Cash (Sexy Bastard #2) (26 page)

“Now tell me, how do you feel
about children?”

My stomach hits the tops of my boots
--she’s going to leave me over this, I think as I exit the
garden. Savannah is going to spend an afternoon with my mother and
then look at me and say, ha, you’re so not worth this.

My father reclines in a chair in the
library, reading
The Prince
by
Machiavelli.
Do not make a
comment
, I think when I see the title, but for him the end
will always justify the means. It doesn’t matter who gets
stepped on, as long as you get what you want in the end.

“Isn’t this a surprise,”
dad says, not looking up. “Come to read me a new riot act? Or
are you just here to gloat on your moral superiority again?”

I take a seat across from him. Before
we left this morning Savannah briefed me on how to be a good
negotiator, but when she learned I was a complete mess as a student
she gave me three simple rules to follow. I’ve always been a
better teacher than I ever was student, but she wasn’t
interested in my lessons at that point.

Rule number one: get on their level.
People like other people when they’re on the same playing
field. It makes you feel like equals.

“I was hoping we might talk.”

Dad closes the book and looks at me
expectantly. All right, so we’re
talking—positive step forward. “Have
you finally come to your senses and want to take up a real
profession?”

And just as quick we’re two steps
back.

“What I do is a real profession,”
I bite out. The tendons in my neck tighten and I try to focus on not
getting lost in his provocation. He wants me to take the bait so he
can control the situation, but I’m not here to give into any of
his demands.

“Six thousand four hundred and
twenty-three.” I can’t help but say it, because the
number has been burned into every one of my cells. People who
believed in my father, who trusted him with their futures and he let
them down. Maybe I should include myself in that number. Maybe my
father ruined six thousand four hundred and twenty-four
lives—twenty-five, if Tasha can’t get her act together.

Like hell I’ll let that happen.

“Why pay accountants when I have
a son who keeps those kinds of numbers in his head? What did I say
about your wasted talent?” He opens the book again.

Savannah’s second rule for good
negotiation, make them hear that you understand their concerns. “I
can’t make you feel remorse for what you did. You made a choice
and clearly you can live with it easier than I could and while I may
not agree with it—I have to live with your decision.”

“I’m glad you finally see
that now. If only you would see true reason and come join me. I
promise you, there’s a better future in actuaries than any dive
bar you and your friends might cobble together.”

Just like that, my father bounces back
to what I expect. The disappointment in my career. A lack of faith in
my choices. My temper rises, but this time I put a chain on it. I’m
here to fix this, and Savannah’s unwritten rule of negotiation
is don’t check your emotion at the door, but don’t let it
cloud your mind.

“I know that’s what you’d
like me to do, but I have to do what I think is in my best interest.
Which means if you continue to act like this, and not take
responsibility for your actions and help those you’ve hurt,
then I’m not going to be a part of this family.”

And just when they think they have you,
cut them loose.

Dad sits up, his color rising. Maybe it
was too soon after the heart attack? But then I remember what he
looked like in the room. He’s fine, just using the situation to
his full advantage. This had to be done. Because I am done with my
parents’ particular brand of bullshit.

“Is that supposed to be a threat?
You’re barely part of it as it is.”

“That will end today if we don’t
reach an agreement. I won’t stop by, I won’t
call, I won’t answer when you or Mom call. There will be no
leniency in me until you can come to terms with those you hurt.”

“That’ll kill your mother.
She’s barely kept it together since you decided to start this
whole foolish endeavor.” Spit collects at the corners of his
mouth and in a few moments I’m going to be treated to a yelling
match from my youth. He holds it in to only come out with: “You’re
my son. My only son.”

And you raised me on Machiavelli—if
this is how I get you to make amends, than those ends will justify my
means.

“Yes, I am. If you want a
relationship with me, then I suggest you look into your heart and
find some way to make it right with those you hurt. Because I can’t
be around you or this family until you do.”

Check and mate. Where’s my
celebratory cocktail?

There, I’ve said my piece. I
stand and my father’s eyes track me as I rise. In all the years
we’ve fought, I’ve never threatened to cut them off. I
just ran. Always holding out hope for a reconciliation, I only look
back once. He’s picked up his book again. Some things never
change, but that doesn’t mean I have to remain stationary.

A door closing catches my eye in the
hall—
Tasha
. I walk down
the hall and open the door. Her room’s a mess of art supplies
and the contents of her closet.

“Oh, it’s you. Come to cut
us all off again?”

I lean against the doorjamb. I was
hoping to run into Tasha before I left. There hadn’t been any
time to prep for this visit but I wanted her to know that just
because Emmett and Martha were out of my life, didn’t mean I
was getting rid of her.

“Only the dead weight,” I
say. “Just wanted to stop in and see if you wanted to come to
the opening of my new bar?”

Tasha stops and looks up at me. “You’re
inviting me?”

“No, your evil twin. Have you
seen her?”

“What about what you said to
Dad?”

“You’ve got to stop
listening to things not meant for you. I promised you, Tash, no
matter how I feel about mom and dad, we’re in this together.”

I hold my fist out and she gives me a
precursory bump. “You gonna tell me about the girl downstairs?”

“Maybe.”

“Scared I might frighten her
off?”

“I left her to handle Mom.
Whatever you can dish, Savannah will serve it back to you. But you
can come to dinner sometime.”

“Really? You’d introduce me
to your friends?”

“I mean you’ve had all your
shots…” She slugs me in the arm and I fake an injury.
She gives me a hug and I hold onto her.

I pause on the terrace and nod to
Savannah. She escapes my mother’s claws without issue and joins
me.

“That good, huh?” she asks,
reading me like a book.

I shove my hands into my pockets.
“Yup.”

I always knew it would probably come to
this, but in all the years I just couldn’t walk away. Savannah
threads her arm through mine and leans on my shoulder.

“Come on, I have a way to cheer
you up.” She tugs me out of the house, and for once I’m
looking at the future.

A few weeks later...

I’m not officially on for the
evening, because a partner can’t always be down in the
trenches. But I can’t resist taking at least one turn around
the bar. The Library is officially open for business, and the crowds
have never been better. People love the old bookstore and can’t
get enough of the cocktails.

I round the corner and see Savannah
sitting at the bar, holding up a small sign that says ‘reserved.’
Her curls fly every which way, a product of our little tryst in the
car before we came in.

There may not be a corner for her at
this bar, but there’s always a spot just for her. I have to
stop and look at her. For a long time, I wasn’t sure I was up
for the ‘more,’ business, but as long as that ‘more’
is coming from Savannah it doesn’t seem too bad.

“What’ll it be?” I
ask, grabbing a glass and tossing a bottle behind my back, only to
catch it and flip it upside down to pour her some whiskey.

“My boyfriend. He’s about
six foot two, blond, maybe you’ve seen him around? Sometimes
goes by the name Mr. Fuckable. I’d like him dirty with a
twist,” she says.

I laugh. “I’ll see what I
can do.”

She downs her whiskey in a gulp and
gets up. “Don’t keep me waiting.”
She threads her way back through the crowd, her red dress sticking
out against the darkness of the club.

The guys and Cassie, Ruby, and Avery
have gathered in one of our private spaces. The champagne is flowing
and bottle service is continual. Savannah talks with Tasha. I was
worried the complications with my parents would split Tasha and me
again, but we’ve hung out plenty since I parted ways with
Emmett and Martha. My father still professes no wrong, and I still
send checks to the people he hurt.

Spotting me, Savannah leaves Tasha to
the other girls. If there’s one thing that makes my stomach
drop, it’s the thought that Tasha’s learning anything
from these girls. I don’t want to have to pull anyone unsavory
out of her bed.

“Well, look what I found,”
Savannah says, standing toe to toe with me.

Wrapping her arms around me, Savannah
pulls me in for a kiss. I plant a hand on her ass and pull her tight
against me, trapping her roving hand. No matter how many times I take
her, I can’t get enough. I didn’t think I’d ever be
the one to find a single person, but Savannah makes my mind blister
with possibility.

“Welcome to the club,”
Ryder says, clapping a hand on my back.

“What club?” I shoot back.

“The off the market club.”

Savannah bites my ear–if this
what it means to be in this club, very well. I accept.

“To the last three amigos,”
Parker says from across the room, raising his beer. Jackson joins him
in the toast, with a silent toast to Knox. “May we never forget
the value of a good time and a fast woman.”

Shelby chooses that moment to come in,
tugging her normally perfect ponytail back into place.

“Where have you been?”
Jackson asks.

“Brother dear, that is none of
your damn business,” she says, before looking Savannah and I up
and down. “We’re not here to watch you maul each other.
Between you two and those two, who needs porn?”

“Spare me,
Shelbs. I don’t want to think about my sister watching
porn.”

“Then might I suggest you find a
new sister?” Their bickering’s only gotten worse over the
last few weeks, especially now that Shelby’s made it plain that
she’s going to be dating pretty regularly. The guys may be
keeping their single cards, but the girls are lining up to lose them.
Fast.

“Getting a little crowded in
here,” Savannah purrs in my ear.

“Too bad I
don’t live above this bar.”

“Dark corners aren’t a bad
place.”

She arches an eyebrow at me, picking up
on exactly what I’m thinking about. I smile, because I’ve
never been this happy.

“Get a room, you two,”
Cassie says.

I lean down to kiss Savannah. I’m
ready to flip off my friends, but Savannah beats me to it.

We’re together. Screw the world.

THE END

Another Sexy Bastard is on his way! Look for Knox’s story December 2015

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Discover the Sexy Bastard series: five friends, one bar, and a whole lot of trouble. From Eve
Jagger – out now!

RYDER

There
are two smells in the world I love more than any others: a woman
right before sex and this warehouse right before a fight. They’re
different, of course. There’s nothing like a naked, wet,
waiting woman, the scent of her skin salty with sweat but sweet at
the same time, like swimming through an ocean of roses. The
warehouse’s odor is far less pleasurable, phantoms of last
round’s knocked-out teeth, bruised faces, and aching bones
making the air heavy, grimy, stifling, like the smell of fresh dirt.
But both are thrilling and unpredictable and make me want to explode.

Even
when it was me in the ring a few years ago, my ribs about to get
punched, my knuckles about to crash into someone’s cheekbone,
the smell of this place would intoxicate me. Facing off with a guy
whose sole intention for the next several minutes is to pummel you
into submission is as terrifying as it sounds. And as exhilarating.
The policy of bare-knuckles brawls is no shirt, no shoes, big problem
standing right across from you. But all I had to do to calm myself
was take a big inhale of this warehouse air, let the molecules seep
into my lungs, into my bloodstream, and I won every match.

I
always win.

So
tonight, after Crutcher beats Miller in an upset, a big win for me
for sure, when Tyler tells me that some kid is in for $10,000 and has
disappeared, I tell him he’s got to have it wrong. “I
would never have let Jamie McEntire run up that kind of tab,” I
say. “I’ve seen him around. I wouldn’t give him ten
dollars, let alone ten thousand.” When I took over running
fight night two years ago, I did a little cleanup from the mess my
predecessor left. No five- or six- figure debts to people we don’t
know, no credit to anyone who’s welched more than once. We may
be an underground operation, but there are standards. There’s
also a dress code: women in heels, men in collared shirts, and our
crowd is the type who likes to drop a lot of money on both. We have
security guards. The bartender will call you a cab if you get too
drunk. I run a tight ship. Even the police think so. That’s why
they don’t hassle me. Sometimes they even take a try in the
ring.