I Saw You (2 page)

“Would you
hurry
the hell up, Cheetos? We’re going to be late,” Cris grumbled while I took my sweet-ass time getting ready. I could hear him outside my room, pacing up and down the corridor in annoyance. Tardiness was next to uncleanliness in his book. Both pissed him the fuck off.

“Chill.” At my reply, he banged on the door once and stomped away, the sound of his boots loud against the marble flooring of my suite. While he was right, and we were in fact running a tad bit late, it wasn’t anything people didn’t already come to expect from us. Benefits of the job, I guess.

My band, Deep, and I were in Miami for an awards show this Sunday night. Set to light up the stage as the night’s main act; in other words, get people ready to party and get plastered. Something we’d had a reputation of doing for most of the last decade. At thirty-eight, I was too old for that shit.

Unfortunately, Brian, our manager, didn’t see things that way. He was all about the image. The stereotypical, asshole rock star that was drunk or high for most of the twenty-fours we had a day.

For me, I’d been there and done that. Was over it.

We’d been conned into hosting a rocker’s
ball,
so to speak. An after-party that would cater to my musical genre’s taste, the certain kinks some were known to imbibe in, and we wanted the best.

Lujuria
seemed to be just that. 

Didn’t hurt that the owner, from what I’d heard, was a tough, independent, and very beautiful woman.

“Ten minutes or we’re leaving without your ass.” Motherfucker needed to get laid, and lucky for him, we were on our way to scope out a potential space for the party. “Eight—”

“Shut the fuck up before I toss you out of the window.” I’d had enough. Cris was a talented drummer, a brother in a sense, but my patience was beginning to run thin.

“Don’t be a prick, man. We need to leave.”

At his grumbled reply, I rolled my eyes. “Calm down, dude. Seriously, stop being a pussy and go get something from the mini bar.” Grabbing the pomade on the vanity, I added a medium-sized dollop to my hand and ran it through my dirty blonde hair. Not that it helped; it just wouldn’t stay in place in this Florida humidity.

Since we landed, it’d been a constant battle of wills between Mother Nature and my hair. One minute it rained, and the next it was blindingly hot. Sunny, then thundering black.

“Fuck off, Cheetos, and hurry up.” Another bang, this time followed by a kick to the door.

“Quit calling me Cheetos.”

“No can do, cheese man. And you have four minutes—”

I was across the room and pulled the door open before he could finish. “Keep pushing me. Dare you.”

“Take the stick out of your ass, man.” My glare didn’t faze him, not one bit. Instead, he punched me in the shoulder and turned to head into the penthouse’s main living area.

Following behind him, I stretched a hand out and slapped him in the back of the head. “The name’s Chester. Come on. Say it with me. Ches…ter. Ches…ter.”

Knock.

Knock.

“Ha, ha, very funny,
Chee…tos
,” Cris deadpanned, mock glare fixed on me. “Get over it.” And with a flip of the bird, he walked over to the front door and pulled it open, letting in the other two members of our band.

Tex, the band’s bassist, and Frederick—Rick, as we called him—our guitarist, walked into the room with Cris closing the door behind them. Everyone was dressed and ready to head out, desperate for a night of fun.

One where we could talk shit and relax without a camera being shoved in our faces. Where no one expected us to be assholes and knock out the first paparazzi that mouthed off.

“Why haven’t we left yet?” I heard Rick say; I’d made my way back into my bathroom to grab my watch. The clinking of glasses followed his question, and at the end a, “Damn that’s horrible. Cheap Vodka sucks ass.”

“Ask our lead singer. Prima donna is taking forever to wrap it up.” By the end of the night, Cris would find himself on the floor with bruised balls.

Taking in a deep breath, I stood with my palms opened atop the bathroom counter. “I’m almost done,” I hissed out, and the others went quiet in the adjacent room.

“He’s right,” Tex piped in a few seconds later, sounding as aggravated as I felt. “Tonight’s not about work. Not a studio session or show. We’re heading over to check a club out for Sunday’s after-party. The plan was to enjoy ourselves on Brian’s dime; drink and find something sweet to end our night with. Key word in all that…fun.”

Pussy sounded good right now. It’d been months since my last sexual encounter, and I was in need of a good fuck. To sink balls deep into something tight and wet.

Taking a leather cuff instead of my watch, I fastened it around my wrist and looked myself over in the mirror. I looked good. At six foot three and two hundred and ten pounds, I was a big fucker. Intimidating to most; women pursued me, while men hated me. I gave no fucks.

A few sprays of cologne, and I was out the door.

“For the love of God,” Rick complained once I came into view. “You’re telling me that pulling on a pair of jeans, that old Ramones T-shirt, and your tattered combat boots took you this long?”

I wasn’t the only one in the room that raised a brow at that. “Shut it, Rick.”

“We didn’t take as long as he did.” Weak defense if I ever heard one as we were all dressed the same.

“Nah,” I grumbled while rolling my eyes and tugging at the ends of my hair. “It was the hawk. Didn’t want to cooperate, no matter how much of that gooey shit Ash gave me that I put in…wouldn’t stay up.”

“Enough with the hair tips—can we leave?” Cris interjected with a huff, already standing with the suite’s door wide open. “We were supposed to be at Lujuria about an hour ago to meet with Gabriel, the manager, and tour the place before it opened. Now, we’re just going to have to see what we can and make the final arrangements without much to go by.”

“Dude, you bitch way too much.” Tex laughed while pulling him out the door behind him.

Rick stayed behind, arms crossed over his chest while he watched me with a raised brow. “Still not ready?”

“Shut it.” Grasping my keys and phone from the coffee table, I waved him forward and closed the door behind us. The other two were already on the elevator, holding the door open for us.

The ride down to the club was fast, not too much traffic on US1. Downtown Miami was full of life. While the usual courthouse and office buildings took up the vast majority of the area, the small restaurants, bars, and eclectic clubs brought the would-be dull to life.

Reminded me of home with all the tourists walking down its streets. Loud and vibrant. Fun. Add to that the never-ending heat wave, lack of clothing, and beautiful women; I was in motherfucking heaven. 

Made for one enchanting view.

Enchanting
...I’d become one poetic motherfucker.

“Jesus, you see the ass on that chick?” Tex hissed as we grew closer to the club’s entrance. Incorrigible, he hung his head out the window following a tall brunette wearing a pair of shorts that were beyond indecent. Salivated over what I would admit was one fine piece of ass.

“Work first, pussy later,” Rick exclaimed, causing us all to chuckle. “What’re you laughing at, Chester? Ashley has you by the balls and doesn’t let—”

“Slimy gold diggers get close to me,” I finished for him before taking a sip from a small bottle of gin I’d pilfered from the limo’s bar. “Attached without being in a relationship, she knows the drill. Was her idea. And besides…” I laughed while we pulled up to Lujuria’s front entrance where a bouncer stood alongside a pretty blonde. “We’re just friends.”

“Sure you are,” Tex replied, his tone stoic. Yet he looked upset—his brows furrowed just as the bouncer began to make his way toward the limo. Made no damn sense.

Fuck he has to be troubled about?

“Are you being stupid on purpose?” Why was it so hard to understand the concept? Women and men could just be friends. There was no denying that Ashley was a beautiful woman with her soft blonde curls and blue eyes—a tight, petite body. Problem was, she didn’t do it for me.

In my eyes, she was bland. Generic poster child for what most found beautiful.

I liked my women with heat. Both spicy and exotic.

Ashley Summers, my best friend and fake girlfriend to all, had been in my life since the age of six when I defended her to a boy in our class. He liked her, but like all males at that age, he thought with his sand box and constantly pushed her into it.

Claimed her as his playmate and made her cry.

I saved her from his clutches, and we’ve been thick as thieves ever since.

“Not at all.” Rick smirked. “Just calling a spade a spade.”

“Bro, she keeps unwanted females at bay.” Running an agitated hand through my hair, I let out a groan. “It’s a mutual contract in how we use each other. She gets to travel the world with me—her friend—who cares for her. With me, Ashley has a secure job as my PA. She’s compensated quite handsomely, in my honest opinion. Nothing more, nothing less, which is something she understands.”

“Chester,” Cris interrupted, turning in his seat to face me head on. “You might see it that way, but trust me when I say she doesn’t.” His tone was serious, while the other two nodded beside him. “She’s in love with you, and mark my words, will not let you go.”

“For fuck’s sake…if I say nothing is going on, then nothing is. Stop trying to make me see what isn’t there.” Throwing the now empty small bottle of gin against the door, I sat back roughly and looked up toward the limo’s ceiling, breathing harsh and hands balled into tight fists, trying like hell not to ruin our night.

“Can we drop the topic?” Tex stepped in as my anger began to overwhelm the confined space. I was so tired of defending my friendship with Ash. “We came here to check out the club and drink, not discuss Cheeto’s lack of a love life.”

“Fuck you.” A mature reply if I ever heard of one.

“Welcome to Lujuria,”
the bouncer spoke after our door was opened. Then he took a few steps back, granting us the room needed to exit the car. Cris exited first, followed by the other two and then me. “Gabriel sends his apologies for not being here to greet you. There was an incident that needed his attention and he was called to the back office.”

“We understand.” Rick surveyed our surroundings, more than likely searching for the first paparazzi looking to take our photo.

The man cleared his throat, and we all turned to look at him. “Ms. Garcia, the owner, has taken it upon herself to set up the VIP area for your visit. She wants you to feel relaxed. Gabriel will be up shortly. Please enjoy your night.”

“Thank you.” Cris extended a hand out and shook his with the bouncer.

“My pleasure. I’m a huge fan.” With excitement, he greeted us and then walked back to open the doors. Held them open.

That’s when it started. The screaming. A huge line wrapped around the block and once we came into full view, the women became restless, offering up their pussies on a silver platter as if it were a normal thing to do. Blatant and crude.

As if they were asking to simply buy us a drink.

Walking down a long corridor, I admired the black leather used to cover the walls in an intricate design. Clean lines and modern, yet the soft lighting with bronze-colored sconces created a sexy mood.

“Am I the only one thinking about sturdy headboards at the moment?” Leave it to Tex to make me laugh.

“Fuck the headboard…I want a soft woman lying under me. Use that furniture as leverage while I pound into something tight.” Rick groaned, and then walked ahead of us. “Get your asses in there. We talk, settle shit, and then I am going to look for a hot little thing to bed over the bathroom sink.”

“Such a romantic,” Cris replied snidely.

“Shut it.” I shoulder checked him, just a tiny bit of force behind the move; payback for the bitching and whining back at the hotel. “I’m looking for a pussy to fuck, not a happily ever after.”

“One day, Chester, you will…” he trailed off before coming to a stop at a set of intricately carved wooden doors. The design was exotic. Custom. Nothing you would see in a typical modern club. “I need a drink.”

“Finish what you were going to say.” The wooden structure vibrated. Pulsed, while a catchy reggae beat played through the club’s impressive sound system and filled the space we were standing in. We couldn’t help but nod in approval.

“They’re here, sir.” A man dressed in black slacks and polo, with the club’s name embroidered across the front pocket, stood guard. Through his headset he spoke, nodded, and then opened the grand door for us to pass.

To sum up in one word what met our eyes: hot. That industrial feel that was popular at the moment with a touch of femininity. Exposed beams and concrete floors—rich black walls throughout the space with polished bronze and white accents.

It gave that vibe of rich opulence and a hint of down-and-dirty fun.

Lujuria was looking to be very promising indeed.

The dance floor was packed, scantily clad bodies of every ethnicity dancing and laughing, pressed tightly together in what can only be described as a mild orgy. Touching, enjoying the feel of soft skin and willing bodies.

From what I could see, there were three fully stocked bars in total throughout the space. Two were located downstairs at each end of the large dance floor, and the third upstairs where the VIP guests played. Their structure was made of both wood and exposed metal supports.

Interesting. Intricate in its simplistic design and yet, it held an edge of class.

“This shit is pretty fucking cool.” And I had to agree with Tex. After ordering our first round of drinks at the closest bar, we noticed the resin-made bar tops covering what looked to be over a hundred broken LP albums.

“So is this it?” At my words, they turned their attention back to me. They were suddenly more interested in a group of women in short skirts swaying near us. “Work first, assholes.”

“I’m digging the snobby yet trashy feel.” Rick’s eyes followed two hot Asian chicks while he spoke. Didn’t blame him. Were all the women in South Florida made differently than the rest of the country?

“Where do you see trashy?” Tex interrupted.

“Well, for one,” Rick started, sounding, for all intents and purposes, annoyed. “The pole dancers at the center go against everything the club’s elegance is trying to portray. And second…” he trailed off as some Spanish version of dancehall began to play; the dancing on the floor became almost pornographic.

My cock twitched.

“I fucking love it here,” Cris exclaimed as some man in his early thirties made his way over to us.

“Glad to hear that. My name’s Gabriel. I’m the manager of this fine snobby-yet-trashy establishment.”

Rick looked apologetic, fidgeting where he stood. “I didn’t mean anything—”

“Stop.” Gabriel laughed, hand waving him off. “That’s the look Ms. Garcia was going for at this location. Demographic she targeted was the young and with money. Higher end clientele that didn’t worry about prices. Those that appreciate architectural structures and love to have a good time; that would find the appeal and sexiness in every piece of furniture she bought. Sexual without being vulgar.”

“Fuck.” That came from me.

“Exactly.” Gabriel ushered us away from the bar and toward the elevators set off to the right side of the room. “There are stairs across the dance floors that lead you up, but I’m sure you’d much rather have a quiet night,” he explained, but we weren’t catching up at the moment. Our eyes and minds were too busy studying the beautiful women within the room.

“Huh?” Yeah, that was Tex.

Gabriel just sighed while shaking his head. “If we pass through there, the masses will recognize you. Surround you more than they already have. It’s only a matter of time before you are accosted, and poof goes relaxation.” Fucker was smug, but right on all accounts.

Once upstairs, we were led to a secluded seating area with a view of the entire dance floor below. The theme from below followed upstairs—a monochromatic theme of black, white, and some bronze. Soft lighting around the tables and couches, yet at the bars they used some special kind of LED lighting to highlight the area.

On the table, between two very comfortable looking white leather couches, sat a
Reserved
sign with the name of our band on it. It was already littered with an assortment of juices, Red Bull cans, and liquor bottles—top shelf only—awaiting our arrival.

Gabriel stood in the middle of the room and did a single twirl. “The area you are standing in now is where our more exclusive and private clientele like to party.” Hand waving in a wide circle, we all followed the move with our eyes. “Miss Garcia, the owner, is known in South Florida for her club and the privacy she provides everyone who enters these walls. No one,” he spoke in a serious tone while rapping his knuckles against the top of the center table, “knock on whatever kind of material this is, has been mobbed by the masses.”

“Good to know, but we are looking to book the club for the night. No outside entries allowed.” Rick reached over and poured himself two fingers’ worth of scotch. “It will be all industry people; artists, song writers, label executives. Privacy can’t be compromised and security will be needed.”

“Done and done. Ms. Garcia has a company she uses for events such as these.”

“Good. A few of our men are here tonight and will be attending that night as well.” Gabriel nodded and wrote a few things down as I spoke. “I’ll have Mike call you tomorrow so you can coordinate with him. That’s his area.”

“Perfect. Anything to make you feel more comfortable.” Gabriel tilted his head to the side, looking past us and toward the bar. A quick nod, and then he looked back over at me. “A drink menu has been set up, and we’d love to have you sample?”

“Will we be meeting your boss at any point tonight?” I asked, ignoring his offer. Curiosity was a bitch, and I was intrigued.

“She will be here later on tonight.” That was all he offered with a small smirk on his face.

Schooling my features into a mask of indifference, I poured myself some gin. “I’d like to meet her before we give the final approval.”

“Understandable. I’ll make sure to reach her as soon as we are done. So, the drink menu, then?”
Fucker.
We didn’t drink fruity shit. And the table held more than enough of a selection to keep us entertained.

“No, thank you. We have plenty here. Just fax the list to our manager, Brian, please.”

“What’s with the curtains, though?” Tex asked the next question sitting on the tip of my tongue. Forgetting my decline, Gabriel turned to look over at Tex and smirked.

“That’s for your privacy, in case things…” he trailed off.

“What?” My tone came out a bit gruffer than I intended. Cris nudged my side, his elbow digging in deep—almost made me drop the small cup in my hands.

“Heat up,” Gabriel offered. “The world doesn’t need to see certain things, as you can understand. This protects both you and our other guest.”

Just how dirty do these guests get?

“Very, Mr. Greene. Some of our guests seem to forget that they’re in public. Get frisky.” I raised a brow, and he shrugged. Guess that was the norm and pretty self-explanatory by the cocky look he now wore. “Now that that’s cleared up, do you have any further questions?”

“Yeah.” Rick took a sip from his cup. “Food and music. Who’s providing what?”

“The food is being brought in by the owner’s family. That was already stated in the contract your manager has.” My brows rose in question. Brian never shared that information with us. “The Garcia family owns five restaurants throughout the city. They have everything from high-end island cuisine to simple street food. It’s really up to you, as the event hosts, to determine what you prefer to be served.”

“I think we’d like a mix of both. Trashy yet snobby—the eclectic group attending fits that description. And to be honest…” Rick chuckled, his fingers scratching the small beard he was growing out “…I’m not in the mood to sit down and have a formal dinner. I want to get plastered and well fed. Hook up with something pretty and then take her back to our hotel. In that order.”

The rest of us nodded in agreement.

“My only concern is the music,” Cris interrupted, brows furrowed and lips set in a thin line. “The music? No offense, love the vibe in here and what’s being played, but the people in attendance will be more inclined toward rock than calypso beats. They will expect—”

“Our in-house DJ, Mario, has the list your manager requested.” Gabriel’s attention was pulled away from us for a moment as something was spoken through the headset. A smile lit up his face. “Sorry about that. Our assistant manager just informed me that Ms. Garcia will arrive within the next twenty minutes or so. She’d love to meet with you.”

“Of course.” Too obvious in my interest, I caught the attention of my bandmates.

Rick tilted his head to the side and watched me. “Tell her we’d love her to.”             

“Perfect,” Gabriel continued, ignorant to the silent questions being thrown my way. Curiosity was a bitch, and all I wanted was to put a face to the name. “Getting back to the topic of music…” At that, we all turned to look back at him. Thank God. “May I make a suggestion?”

“Go on.” I waved him on.

“As much as what we play here isn’t your norm, so to speak…mix it up. Even men that play hard-core lyrics for a living let loose to island rhythms. It’s sexy, and the women love it. Look at the beauties on the dance floor below. See how uninhibited they are?”

“Agreed,” we all answered in unison. How the fuck could we not when he put it like that? Eyes set on the gyrating hips, I pushed a hand out toward him. “Where do we sign?”

“Ms. Garcia will be handling that part of the evening with you personally. Let me give her a quick call. Would that be okay?” Without taking my eyes from the scene below, I nodded and walked closer to the small railing overlooking the entire room.

Soon after Gabriel left, we sat down to enjoy the much appreciated complimentary bottles of liquor gifted by the owner. A few drinks in, and we were restless. Hungry for more. In need of female company.

To hunt.

Once downstairs, we mingled for a bit. Fans recognized us the minute we stepped onto the lower level; they asked for pictures and autographs, which I indulged them in until it became too much.

One turned to five. Then twenty. Give me a fucking break.

Where the fuck was security when I needed them?

A signature on a napkin soon became a scribble of my name on some piece of flesh—breasts or asses. Beauties that on any other given day, I’d have them on their knees with my cock down their eager little throats. Today, though, they annoyed me.

I grew irritable.

Bored.

After the tenth boob flash, I pulled away and stopped a cute fake blonde walking past me. “Want to dance?”

She seemed shocked by my proposal and nodded eagerly. “Love to.”

Pulling her to the middle, with her back to my chest, I ground against her—pushed my cock against the small of her back. For a song or two I entertained her mediocre-at-best attempt at seduction. Wasn’t in the mood.