Sick Bastard (7 page)

Dante

I should be happy. Whether she considered my apology sincere or not, she acknowledged it, which means I should leave and be done with this whole mess. What a bunch of bullshit. I don’t need or want her in my life, but my mind’s been singing a different tune. I wanna think my obsession with her is because she shows no interest in me, which I don’t understand, nor can I accept. Maybe her friend, Matt, is more than what she says? Of course he is. Fuck this bitch, I’m done.

A ringing phone tears my attention away from the building London just entered. “Yeah?”

“Boss, we’ve got an issue.” Don’t we always. What I should say is, “No,
you’ve
got an issue.” I give an order and the only thing I should be hearing is that shit’s been handled, not that they fucked it up.

“Spit it the fuck out then.” I’m not in the mood for mysteries.

“The car never showed.” Shit, that is an issue, just not one of mine.

“Then why are you calling me? It’s your job to fix any issues so get it done, and Carlo?”

“Yeah boss?”

“You don’t want me to come fix the issue,
capisci
?” Shoving my phone back into my pocket, I decide I need a fucking drink.

~~~~~~

It takes me twenty blocks to try and formulate a plan to make that woman see me for what everyone else does―the master of my world. I don’t get dismissed by
anyone
, especially a woman. She’s lucky I’m not in the business of killing women, but she’s easily changing my mind. You don’t roll your fucking eyes at me, and you sure as shit don’t brush off an apology from me. That self-righteous bitch should be on her knees, thanking me for giving a fuck enough to go out of my way to excuse myself for my behavior. Behavior that wasn’t, in my opinion, all that uncalled for. I made a move and she didn’t stop me so fuck her. She’s gonna wish she accepted my apology ‘cause she’ll never get another one from me.

My car pulls up to the curb outside of The Bar, a place I've been to far too many times to count. It's a disgusting sickness really, but do I care? No. It’s a necessity for me―a sick fascination that’s like breathing. I'm not here for the drinks. I only need one thing that’ll satisfy my need for the night, preferably someone who likes it rough, has curves in all the right places, and looks like the bitch I desperately wanna fuck.

Sitting down at the bar, I can immediately see women on the hunt, which is always the case. It makes shit so much easier for me. They come to this bar looking for exactly what I like to give.

I’ve already got quite a fan club, all waiting to make their move. Finally, my ego finds that happy place where all women on this planet want me to fuck them. They’re all begging for my attention, and they would never think to treat me like London did.

“Evenin’, motherfucker,” Cam says as he takes a seat next to me. I should’ve known he’d be here. Where else would he be? Ordering two shots, he pushes one towards me, “Drink up.” And I do, downing the drink quickly, welcoming the burn that follows.

“How long have you been here?” I ask. He’s my cousin, but he’s more like a brother.

I get a faint shrug, “A while. There's some new faces here tonight.” We’re both here on a mission.

“Dibs,” he says, claiming the redhead looking him over. How old is he? Dibs? Before I can turn to him, he jumps up, already prowling toward the girl like a predator. She’s not my flavor. I’m here looking for a replacement―a diluted copy of a beautiful brunette I’ve become infatuated with.

I nod for the bartender to order another drink. Leaning back in my seat, I sip my drink and check my watch. It only took five minutes.

A bottled blonde with blue eyes makes an exaggerated show of walking up to me, swaying her hips and adding a little bounce to her step so her tits bounce with her. She looks forty, but she’s trying her damnedest to look ten years younger. Her hands give her age away. No amount of plastic surgery will fix your hands. Hands tell a woman’s age far better than her face or her license ever could.

I watch her tired face, only brightened by cheap makeup, smile at me. She helps herself and slides into the seat next to me, leaning into the bar with her fake tits shoved out. She’s a mess. There’s no way in hell I could get it up for her even if she was what I was looking for.

“Can I buy you a drink, handsome,” She purrs. I tip my full glass at her, trying for subtle. “You sure? Come on, baby. You look like you could use another.” Her voice is raspy and rough, like she’s smoked one too many cigarettes in her lifetime. It would be a turn off if her hands and age weren’t already. I give her a curt headshake, but I see it’s not enough. This bitch is hungry tonight.

Throwing my drink back, I ignore wrinkly hands and wave the bartender over. “Jack and Coke.”

“I could turn that frown upside down,” she coos at me in that two packs a day voice. I don't bother saying anything to her, I just get up from my stool and leave.

Glancing around the bar, I spot a brunette sitting alone a few tables away. She’s sipping her drink and looking greedy. I don’t have to do a damn thing because she’s already eye fucking me over the rim of her drink.

Not very subtle, sweetheart.

She's not what I truly want, but she’ll do. She's attractive enough with long, brown hair, unremarkable blue eyes, and an average body, but she’s willing and that’s all I need.

I nod at her and she damn near jumps out of her seat in an attempt to get to me, hustling as fast as her cheap stilettos will carry her. Desperation oozes off her like cheap perfume, making me sick at the thought, but again, pussy is pussy in this place.

“I've been watching you since you walked in. I'm Amanda,” She giggles while running her hands up and down my chest. I don't like her already, but I don’t need to like her to fuck her. I don’t need stimulating conversation, a sense of humor, or intelligence. All I need is a warm and willing body to do with as I please, and I’ve found it in Amanda tonight.

I don’t say anything as I turn to leave. She follows without hesitation. She knows why I'm here and she knows what I want from her, and she’s more than willing to give it to me.

~~~~~~

Looking at her sitting next to me in the car, there's nothing about her that appeases me. She’s not London. She’s not an elegant, natural beauty who’s hot as fuck. My balls don’t ache and my dick isn’t straining just from looking at her. She doesn’t have the curves or those full fucking lips that I want wrapped around my dick so bad.

Staring out the window, I avert my attention from Angie … Amanda. I have an itch I need scratched and I’ll make sure that Amanda here does everything I need her to do to scratch that itch.

Pulling up in front of a hotel, I all but jump from the moving car, my mind close to exploding from a goddamn London overload. “Britt …
Amanda
,” I nod for her to follow me out. Christ, why can’t I remember her fucking name? I’m not sure why I’m sticking with the pleasantries; she’s already on my heels, ready to fuck. Her eyes are alight with greed when she takes in the extravagance of the hotel. I can practically see the dollar signs in her eyes when she looks at me. She’s a clueless bitch. You can’t find a sugar daddy in a place like The Bar. Everyone knows this.

It started with the excessive amount of chatter in the car about my suit, the car, my watch. She was laying it on thick. Walking through the plush hotel is no different. She’s on about all thing's money related. She’s a gold digging whore.

I make quick work of getting her into the elevator, bypassing all the niceties of the building. No, the doorman doesn’t want to hear your life story and no, I could give a shit less about what you want to see in the area. I hurry her starry-eyed gaze into the small room of the hotel I keep reserved just for this. I’ve never once slept here, and it’s not where I spend my time. This is a place to fuck.

“No tour?” She whines as I shove her through the door. A tour? It’s a fucking hotel. The only thing she’s here to see is that bed and my dick.

Grabbing onto my arm, she pleads with her eyes and pouts. Childish antics do nothing but piss me off. I wanna fuck a woman, or what is considered a woman these days, not a pouty ass brat. “Either follow me or leave.” I tell her, pointing right back at the door. This isn’t goddamn social hour. I’ve no interest in sitting down and chatting. I don’t want to get to know you better. She’s put off by my short words, but still, she follows me.

“Lose the clothes and get on the bed.” I tell her, locking the door behind me. I hear a zipper, followed by the thud of her shoes, and then finally, the rustle of sheets.

“I’m ready, baby.” I know this. There’s an unspoken protocol for this shit. I know she’s ready because if she weren’t, she wouldn’t fucking be here.

That small conscience I have left tells me not to do this, but I drown that fucker’s voice with a shot of Brandy.

“Baby?” That one word is too much.

“Do
not
talk to me, do
not
touch me, and do
not
look at me. You just need to fulfill your purpose and lie the fuck down. Once I’m finished with you, you’ll leave without a word, do you understand?

She nods, clearly surprised, and maybe even a little pissed, but fuck her. This is all she’s good for to me, and she should’ve known that when she left with me. Women only go to that bar for one particular thing and it isn’t the stimulating conversation. Apparently, she needs to be reminded.

“Now, let’s get on with this.”

London

“Good fucking God.” Sighing, I flop down on my couch and kick my feet up, resting my back against Matt's shoulder as I settle in for movie night.

“Not a pleasant visit, I take it?” Matt jokes, draping an arm loosely over my shoulder. Pleasant isn’t a word I would use to describe Mr. Marx, or
Dante.
“Lover boy break a date or something?” He carries on, so I punch him in the leg. “Fine, I get he’s not your lover boy, but there’s no need to resort to violence.”

“Call him lover boy one more time and I’ll be pouring out the wine just to cram the bottle down your throat. And stop talking about him, it gives me a fucking headache.” Matt laughs which gets him another punch. “Not funny, asshole.” I can’t find one thing funny about any of this.

“But seriously, what’s that guy’s deal?”

“Not a clue.” I answer honestly because I really don't know. He’s truly something else and I’m not sure that’s a good thing.

“Well, if looks could kill, I'd be dead.” Throwing his hands around his neck in a chocking fashion, he starts gagging.

“You’re not funny.” But he’s right. Those eyes show how lethal he really is.

“He asked me about
us
.” I tell him hesitantly.

He sighs dramatically. He’s such a fucking drama queen. Shaking his head like he’s disgusted with me, he takes a gulp of wine. “They always do, don’t they?” That wasn’t a question. “Did you tell him the truth, or did you leave the important answers out?”

“I told him the truth.” I lie, but he’s not buying it.

“My ass you did. You’re good at giving people partial truths, but not me. I don’t know why you just don’t tell people I’m gay. I've accepted it―it’s
okay
.”

“You’re gay?” Shaking his head, he grumbles something about “bitch” and “driving him insane.” Yeah. Right back at ya, buddy.

“Are you ashamed of me? Am I your dirty little secret?” He mocks his shock, pouting his lips and batting his eyelashes.

“You’re my secretary. My wife can’t know about us.” I play right along with him, rubbing his leg like I’m consoling him.

His drama doesn’t last long. “You know you use our relationship to keep men away.” He points out. He's right, but it's just easier this way. I don't have time for men. They’re worse than women most days and too much trouble. I don’t have the time, nor the patience, to put into any new relationships.

“I’m not explaining shit to anyone, man or woman, especially if they’re demanding to know. I don’t know him, and I don’t owe him an explanation as to who you are or what you are to me.”

“And I get that. Our relationship is no one's business, but we look like a fucking couple. What do you think men think when they see us together? You may not want their attention, but have you stopped to think about me? Any chance I’d have is gone because they think I’m your man. Men think you’re my woman. How am I supposed to meet someone if they think I’m straight?”

“Whatever. You never have a problem getting dates.”

“Listen, I'm not getting into this with you. I’ll pretend to be your man until we die if that’s what you really want, but you really should consider the possibilities of giving some lucky fucker a chance. Take your time and do some dating, that’s all. I’m not saying you have to get into a relationship, just stop being a prude and get out there.”

I don’t say anything. This isn’t a conversation I’m in the mood to have so I get comfortable and set my sights on relaxing and preparing for another long week.

~~~~~~

“I’m starving to death.” Matt complains, wandering into the living room.

“Right there with ya.” It’s been a busy few days and work tonight was no different. I missed lunch and dinner.

“Chinese.” He declares while thumbing through his phone. He doesn’t bother asking if it’s good with me, but he knows I love it.

“That works for me, thanks for asking.”

“I'll order, but you have to go pick it up. The guy there hates me.” This is true. When we first moved here, Matt, the shameless, dirty slut, threw himself at a waiter there. The waiter was
not
gay and didn’t appreciate the come on. I doubt Matt would go back there even if he wasn’t banned for life. He’s too embarrassed, and I don’t blame him.

“Yes he does, ya pervert.”

“I’m a pervert?”

“You sure the hell are. You grabbed his ass. That, my friend, makes you a perv.” Tossing a pillow at me, Matt grumbles and flops down on the couch, “Go get my food, wench.”

~~~~~~

Crisp, cool air hits my face when I push through the front doors of my building. It’s not too cold tonight, but it’s just enough to need a jacket. For me, it’s the perfect temperature for a stroll. The Chinese restaurant is only a few blocks away, so the walk isn't bad. I could use some time to myself, anyway.

It's late, but there are still quite a few people out and about. This is why I love the city. No matter the time, it’s always so full of life as people get off of work, couples go out on dates, families have late dinners, and clubs fill up for the night. The city is always full of life.

Walking blissfully down the sidewalk, lost in my thoughts, I jump when I hear a man say, “You shouldn't be out here alone at this time of night.” I spin around in surprise because I know the voice. I come to a halt, and so does he. I thought I’d finally seen the last of Dante, but apparently, he’s not done with me yet. As much as I hate to admit it, I’m excited to see him. Nevertheless, he just scared the living shit out of me and that shit bothers me, a lot. I come face to face with Mr. Super Sexy, Multiple Personality turned Stalker. “What the fuck are you doing here?” I don’t know why I can’t find it in me to be nice to him. It’s like he brings out the bitch in me, especially when he keeps showing up out of nowhere. Why can’t he just ask to meet with him and talk to me like a normal person?

“I wanted to see you. I wasn’t happy with the way things went the other night and … I just wanted to see you.”

I’m struck dumb at his admission. “I gave you what you came for. I accepted your apology, so what more could you possibly want from me?”

He doesn’t answer, but he reaches out and grabs my elbow, trying to pull me closer. “Get the fuck off me!” I wrench my arm away as he drops his hand to his side in defeat.

“I told you, I just wanted to see you.” I’m probably being unreasonably harsh here, but he’s stalking me for fuck’s sake. This isn’t sexy by any means to me. He has issues, and I don’t want any part of them.

“Listen, I’ve gotta go. You have to stop showing up like this. I don’t know what you want, and it’s obvious that you don’t either so please, just stop. It’s freaking me out. If this is how you go about getting a girl’s attention, you’ve got shit way wrong. Go practice on someone, or read a book for fucks sake.” I say before I turn and head down the road.

I make it a half a block before I hear him yell out my name. I pretend not to hear him and just keep walking. “London. Stop!” He yells again, not taking the hint. This man is relentless.

For a second I hear him running toward me, eating up the space between us until he finally catches up to me, now walking at my side.

Neither one of us say a word as we walk, but he twists his watch around his wrist repeatedly.

“For the love of God, stop with the goddamn watch twisting.”

He laughs. This isn’t just any laugh, either. He throws his head back and fucking laughs. It’s a rich, deep laugh, and I like it. It’s one of those laughs that bring out one of your own. Whether it’s a crazy, mental sort of laugh is still to be determined, but it makes me smile nonetheless.

How can a man I don’t even know make me wanna tear my hair out of my head? Once he stops laughing he continues to smile, but only shrugs as he goes for twisting his watch again.

“You're a pain in the ass,” I tell him. There’s simply no better description for him.

“I’ve been called worse.” And I don’t doubt that for a second.

“I wonder why?” I snap back, but he doesn’t respond.

I start to quicken my pace to get some distance from him. What should’ve been a ten minute walk has now turned into twenty. I’m not in the mood for silly games from one of his many personalities this evening.

“Where are you going?” he calls after me.

“Crazy,” I throw over my shoulder.

He’s raced back to my side, falling back into step with me. He’s rattling me. I want him to just go away, yet I can’t help being fascinated with such an enigma. His presence is larger than life. “Where are we going?” He pushes for an answer.

“
We
aren’t going anywhere.”

“I would disagree.” I’m sure he does. Waving a grand hand down the sidewalk I snap, “If you must know...”

“Yes, I must know.” He insists with a cunning smile. I roll my eyes at him and his antics. He really thinks a lot of himself.

“I'm going for some dinner.”

“Can I join you?” He asks. I look to him and see him attempting some innocent expression and I can’t help but laugh. He sure is laying it on thick. His eyes are shining now, beaming even.

“Are you really giving me a choice?” I know he’s following me no matter what I say, and in answer to my question, he laughs again. A very real laugh that I find myself smiling at. That’s twice in one night. I’ll bet it’s a rare thing for him and I’ve somehow just gotten two out of him. I’m feeling pretty confident with my smartass behavior.

Walking beside me his step seems lighter. That tightly strung, unsure energy seems to have faded into the night air.

“Why did you even ask to join me if I never had a choice in the matter?”

“I thought I’d do the gentlemanly thing and ask.” He shrugs nonchalantly. He’s one sneaky fucker. He’s playing me and I’m gonna let him, just to see what he’s all about. He thinks he’s got the upper hand when in reality, I’m gonna give him just enough rope to hang himself with. I have to give Mr. Personalities props for trying to play me like an instrument. He’s done the confused, irritated, nervous, scared, and bossy shows for me, so I can only imagine what else he has to show if I wait long enough to find out. I’m a game to him. I see it all now. He’s not used to being brushed off, especially by some nobody like me. It’s why he can’t walk away. He has to prove to himself that he can get to me. I should have taken the time before to figure him out, but I think this is how it had to play out for me to see him for what he really is―a self-centered control freak. He always gets what he wants, just like every rich fuck around here does. He’s crafty, smart, sexy, and very resourceful.

So the games begin.

“Do you even know where I'm going?” I ask as he walks a few steps ahead of me. He sure is walking like he does. I fall a few paces behind him, watching his walk.

I get a little silent moment to marvel in his beauty. He has a large, powerful body. He buys expensive tailored slacks that hug his muscular legs. I’ve also seen what those tailored slacks do for his ass.

A finely fitted, black wool trench coat hangs perfectly from his broad shoulders, but it’s his insane hair – which is always a mess, strands going in every direction – that make him so goddamn sexy to me. I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t something very intriguing and alluring about this man with the multiple personalities, stalking tendencies, and ridiculously messy hair.

“No, I don’t, London. I assumed you'd tell me.” He answers easily. Nice try, you slimy asshole. Of course he “assumed” I’d tell him where I was going, just like he “assumed” he could join me for dinner or that he could show up at my work and my home earlier this week.

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re arrogant and pushy?” Of course this only prompts him to laugh more. Now that I’ve come to my realization, I’m less than thrilled to hear his laughter.

I'm busy sulking and staring at the sidewalk dejectedly when I slam right into a hard, sculpted back “What the hell!” Stumbling back I fight to stay upright, but before I can fall on my ass, Dante catches me. He grabs me around my waist just like in the movies and holds me upright. He's close … so close. Our bodies are pressed against each other and I like his arm wrapped around me. My body shivers involuntarily. Dammit.

My irritation at his sudden stop ebbs away quickly, fading into a nauseating lust. He smells like Armani, mint, and a slight hint of sweet tobacco. I don’t want to have this kind of reaction to him. Looking up into his amused and warm eyes, my heart pounds painfully in my chest and my breath is ragged and choppy. He’s fucking crazy, but so achingly gorgeous.

Those eyes are doing dirty things to my body. He’s so close to laying waste to my expensive as sin
Agent Provocateur
panties. Heat rises in me and my skin tingles with shock. He leans his head down and his delicious mouth is close to mine. I want so much to feel the stubble on his face rub over every inch of my skin.

This is exactly what he wants, for me to give in to him, and here I am, doing just that. “I’m…
I’m―
” I sputter like an idiot. I’m losing my fucking mind, “I'm okay.” I assure him and frantically push him away. I have to get his hands off me before I start ripping off his clothes. With a little struggle, he lets me go.