Sick Bastard (11 page)

“He's here with a woman, and from the looks of it, she’s
his
woman, if you catch my drift.” I hiss at him. His eyes grow wide in surprise.

“Really?”

“Really.” I retort. I know I shouldn’t be, but I’m so fucking annoyed. “Why's he pursuing me if he has a girlfriend? What an asshole.” I conclude, throwing my hands up. There’s nothing more to say about it. He makes me sick.

I can't believe he has a girl. I mean, she has to be with the way they spoke and looked at each other, so why has he been showing up at my house, following me around, making out with me and sending me flowers? That’s considered cheating in my book, and I think she would see it the same way. Does this make me a home wrecker or some shit? I feel horrible and ashamed, but mostly, I feel humiliated and used.

“Come on.” I grab Matt's arm. I have to get the hell out of here before I snap a hanger in half and stab Dante in the face with it. The only way out of here is walking past him.

FUCK!

I hold Matt's arm and march right past Dante. I'm slightly aware that I'm stomping through the dressing room like a three year old, but I don’t give a shit. This is the only way out.

“London?” I hear him say in confusion as I pass. I don't bother to stop or even look back. I can't. I carry on out of the with my dress like a small child. I leave Matt to take care of the purchases and head towards the shoes. I’m acting like a brat. It doesn't escape my attention at how childish I'm acting, but I just don’t care. Being played fucking sucks!

Dante

My irritation is beyond disturbing this fine evening and I’m taking it out on everyone around me. London walked right past me today and said nothing. I sat there with a goddamn smile plastered to my face as I saw her and she fucking blew me off. She’s gonna learn to
never
walk away from me.

It’s unprofessional of me to take shit that happens to me out on my guys, but that’s what they fucking get for being soldiers to the Boss. You get the good, the bad, and the ugly, and tonight they’re getting the ugly. And speaking of ugly, Primo’s cry is becoming obnoxious. It’s an ugly sound.

“How much more are you gonna give him?” Josh asks. As much as it takes for him to get it, that’s how much. They all seem to think I revel in the violence in my life. There’s enjoyment at times, but it’s a part of my life’s mission. I don’t wake up in the morning with a quota to fill and visions of dead men dancing through my head, but there are rules. These rules are important, and they must be followed. If they’re not, then violence is used. We all know this.

“Have your views changed on thieves and stealing?”

“No, Dante. They haven’t,” Josh mutters back into his drink.

That’s what I thought, but since the money didn’t come directly from his pocket, he doesn’t seem to get it. The moment you let one get away with thievery, the rest will follow and I won’t have that. The second they see me slipping they’ll use it to their advantage and no one wants that, I can guarantee it. Josh is a fuck up. He seems to think he should get special treatment, being my half-brother, but what he doesn’t know is that he’s gonna have his own answering to do very soon for letting this shit happen in the first place.

“I’m s-
sorry
,” is what I think I make out around a muffled, suction sound. I’m sure he is sorry, but only because he got caught. No one ever goes in thinking they’ll get caught, because if they did, they wouldn’t do it.

To be honest, I’m still surprised he’s alive. I think I’ve refilled this fucking bucket fifteen times and my arms are getting tired. “You know stealing is bad, Primo, and now I have to give you one of life’s fundamental lessons. It’s a lesson I’m sure your mother taught you at a young age, but since that lesson didn’t seem to sink in, I’m going to ask you again. Where’s my money?”

His chest is rising and falling rapidly as he kicks his legs around. His hands are twitching and his head is shaking violently from side to side. None of this bothers me, but what does grate on my fucking nerves is the awful sucking noise. It’s that muffled suction of a wet cloth when he fights for the intake of air that makes an ugly sound. As medieval torture and a terrorists type of punishment, waterboarding really does work. There’s something to be said for the classics.

~~~~~~

My fucking shirt is soaked, but I blame that on London. If my head weren’t so far up my ass with thoughts of her I may have remembered to change before handling Primo. I have shit to do this evening and a wet shirt won’t work, so I’m stuck redressing when I’m already running behind.

Heading down the stairs, I spot her. Just like clockwork, Lucy's is on time and ready, waiting in the living room for me. Buttoning up my shirt on the way down, she gives me a disapproving once over.

“You look …
nice
.” She says as her way of a greeting. I don’t bother complimenting her. She looks hungry and a little cranky, but that’s nothing new.

“You look tired.”

“Gee, thank you, Captain Obvious.” Shrugging, I walk past her to the door and head for the car. Tonight will be another boring function with a bunch of pricks I’d rather not have to deal with, but I'm committed. I have to be there.

An excruciating two-hour car ride out of the city with Lucy might just be a little bit of hell. Her endless chatter and bitching wears a man down. It’s no surprise she’s not married or dating. By the time we finally pull up outside the venue, I’m a moment from snapping and killing her with my seatbelt.

“Out,” I point Lucy out the door, but she doesn’t fucking move.

“Yeah, yeah.” She waves me off, eying herself in her makeup mirror. I leave her vain, self-centered ass in the car as she reapplies her already ridiculous makeup. I don’t have time for her shit.

Climbing out of the car, I’m immediately assaulted by press―questions and flash bulbs coming from every direction. I hate this shit, but Lucy relishes in it the moment she steps out of the car. Smiling and waving, she looks like a goddamn puppet. I'd much rather be doing anything else than be here. A root canal, jail time, even a fucking appendectomy would be better than this.

Ignoring them all, I walk quickly to the front door with my head down, watching my feet as Lucy lags behind. “I need a fucking drink,” I grumble to no one. Lucy is still completely engrossed with the reporters to notice that I’ve left her, so fuck her. Walking into the eighteenth century mansion, the place is crawling with old money, celebrities, crime families, and New York's upper class, none of whom I want to talk to. I want to find our table and get a drink as quickly as I can. It’s my sole focus to drink this horrid fucking night away. I plan to stay rooted to our table and consume as much alcohol as possible to make it through this function.

I try desperately to bob and weave my way to our assigned table without conversation, but I’m stopped a few hundred times before it’s possible. There are handshakes, idle chit-chat, and mingling with the other partygoers, which severely hinders me from getting a goddamn drink. It takes a fucking miracle, but I finally make it to our table. I’ve yet to master the fine art of strategic ducking and dodging, but I have a renewed interest in working on it. I wonder if there are classes you could take for such a thing. I’ll be sure to find out.

I was also able to snag not one, but two drinks on the way to my table, which doesn’t do anything to help my mood at this point. I’ve lost Lucy somewhere in the mix, but I can't say I'm sad to see her go, either.

~~~~~~~

An hour in and I already want to leave. I’ve not left the table and paid a waiter to keep the drinks coming my way so I don’t have to leave my seat.

“Hey, where's Lucy?” Fuck, Cam’s found me. That was quick. He sits down at the table and makes himself at home.

“Fishing for compliments, I would assume. I lost her as soon as I was inside. So, where the fuck were you earlier?” He knows we had business this afternoon.

“I was busy.”

“The fuck you were.” Cam fuck off, but he doesn’t fuck up.

“What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

“Lazy, irresponsible employees … oh, and let’s not forget
your
lack of responsibility,” I tell him. He ignores me and instead, gives me a quizzical look.

“No, there's something else wrong,” He states. He looks me up and down like it’s something physical. “You’re drinking again, I see.” He says this with a tone that’s condescending and judgmental. This little fucking prick is lucky we’re in public or I would beat his goddamn ass.

“For the last fucking time, I’m
not
an alcoholic,” I grit out. My jaw’s clenched so hard it might crack from sheer force. Fuck, he irritates the piss out of me. If I were an alcoholic, it would be because of incompetent and degenerate motherfuckers like him and my brother. His attention turns elsewhere and away from my apparent case of alcoholism.

“Who the fuck is that?” He damn near shouts, pushing out of his seat in a hurry. Turning around to see who he's talking about, I choke on my drink. Absolute perfection just walked through the door, from that flawless face to those perfect tits. Her dress shows off those long, sexy as fuck legs that I’m dying to bury my face between. Every male eye in the room has turned their focus on all that beauty, and she truly is fucking beautiful.

She’s wearing a long black dress that hugs every single curve of her body like a glove. It's strapless, raising those amazing tits up, making me remember the time she leaned over the bar with all that cleavage and wanting to fuck them. That dress was made for the sole purpose of lying crumpled up on my bedroom floor. Her hair is in those loose, beachy looking curls that make her look like a sex goddess.

Sitting alone at my table, I drink and watch. I watch her talk to people, smile for people, and then the men start coming in, asking her for a dance. They all want a reason to be near her, to touch her. For as much as I hate it, it makes me want her that much more. I want what they all want.

I decide to drink, just to keep my hands busy and to myself. I’ll let her enjoy her evening for a little while longer, then she’ll be mine.

~~~~~~

I’ve had four glasses of champagne. The party is in full swing by the time I gravitate toward the bar where I down two shots of bourbon, and take another with me. The band is playing, people are dancing, and dinner is being served. I'm briefly interrupted from my stalker duties and drinking by a man who works for me. He’s the type who talks nonstop, droning on and on about absolutely nothing.

I end up losing London in the crowd while I try to participate in empty conversation. Not for one minute since she walked in have I lost sight of her until now. I’ve watched her vigilantly. I’ve watched men put their hands on her. I’ve watched how their eyes glide over every inch of her body, but most importantly, I’ve watched
her
. I catalog to memory how she’s reacted to every touch, every look, and every whisper. There’s not a goddamn thing about that woman I miss. I watch it all.

I’m on the hunt again, leaving the man there to talk to himself. Do I have a plan for when I find her? No, but that shit’s never stopped me before, and it’s not going to now.

I finally find her in the arms of another asshole. She’s smiling and laughing at what the fuck ever he has to say and I decide I don’t like it. Besides, he’s probably talking about how his dog can do tricks.

For a disgusting minute, I watch. I watch until it no longer provides that thrill that I usually get from seeing other men touch her, and it starts to make me feel violent. I can’t fucking stand it anymore.

“You can go. I’m here now,” I growl as I push my way in between them, making sure the prick catches an elbow first. Lucky for him, he bows out gracefully. I would hate to ruin her dress with his blood.

I need this. Grabbing her hand, I wrap my fingers around hers and squeeze, but she doesn’t pull away like I expected her to after today. I force her body into mine, pressing my hand into the smooth, soft skin of her back and feel her shiver under my touch. That’s right. After tonight, she’ll never think of another motherfucker’s hands again, only mine.

She relaxes into me with no hesitation―no argument. I don’t get any of that rude shit that she loves to spew out at me, but I do get her lip. “Stalking me again, I see,” she mutters under her breath. I know she’s had quite a few drinks and I’m surprised she’s still on her feet.

“I’m actually thinking you may be stalking me, seeing as I was here first.”

She rolls her eyes and scoffs, “Are you always so self-absorbed?”

“Yes.” It’s the truth. I’m the only person I think about … well, that’s not true anymore. Somehow she’s managed to worm her way in, but I still consider myself as first and foremost, always.

She shakes her head, but smiles. “Well at least you’re honest.”

“Don’t get used to it, London. I do have to confess something to you. You look beautiful tonight,” I whisper in her ear and her whole body shudders against me. I knew it wouldn’t take long to get her on the same page as me.

“Thank you.” Her voice says softly, but still with that edge. It’s that edge I fucking love. It only shows me that she’s breakable, and I want to break her.

She voluntarily lets me pull her closer, if that’s even possible. She lets my hand wander as I trace her spine, run my thumb over her shoulders, touching her neck. It’s like Hell on Earth, being able to touch her like this and needing to touch more.

“So what are you doing here?” She cocks her head and looks at me for the first time since we began dancing.

“Stalking you.” I lie.

“This must be becoming an expensive habit for you. Tickets to this thing are extremely expensive.”

“I know, and I’m expecting full repayment, London.”

“And what would that
repayment
be? Monetary, physical, or material?” She has no fucking clue. I want it all―I
will
have it all.

“Baby, you give me an inch and I’ll take miles. Don’t give me options like that unless you’re willing to pay my price.”

Working our way around the dance floor, I make sure to make eye contact with every motherfucker in the room looking at her. She belongs to me, but one set of eyes challenge me. One set compete with a possibility of winning. Her friend Matt watches me and doesn’t turn away from my stare. Ballsy fucker, I’ll give him that.

“London?” She looks up at me through those lashes and smiles at me. For a moment, I forget all that shit. It’s been a solid ten minutes and she’s not made any effort to leave me. She’s relaxed, peaceful, and even calm in my arms. I like this shit. I like the way she feels on me.

“Yes?” But no matter how much I fucking like this, I have to know.

“Who is he?” She tips her head to the side and studies me. A slow, sly smile spreads over those juicy lips, because she knows why I’m asking.