try and meet you at the hotel in about forty-five minutes or an hour. Not that you'll need me. You'll probably be finishing up by the time I get there."
"Fine," I reluctantly agree. It's honestly the last thing I feel like doing tonight, but it's work and I never turn down money. "I'll try to leave here in fifteen."
"Cool. So . . . let me ask you again. Are you still trying to tell me that you're not interested in Sloan at all?"
"It's funny how when some dudes get into relationships, they try and make their single friends feel like shit for not wanting the same thing. Well it's not going to work with me, big brother. Am I interested in the glamazon for one night? Hell, yes. Am I interested in forever? Hell, no. That's not me. I'm not a one-woman type of man. Never have been. Never will be. It's not fair to all the women of this fair city."
"It's not fair all right. God, you're full of yourself," he sneers. "Mom coddled you way too much."
"For good reason. I'm a King and the last of my kind. God made me this way in his infinite wisdom."
"I guess that's why he made me first then."
"Whatever, asshat."
"Is she there tonight?"
"Maybe."
"Poor, clueless Sloan.” Camden chuckles. “I assume you've been sabotaging her love life tonight as per usual. Frightening away any gutless dude that comes sniffing around her in the club. The glamazon can't even get her womanly needs met, because you're so busy cock blocking."
"Shut up, Cam."
"I hate to break it to you, but the way you're acting reeks of the familiar scent of wanting forever." He chuckles again. "Not just one night."
"That's just me having a little fun." I attempt to blow him off. "Which has always been one of your biggest problems hasn't it? You hardly know the difference."
"Or maybe it's you who doesn't know the difference, because I don't think you're playing around at all. I think you're serious as shit about her."
"Okay, can we stop with all the relationship chat now, Dr. Phil? I've got a fix to get to by myself, and then probably will have a club cash register to close out after that–by my fucking self."
I can hear Camden's audacious laughter right before he hangs up the phone. He's so annoying. Just because I'm a
ttracted—okay, deeply attracted—to Sloan doesn’t mean that I want to put a ring on it. Why would I want to lay claim to a high maintenance, judgmental, party girl who barely says ten words to me? I don't. I'm just helping her out. Me eliminating some of these club douchebags from her life is not me being interested or wanting forever, it's just me doing what I do best.
Fixing shit.
Five
Cutter
The club is on fire tonight. Fridays are turning into one of our busiest nights at Lotus. While I've been working on attracting a diverse clientele to the club, Fridays still belong to the suits—corporate men and women who come here after work ready to let loose. Even though it's dim and packed to the rafters tonight, when I hit the top of the stairs, nothing can stop me from spotting the dummies I've got less than fifteen minutes to handle. They're still at the bar and the glamazon is nowhere in sight.
Perfect.
"Let me have a word," I say finally approaching jerk number one with the big mouth.
Both of the posers back up a few paces once I approach.
"You talking to us?"
"No, just you."
"Is there a problem, man?"
They both give me a long confused look. Wondering who I am, what I want, and probably assessing how they plan on "handling" me if I turn out to be a problem. In all of ten seconds, I can tell by the new confidence in their stances that they're cautious but not particularly worried. I may be big, but there's two of them, so they think they're good.
Rookie mistake.
"Might be." I grin.
"What's your problem, dude?" the sidekick resembling a shorter version of Mr. Clean asks me.
"First of all, this is none of your business, Professor X, so you can step away. I've already made it clear that this is between me and Casanova here."
"I don't think I know you, dude. What's with the attitude?"
I stare down the poser's little bald headed friend until he does the right thing.
"Uh, I'm going to go take a whiz, Cord. Let you two straighten this out. I'll be right back."
Pussy.
"So, I think you might have me mistaken with someone else." Cord the poser starts timidly trying to talk himself out of whatever wrath he thinks I'm about to bring down on his ass.
Sometimes I forget that my size, my tats, and the way I carry myself intimidates most men. Most people really. That's because there's nothing average about me. So yes, I can be a scary motherfucker, but only when provoked. Most of the time I like to think that I'm a walk in the park.
"No, I'm pretty sure that I have the right jackass."
"Woe, dude, what are you so pissed about? I'm just here trying to have a good time."
I take a small step forward while simultaneously slipping my hand behind my back. Inside of my waistband and underneath my henley is where I keep Benny–my glock. Sometimes I like to touch the handle. Make sure it's there. Adjust it on occasion. I'm not reaching for it or anything. It's really just a habit. I like to play with something in my hands when I'm anxious, or angry, or excited. When I was two it was my stuffed dog. When I was four it was my GI Joe figurine. Then after tagging along on a few business runs with my father, it became a gun.
My father didn't talk much. He wasn't a big sharer. But I knew he was proud of the good shot I'd become when he gifted me my first handgun. A small Ruger revolver. I was way too young to have it, and he was probably a very bad father for giving it to me, but I cherished that gun.
Every day I cleaned it. Loaded it. Unloaded it. I had a special hiding place for it in my room, so that my mom wouldn't find it (she abhorred guns). And every time my dad took me and Camden on his "special runs" I'd carry it with me. Concealed like he taught me; but always reaching back for it. Making sure it was there. Just in case I needed it. Just in case one of my dad's runs went south. Which makes it all the more painful that the one day I left it at home, because my mom was watching me like a hawk that morning, was the day that my father was shot and killed.
Anyway, I'm guessing that the poser thinks I must be reaching for my piece or something, because a look of total terror passes over his face.
"What are you doing, man."
He places his drink on the bar top and starts backing away from me. He's getting worked up for nothing. I would never pull out in a club unless I absolutely had to, and I'd also never waste a bullet on someone like this no matter what he did. It would be too easy. There's no satisfaction in easy.
"Relax, Tinker Bell. Nobody's going to hurt you. I just want to tell you something, and I want to make sure that you hear me loud and clear."
"Sure, man, whatever. Speak your piece."
"A few minutes ago, you and your friend were talking about a young lady who's a friend of mine."
"Who . . . Sloan?"
"That's Miss Pearson to you."
"Miss Pearson," he parrots back in a forced but respectful tone.
"So, as I was saying, Miss Pearson is a friend of mine, and you were talking mighty disrespectfully about her. Being quite presumptuous about what you were going to do to her, and how that might benefit you at your sorry ass job. So I thought I should step in and make things super simple for you.
"You will never fuck Sloan Pearson. You will never kiss her, touch her, talk to her, or breathe the same air as her. If she's in this club, then you leave. If she walks by you on the street, then you better suck your breath in and hold it until she's ten feet away. She's a stranger to you. She doesn't exist. You understand what I'm saying, homeboy?"
You can always tell the guys who had to hold their own while growing up versus the ones who had everything handed to them on a silver platter. They're all the same. Say a couple of words to them and their faces crumple like they're ten-year-old kids being bullied on the playground.
This guy is definitely a powder puff. Soft as butter. It's not even fun to punk him, but it was necessary. I may not want Sloan for myself, but I can still do her this solid. We run in the same circles. Her best friend is marrying my best friend. I'm just eliminating some of the bad apples for her. At least the ones floating around in here. She should be thanking me. You're welcome, glamazon.
"Yeah, man, I . . . I understand."
"Good. Now is Sloan still here?"
I already know that she's long since ditched this guy. I watched her sneak out through the delivery entrance less than ten minutes ago.
"Yeah, man, she went to the restroom or something."
"So where should you be going right now?"
"But my buddy is still–"
"Let me stop you right there, Cord. Do you think your friend is taking the longest piss ever or is it possible that he left you? Because I strongly believe that he selected door number two. Something you need to be doing as well. Leaving."
"I think there's been a misunderstanding. I was just shooting the shit with my friend earlier, because I'm drunk. I really like Sloan. I mm-mean Miss Pearson," he stutters. "I meant no disrespect."
"You meant no disrespect? Well guess what, I don't give a shit. Excuses are like assholes, Cord. Everybody's got one. Your membership to Lotus has been revoked. Get out now while you still can on two legs." I point toward the exit sign.
A look of sudden recognition passes over his face.
"Wait, are you the owner?" His eyes enlarge.
"Do I even need to answer that."
"No, Mr. King. My apologies. I'm leaving right now."
Cord quickly exits the premises without even the smallest glance back. Another sure sign that he wasn't worth Sloan's time. He gave in way too easily. If it were me, I would have fought much harder for much less.
A woman sitting at the bar by herself, who's been eavesdropping on our exchange the entire time, turns around and gives me the thumbs up sign.
"What's that for?" I ask amused.
"You're Cutter King, right?"
"I am."
I check the time on my cell. Honestly, I don't have time for pleasantries. I should have
left here for the hotel five minutes ago.
"I'm Aria. This is my third time at the club since joining two months ago." She holds her glass up then takes a sip. "I've heard a lot about you."
"Nice to meet you, Aria. How are you enjoying it here at Lotus?"
"Loving it so far. Listen, I know you're a busy man, but I just wanted to tell you that I happened to overhear what that jerk was saying, and you definitely did the right thing for your friend by sending him on his way."
Now this is a smart woman.
"It's nice to see that someone appreciates my superpowers," I say throwing on a little appreciative charm.
Aria responds with a chuckle which only confirms my conclusion that I must have the unmistakable ability to say almost anything and make every woman I meet laugh.
Every woman but Sloan.
"You should tell her what an ass that guy was. You probably saved her from wasting a month of her life going on some really bad dates with him. She owes you a debt of gratitude."
"That's exactly what I've been saying." I nod in agreement. "I'm helping her out and probably a whole lot of other women too."
"You are," she agrees. "I should know. I'm one of those women who went on about six weeks worth of bad dates with a man that nobody warned me about."
Exactly what I thought.
"So the king is actually performing a public service."
"I'm sorry, the who is?"
Six
Cutter
It's not even midnight yet and the room reeks of fear and blood. I'm sitting in the corner of a Four Seasons hotel suite, spinning my slimline glock round and round atop of a red mahogany desk with my pointer finger. Watching someone I once respected, with tears streaming down his face, crumble like a house of cards.