Bradley's Whistle (P.ornstars of Romance #2) (6 page)

I scrunched up the second sticky note from Wiska and threw it in the bin as well, then pulled a bud from my ear and stared at Davina. Finally, she rolled her eyes and threw the files on my desk. Her eye roll wasn’t anywhere near as endearing as Wiska’s. ‘Endearing’, now that was a little less gay than cute and adorable.

“That’s the last of the Xavier merger you were curious about,” she purred in that British accent that got under my balls and tickled them.

“Cool, thanks,” I murmured, sticking the earbud back in place. I purposefully ignored Davina, and my gaze sought out the computer screen in front of me.

I had just started playing
The Walking Dead
, and I was already stuck. I hated gaming, but I was waiting for reports to be emailed from the US, which meant I didn’t have shit to do until they arrived. And I was hiding. At home, all that greeted me was an eccentric gay man, his way too serious lover, and a porn star. A gorgeous, blue eyed, blond haired porn star that could break down fucking walls and destroy my rules with nothing more than a smile.

A gentle warmth at my side caused me to jump, and when Davina lowered her fine ass to my desk, her silk covered thighs pressed against my arm. I pulled both buds from my ears and gave her my best ‘boss man’ stare. She smiled, her cherry red lips curving into a grin that would give the most hardened warriors goosebumps. Leaning to peer down at my computer screen, her blouse slipped forward and her spectacular lace covered tits were placed right in my face. I looked—I’m a dude, and that’s what we do. If I guy tells you he doesn’t sneak a peek at the abundant cleavage of a woman’s breasts when she leans forward, he must be gay.

“So, Emerson,” Davina purred. “What do you have planned for your Friday night?”

I raised a brow and just stared. I stared long enough that she began to shift nervously, and I almost smiled. “Just the usual, I’ll be heading out to the Lovely Lounge for a few drinks.”

The Lovely Lounge was one of London’s most renowned strip clubs. They were exclusive, their women were spectacular—the best money could buy—their clientele was refined, and the drinks were expensive. The Lovely Lounge was respectable and sophisticated, yet they still sported private booths at the back of the establishment for the superb blow jobs the angelic staff graced upon us mere mortals if we so wished, and we gladly paid the hefty price tag that went with those mind blowing BJs.

“Why don’t you take me out to dinner? I promise your night will be a thousand times better, and maybe a little bit cheaper than a night at the Lovely Lounge.”

I leaned back in my chair. “That’s a very bold claim,” I murmured. “You place yourself on a very high shelf, Davina.”

She smiled and picked up one long leg, sitting her heeled foot on the corner of my chair. I only had to lean to my right an inch and I’d get a great view of her juicebox. I almost snorted as I recalled the childish name Decker and I had given a woman’s vay-jay in our pre-teens. We were no longer pre-teens, though, and I could stand up and take her on my desk right now if I wished. I kinda wished—I did need to get laid—but I wouldn’t. Rules, damn, fucking, rules!

“And I can back that claim up. Take me to dinner, Emerson.”

She was so sure of herself she didn’t bother to ask, she simply thought to command me. There was no doubt if I took her out the night would be spectacular. She was stunning—with her long, dark hair, olive skin, and dark chocolate, almond shaped eyes, she was as lovely as the highly paid ladies at the Lovely Lounge—she was offering me everything, and it would definitely be cheaper than a night at the strip club. I found myself wishing her hair were lighter, her skin paler, her long, svelte body more petite, though.

“Davina, the last secretary I took to dinner is still sending me emails threatening to shove my cock in a hole I use as an exit only. While I have no doubt we would have a great time, I really need a secretary.”

I put the earbuds back in my ears and turned my chair, causing Davina’s foot to slip from the corner of it, which in turned forced her to suddenly stand from my desk. From the corner of my eye, I watched as she stood there, completely perplexed by the fact I had turned her down. Her cheeks were flushed, but I don’t think it was with embarrassment—she was pissed. The moment she stormed out of my office slamming the door in her wake, I breathed a sigh of relief. I needed to get out of here, and I needed to get laid, pronto. A safe lay, with a safe woman who was exempt from the rules.

It had been too long and images of Wiska were constantly filling my mind, causing the never-ending erection from hell. I had beaten off so many times in the last two days I was beginning to feel like the dirty fucking pervert I was behaving like. Shutting down my computer, I grabbed my phone from the desk and left the building.

“Did you have a good day, Sir?” Floyd asked as I stepped into the elevator. I grunted noncommittally. “Your guests have been busy today. Miss Wiska was fitted with her new cast; it’s very bright,” he continued with a smile.

“If Casey and Lionel had anything to do with it, it will be bright pink.”

“Hmmm,” Floyd said with a small smile. “She seemed a little down in the dumps on her arrival back. I hope she is well.”

I turned to ask Floyd what he meant, but we had already reached my floor and the doors slid open. That wouldn’t have stopped me from continuing to talk, but the hands that suddenly dragged me out of the elevator certainly did.

“Have a good evening, Sir.”

The elevator doors closed, and the sight that stood in front of me brought my world to a sharp, grinding halt.

“What the fuck are you wearing?” I snapped, my eyes taking in Casey from head to toe and back again.

He shoved a bag into my arms. “No time to talk. Get dressed.”

I glanced down at my suit, to the bag in my arms, and then back to him. Bewilderment had turned me into a speechless mute. “Why are you dressed like that?” I finally asked.

He was in a costume, and if my memory served me correct, I believe he was dressed as He-Man. With a blond bob wig, skin colored muscle suit with a silver sash that crossed at the chest and met at a red cross like symbol in the middle. Around his hips, he wore a fir loin cloth, and I silently prayed he wore underwear beneath it. God, I hope his junk was tucked away. His feet were covered in matching fur boots, and a plastic sword was strapped to his back.

“Wiska isn’t doing so good, and it’s Fancy Dress Friday. I took the liberty of getting you a costume, so quick, put it on before we go inside.”

I shook my head as I tried to decipher the foreign language he was speaking. “What is Fancy Dress Friday, and what’s wrong with Wiska?”

“Dammit, Bradley! You ask too many questions. Wiska is having a pity party; she’s homesick, her wrist hurts, and after everything that’s happened over the last two months, her pride has taken a massive hit. Back in the US, Wiska and her friends, that would be us and a few of the Ryder Harder team . . . oh, and sometimes Andi and Decker, would get together for drinks on a Friday night, and we’d always dress up. It was a hoot, and Lionel and I thought it might help cheer her up, so . . .” he snapped his fingers in front of my face, “make like a dump truck and haul ass.”

“I’m going out. I have plans.”

Casey gave me an exasperated sigh. “Bradley, Wiska is really struggling. She is always the happiest person in the room, she is loving, kind, generous, everyone adores her, and the only reason she is in her current predicament is because she trusted her heart to a flea infested bunghole!” His use of the word bunghole made me want to smile.

“Everyone, at one time or another, has trusted their heart with someone who drove them crazy. That’s life, Casey. Maybe Wiska just needs a good night’s sleep and some Tylenol.” I tried to hand him back the bag of clothes, but I was ruthlessly forced against the wall, pinned there by the formidable homosexual mass that was Casey, dressed as He-Man.

“Listen here, Bradley. This crazy was the bad kind of crazy, the kind that takes a beautiful girl’s trust, spits on it, shits on it, passes it around for the entire world to shit on it, then sits back and watches with big, puppy dog eyes that echo Bart Simpson’s wise and unforgotten words: ‘I didn’t do it.’ Wiska’s kind of crazy should have his genitals deep fried; instead, he’s celebrating with his wife and children in the Maldives, while Wiska hides out here in your sorry-ass excuse of a home. She’s homesick, she misses her apartment, she misses her friends, and she misses her parents who haven’t spoken to her since it all happened. Now, put the damn costume on, or I will use my sword.”

I wasn’t used to violence; I may have worked for a violent man in a violent organization, but I was a pencil pusher. Casey’s sudden use of strength caught me by surprise, but his words made that show of dominance slip right from my mind.

“What the fuck did he do to her?” I growled.

“Ask Wiska. She’s embarrassed about it, but she would tell you if you asked . . . nicely. Now,” Casey backed away, “sorry about that. I went all He-Man on your ass.” He giggled. “Well, not on your ass, but, you know. Come on, Bradley, pretty please, with sexy, sparkly vampires on top, play Fancy Dress Friday with us . . . for Wiska?”

I sighed and glanced down at the bag. “Please tell me this isn’t a Battle Cat costume.”

Casey clapped his hands together with glee. “Not even close. Now hurry up before the ninety-year-old bat who lives across the hall pokes her head out the door to see what all the noise is about. With her Coke-bottle glasses, I doubt she’d see much, but I bet you a hand job she’d shuffle on out here and try to cop a feel.”

I scrunched my nose at Casey’s description of Lady Becket, who lived across the hall, but didn’t discount it. She was old as dirt, but I had already been on the receiving end of her wandering hands once. Twice was way too disturbing to even consider.

Wiska

With my left hand, I unsteadily poured myself a glass of grape juice and watched Lionel set up cheese and crackers on the large, square coffee table in front of my sofa bed. My arm already itched beneath the rainbow cast I now wore. It was pretty, so, so pretty, but looking at it made me sad. This wouldn’t have happened if I had been at home; there were no swans in the vicinity of my apartment, and my stupid arm would be in one piece. If I hadn’t been stupid enough to date Kasper, I’d be home, my family would be talking to me, and my mom would be baking me brownies because I couldn’t get through a week without them. Much to my dismay, I had been through eight weeks without them, and I missed them so much. I forced away the tears that threatened to fall and took a sip of juice while I watched Lionel prepare the game we had purchased earlier in the day.
Loaded Questions
, surely there was little room for Lionel to go all board game Nazi on us with that one. Lionel loved board games and became a little overzealous whenever we played. I refused to play
Scattegories
with him ever again; the man was all-out brutal.

Casey had disappeared while I was dressing, and I could only assume he was adding the finishing touches to his He-Man costume. Lionel was wearing a grey flight suit, which sported badges on its shoulders, and a pair of aviator sunglasses. According to Lionel, he was Iceman from
Top Gun
. He refused to be Tom Cruise because, as far as Lionel was concerned, the man needed a good dose of Ritalin.

I stepped back and checked my reflection in the dark glass of the oven sitting in the wall before me. Dressed as Wonder Woman, I had on tight, blue lycra shorts with silver stars on them that stopped an inch below my Bermuda Triangle. They were short, but hey, I was freaking Wonder Woman. The top was a strapless number that dropped like an upside down triangle to my navel, the lower half gold, the fabric over my breasts red. I had red knee high boots, a pretty gold head band that pulled my blonde hair away from my face, and silver wrist cuffs, one still sitting on my bed because it didn’t fit over the cast. It was a fantastic costume, I looked good, but my heart just wasn’t in it. I wanted to climb back into my jammies and sulk.

The front door burst open, and Casey sauntered through with a smug look on his face. Where the hell had he gone dressed like that? When Bradley followed in after him with a sullen look on his face, my mood rocketed from miserable to ecstatic in a heartbeat. Holy Spartan hotness, Wonder Woman. My blue lace thong wanted to melt right off my body.

Bradley was dressed as a gladiator, a heavy leather pleated skirt sitting low on his hips and hanging to mid-thigh, and oh how delicious those strong, muscular thighs were. His feet were covered in leather boots to his calves, and that was it. The rest of his spectacular body was naked. I felt a deep-seated, quite perverted need to run my hands down that strong smooth chest and those beautiful abs that resembled the rippled swell on the ocean. I pressed my tongue against the back of my teeth as I imagined following the happy-trail to paradise beneath his navel, which led a path to the gladiator skirt . . . and beyond. When my horny eye balls finally did their third lap of his perfect body, it was to find Bradley staring at me. The look on his face made my nipples pebble, and I fought the need to cross my arms over my chest. His expression was probably much like the shocked awe of a teenage boy’s first porn experience. He was blatantly checking me out, but it didn’t bother me. In fact, I felt a little thrill at his unabashed exploration. When his lusty gaze met mine, he licked his lips. LICKED HIS FREAKING LIPS! A little nervous, I shuffled and realized I had never been in this kind of situation before. I’d never been nervous under the scrutiny of a man before, but here and now, with Bradley looking at me like I was candy on a stick, I was anxious.

“Alright, enough eye fucking. Let’s make margaritas!” Casey sang loudly.

I felt the heat rush to my face and was grateful to see the darkening of Bradley’s cheeks, too. While Lionel and Casey made drinks—cocktails for them and a mocktail for me since I didn’t drink alcohol—Bradley and I sat across from one and other in the living area. I looked his way and quickly averted my gaze; he had failed to remember he was wearing a skirt. I fought a smile while trying to catch a discreet glance of his grey boxer briefs once more.

“Bradley, sit like a lady,” Casey snapped as he handed me my drink. I could have slapped the man, and the twinkle in his eyes suggested he knew I wanted to.

Bradley shoved his skirt down to regain his modesty, and soon we were all sitting in the living room, in what was most likely the most awkward Fancy Dress Friday I had ever been to. Lionel finished setting up
Loaded Questions
, and Bradley’s brow rose.

“Board games,” he muttered.

Casey, Lionel, and I all pinned him with a stare.

“It’s fun. Relax, you might just enjoy yourself,” Lionel said with no heat in his tone.

Bradley pulled out his cell phone and began thumbing off a message to someone.

“No cell phones allowed during game time,” whispered Lionel.

“Settle down, Kernel Clink, the game hasn’t started yet,” said Casey with a chuckle.

“I was supposed to meet some friends. I just want to let them know I won’t be there.”

“Oh, maybe we can all go out later?” I said, perking up. A night out sounded fun.

Bradley glanced at me before sliding his cell phone across the coffee table. He took a long drink from his whiskey before shaking his head. “It’s not really . . . lady friendly . . . or gay friendly.”

I arched a brow his way, and I was pretty sure Lionel and Casey did, too.

“Bradley, did you join a Freemason’s Lodge?” Casey asked.

“What’s a Freemason’s Lodge? Do they have something against women and gays?” I demanded, getting ready to defend the rights of all women and homosexuals across the Lord’s fine Earth.

“It’s a boy’s club, and as far I’m concerned, they must have something against us because they don’t allow women or gays to become members.”

“That’s not true; most modern lodges are happy to accept homosexual members.”

“You joined a cult?” I asked, outraged.

“They are not a cult, and no, I haven’t joined a Freemason’s Lodge,” Bradley sighed. “I was supposed to meet some friends at The Lovely Lounge, which is a strip club.” He quickly busied himself by pouring another drink.

“It’s a strip club . . . where women strip . . . and women aren’t welcome?” I asked, puzzled.

“I just didn’t think any of you would be comfortable going to a strip club,” Bradley said with irritation.

“I like strip clubs. I’ve been to plenty. I have nothing against them or the women who strip there. Heck,” I said laughing, “I’m a porn star for goodness sake.” I didn’t miss the stiffening in Bradley’s posture, nor the scowl he wore as he returned to the couch.

“And I love strip clubs. They attract man candy, and I’m more than happy to do a little eyeball grazing.” Lionel slapped Casey on the back of the head. “Oh, come on, baby, you love to graze, too. We both look, and then touch each other . . . a lot!”

“Can we get started?” Lionel asked impatiently.

Casey gave him a regal wave of his hand. “By all means.”

“Thank you. Shortest player goes first.”

They all looked at me, and I rolled my eyes. I shook the dice, blew on them—for good luck—then threw them across the coffee table. My board piece was moved, then Lionel handed me a card, and I read it out loud.

“What do you do in private that others would find disgusting?”

“Just today?” Casey asked, a serious expression on his face.

“Any day,” I answered.

The boys were quick to begin scribbling down their answers on their note pads, then Lionel, because he was Lord Board-Game Almighty, read the three answers out loud. The object of the game was to guess which player wrote which answer.

“First answer, I pick my nose; second answer, I have my pie hole bleached—”

I burst out laughing, sending a spray of mocktail over the coffee table. Lionel was quick to wipe up the mess while I continued rolling all over the couch in hysterics. When I finally gained some resemblance of control, I sat up to see all the boys smiling at me, even Bradley.

Lionel continued, “Third answer, I try to pee gross stuff off public toilet bowls.”

I was giggling again, but I was pretty sure I had this.

“Lionel, you pick your nose; Casey does the anal bleaching—and Casey, TMI!—Bradley uses his pee as an industrial cleaner.”

They each nodded, and I jumped up and did a little happy dance before it was Lionel’s turn to roll.

“When bad things happen in three’s, what good thing can erase all of them?”

We all took a little longer to write down our answers, and I ended up getting Casey to do mine as my writing hand was currently wrapped in its rainbow cast décor. Bradley read the answers back to Lionel. For a man who didn’t seem too enthusiastic about playing board games, he was pretty keen to participate.

“Answer number one . . .” I shivered at the deep masculine tone of his voice. “A day at the spa; answer number two, dancing; number three, a blow job.”

I’m pretty sure my sudden grin in Bradley’s direction gave away his answer.

“Shocking,” Casey murmured.

Lionel ticked them all off correctly, and then it was Bradley’s turn to roll the dice and ask a question.

“What player has the nicest feature, and what is that feature?”

Casey snickered beside me, and even Lionel managed a cheeky grin. Casey, once again, helped me write my answer, and then he read them back to Bradley.

“Answer number one, Casey’s bleached ass; answer number two, Lionel’s big hands; and answer number three, Bradley’s dimpled smile.”

Casey and Lionel sighed in unison. Bradley gave me a wicked wink that seemed to be connected to my lady bits because a pulse hit me right between the thighs.

“Lionel did the ass one, Casey did the hand one, and my pussycat likes my smile.” He smiled, and yeah, it was totally hot.

“Bum-Bummmm,” Casey sang in some ridiculous attempt at an incorrect sound. “Yes, Lionel adores my ass, that is a known fact, but my little poppet has a thing for my man’s hands, which I am okay with, because his hands are a gift from the gods. You should try a shoulder rub sometime, Bradley. Once you’ve gone Lionel, you’ll never go back, and I personally think your smile could raise cocks all around the world, if only you used it more.”

I giggled, Lionel snorted, and Bradley just stared at him.

“I always thought it was my ass women liked,” he whispered finally.

“Oh, you have one fine ass,” I said. When all three men looked at me, I realized I had actually said it out loud. I refused to be embarrassed by my slip. “What? He totally does.” Casey and Lionel just watched me with goofy grins, and when I braved up enough to glance at Bradley, he looked smug.

“What other features do you like?” he asked with his arms crossed over his chest, drawing my gaze to his well-defined biceps.

Hmmmm, would I start there? Or perhaps with those strong thighs, or maybe his calves, they were hot, too, or his feet. Hell, I was a foot person, and it was usually the first place I started. Mangy feet or toes were a deal breaker for me. I suddenly wondered what Bradley’s feet looked like. Did he have corns? Were they wide? Flat? Hairy? Oh, gosh! Did he have hammertoe? He seemed so aesthetically perfect he had to have a fault, and knowing my luck, it would be his feet.

Casey’s fingers snapped in front of my face. “Okay, creeper, if you are going to ogle, it’s best done discreetly.”

Fortunately, the guys resumed the game, and we fell into an easy cadence of laughter and gasps. I suddenly had a much better insight into all the men. Lionel was far more sensitive than he let on; Casey had no shame, which I was aware of already, and he was fiercely loyal to Lionel; their affection for each other had me more than a little jealous. And Bradley, well, I was beginning to see why he was Decker Steele’s best friend. Behind his scowly persona was a man who liked to have fun and was far more playful than he let on. He was confident, but not arrogant, which I’ll admit had been my first impression. He actually had a few sweet moments that were totally sigh-worthy.

The game had long since fallen to the wayside, and we were laughing at childhood stories when a loud knock at the door interrupted our Fancy Dress Friday fun. The way they were downing alcohol had them giggling like a gaggle of schoolgirls. If the boys weren’t careful, they’d be spending the next morning praying to the porcelain throne. Being the only sober one in the room, I answered the door.

“Oh, hello,” said a cultured, native voice coming from a woman who looked as equally cultured. She was taller than me with long dark hair and beautiful almond shaped eyes. She was wearing a dress that hugged her stunning body but still looked elegant and regal. Her eyes floated up and down my Wonder Woman costume, and her brow furrowed. “Is Emerson here?” Her demeanor quickly turned snotty, and I wondered if this was Bradley’s girlfriend. And who the hell was Emerson? I glanced over my shoulder and just about face palmed when I realized she was referring to Bradley.

“He is. Come on in, we’re just having a few drinks.” I stepped back, and she sauntered into the apartment like she owned the place.