Stepbrother Desires (Billionaire Contemporary Romance) (2 page)

I pounded the heavy bag like a man
possessed. My leather gloves making a satisfying sound as I landed a series of
good, clean blows to the bag.

“Use your combinations!” shouted Manny, my
trainer. “Upper, hook, cross. Jab, upper, hook, cross. Cross, hook cross!’

Sweat poured off me as I tried to focus on
the three combinations, but my mind was elsewhere. I’d hope that a hard session
at the gym and few rounds on the heavy bag with my trainer might help me forget
the nagging feeling I’d been struggling with all day. So far, it wasn’t
working.

Team sports or
tennis never floated my boat. And golf? I never really saw the point of it. Boxing
was the only thing that ever felt ‘right’ for me. I’d always enjoyed the cardio
aspect, the technique and skill involved, the footwork and the confidence boost
I got from being able to handle myself in the ring. I’d never been in a street
fight and didn’t want to get into one, either, but knowing I could handle myself
and take out an opponent with a few well-timed and accurately delivered
combinations made me feel good.

All day long, I’d
battled a gnawing feeling in my gut, an emptiness that welled inside me from when
I first thought about my stepsister. I suddenly felt sick at the way I used to
treat her. Ever since she and her mom moved in with us I’d felt threatened by
her. That’s why I used to act out and tease her or make fun of her at every
opportunity. It seemed harmless at the time, but now that she was gone, I was
missing her.

“Come on Ty. How
many times I gotta tell you? Take some shots, move out of the way then keep
attacking from the side. Work your way around. Use your combinations,” Manny
coached, removing the chewed cigar stub from his mouth. “If you stay in the
kill zone, you’re finished. That’s why they call it ...” Manny paused to make
his point. “The-Kill-Zone,” he enunciated using his cold, soggy cigar to
punctuate each word.

“And keep your
guard up. God help me, Tyler. You could pay a monkey to train you for all the
good it does having me yell at you tonight.”

 As the round
timer sounded and the final 3 minute round ended, I walked across the sweat
spattered floor to retrieve my water bottle. “Sorry Manny. I do listen, you
know I do. I’m just not with the program tonight.”

“Yeah, I could
tell something was up the minute you shaped up to the bag. New job gettin’ to
ya?”

“Hardly.” I
shook my head, wishing it was that simple. “Nah, it’s nothing. I don’t even
know what it is. I just started thinking about my sister today, that’s all.”

“Sister? You
never mentioned a sister. Thought you were the only jar on the shelf?”

“She’s my
step
sister.
She had a falling out with my old man, or something like that, a while back and
left home under a bit of a cloud. Haven’t seen or heard from her in a while. No
idea why I started thinking about her today, though.”

“Maybe you’re
thinking about seeing her at your engagement party?” Manny offered.

“Oh, man. Don’t
even ...” I swallowed hard. My shoulders slumped at the mention of it. “You
can’t imagine what it’s like to be engaged to someone you can barely stand to
be in the same room with. She’s an annoying little trust fund brat.”

“She’s hot!” Manny
added, trying to lighten the mood.

“There is that,
I guess, but … seriously?”

“Your old man
won’t take no for an answer, hey? I thought that the whole ‘corporate merger
through marriage’ thing didn’t happen in this day and age.”

“You should try
telling my old man that. He wants our family business in bed with Irvine Oil
and he thinks that by getting me hitched and in bed with Princess Jessica, he’s
as good as got the job done,” I explained.

Saying it out
loud to Manny didn’t make it sound any less ridiculous. How could anyone think
it was a good idea? What does my old man even know about relationships, anyway?
He was probably already on the lookout for his next ex-wife while he was
playing matchmaker with my life.
What the fuck?

“Come on, son.” Manny
put his arm around me and walked me to the corner of the gym. “Let’s get some
of that frustration out on the speed ball.”

It’s been twelve
weeks since I started Pole Dance classes and the bruises have become less
frequent and post-practice soreness is a thing of the past. I’ve improved
beyond my wildest dreams and sometimes really feel like I was meant to be doing
this. Reverse Shoulder Spins, Arial Inverts and floorwork — I own them!

The digital
video camera I bought on eBay to record my performances together with some long
hours on YouTube in between dance classes and attending college have helped drive
me to the next level. I’d long passed the ‘need it’ phase. Now I really
wanted
this. More than anything. I’d watched myself transform from an unfit, curvy
girl, into a shapely, curvaceous dancer and I longed to get in front of a bunch
of guys who wouldn’t have looked twice at me a year ago. Let’s see what they
think now!

I’d advanced so
quickly with my dancing and fitness that Kandice used me in nearly every class
to help demonstrate complex routines, freeing her to walk the floor and give
individual attention to the other girls in the class. I couldn’t have been more
proud of myself.

After class the
other night, Melissa and I shared a juice from the vending machine as we cooled
down. A few months ago, socializing with someone like this would have been sheer
torture for me and I would have felt clumsy and socially awkward trying to
fumble my way through some kind of lame conversation. Now, I actually enjoyed
my little hang outs with Melissa. Wow, maybe I’ve actually made a friend.

“Hey! Great work
tonight, both of you. Very impressive effort,” Kandice said as we hovered by
the vending machine.

“Thanks. I’m
having so much fun and meeting some great people,” Melissa responded and gave me
a big smile.

“Me too,” I
quickly joined in. “I’m still struggling with getting the sexy feeling going
on. I think I’ve been told so often in the past how I’m so not sexy that it’s
hard to look it when you don’t feel it,” I continued, regretting straight away
that I’d had brought up the past. That’s what happens when you start getting
too comfortable with people. You let your guard down.

“Who on earth
told you that?” Kandice stared, open mouthed in amazement.

Melissa, too,
was speechless at the suggestion, shaking her head as she tried to fathom how
anyone could say that.

There was an
awkward pause before Kandice continued. “Actually, it’s funny you should say
that, because there’s something I’d like to talk to you girls about and it
involves helping a special friend of mine, who runs an upmarket ‘Gentlemen’s
Club’. He has a very unique problem that you both might help us with. Of
course, it goes without saying that a highly lucrative offer is on the cards,
too, due to the desperate and time critical nature of the problem.”

“So, let’s see
if I’ve got this straight.” I was still trying to get my head around the offer.
“Your friend’s dancers got food poisoning and he’s so desperate to get
replacements, he’s offering us $2,000 each for a nights work. Is that it, in a
nutshell?”

“That about sums
it up, yeah —”

“Each!” Melissa
squeaked, in a near state of shock. “I thought you meant for both of us.”

“Try to keep up,
Mel,” I rolled my eyes good naturedly.

“He has a few
other dancers,” Kandice went on, “but they’re new to the club and don’t work
center stage. That’s what he needs so desperately, center stage girls and I
recommended you two.”

“Why the urgency?”
I quizzed, slightly suspicious at the generosity of the offer.

“Seems some high
roller, fresh out of college, trust fund boys have booked a private party at
the club as a kind of pre-engagement bachelor party or some such. I think it’s
just an excuse for them to go and watch semi-naked girls pole dance, but I’m
not one to complain or judge.” She laughed as she rubbed her fingers and thumb
together. “So long as they’re parting with the green, they can watch all they
like. Am I right, girls?”

As much as I
detested the company culture of having to buy drinks for subordinates every
Friday night after work and the apparent need to schmooze with clients in bars
and clubs, it seemed like it was a necessary part of the business. Maybe it was
some bizarre carryover from the early days when roustabouts and roughnecks
would toil in the hot sun drilling for oil and needed to let off some steam at
the end of the week. Whatever the reason, it really wasn’t my scene, but I had
to play along to earn the respect of those further down the food chain. The
higher ups in the hierarchy were watching me and I had to do everything I could
to make it look like I knew what I was doing and playing the corporate game as
best I could.

Now, don’t get
me wrong, I liked a fine single malt whiskey more than most, but the whole bar
and club scene wasn’t my style. Not even close, despite the conclusions the
rest of the family drew from my wild behavior during college. The things we do
to look
normal
and not stand out too much from the crowd never ceased to
amaze me. And yet here I am, all grown up and still doing it.

This particular
Friday started off like any other; tame and subdued, at first, with many a tall
story shared with each round of drinks, all paid for by me on the corporate
expense account, of course. As the drinks flowed, the stories got taller, as
was the way with these guys.

I’d noticed a
few hushed conversations going on among the guys from the office and they
tended to banter awkwardly whenever I approached to join in their conversation.
Something was up, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. I just hoped it was
nothing that was going to reflect badly on me if the board found out about it.
Maybe I was being paranoid, but something was definitely off.

“OK, fellas, it’s
time we let the VP in on our little secret,” announced one of the Oil Market
Analysts, Jack, as he raised hi glass and aimed it squarely at me.

“I’ve got a bad
feeling about this.” I tried to go along with whatever was about to happen, but
I really
did
have a bad feeling about it.

“Well, your old
man … ah … I mean TJ Reynolds Junior,” nervous laughter broke out among the
ranks. They wouldn’t dare call him the ‘old man’ to his face, “gave us the go
ahead to organize a special all male engagement party for you tonight. So we’re
going to Centerfolds, the hottest pole dance club in town!”

At least I now
knew what all the whispers were about. Apparently, it was up in the air as to
whether or not it would go ahead, according to Jack, due to some problem with
the club. The word was passed around once Jack received a confirmation text
from the club owner.

At college, I
had something of a reputation as player. Sure, I had lots of female friends,
but everyone automatically assumed I was sleeping with them all, which was far
from true. But why let truth get in the way of a good rumor, right? Besides, on
some level, I think I enjoyed the kudos of being seen that way, especially among
my buddies. Why ruin a good thing by telling the truth.

For some reason,
though, my stepsister had a real issue with it. I never worked out why, but whenever
anyone said anything about my latest
girlfriend
I’d hear her say something
under her breath about me being a “man whore”, or something like that. It
almost seemed like the more girls I
seemed
to date, the more pissy she
got with me. Women. Go figure.

It was probably
taken for granted that a guy with my reputation would be an old hand at titty
bars. The last thing I needed was to lose the respect of the troops by
confessing I’d never stepped foot inside a ‘Gentlemen’s Club’ in my life.

“OK, Tyler, you
ready for some action? Jack called out, excitedly.

Trying not to
look too nervous, I walked over to Jack, wrapped my arm around him, slapped him
on the back and gave him my best imitation of a man-hug.

As much as I
hated the idea of actually celebrating my so called
engagement
to a girl
I barely knew, I hated the idea of spending the night at a seedy club with a
bunch of spirited, drunk, horny corporate execs, even more.

There was no way
I could let them know that. I had to play along for everyone’s sake. Especially
mine. I put on my party face and strode confidently toward the door.

“I was born
ready!”

The music pumped
and cocktails were flowing freely. Although in my case, it was the Scotch
Whiskey that flowed. The opulence of the Centerfold club was breathtaking. I’d
never seen anything like it. So much for my expectations of a dark, dingy,
smelly bar like Bada Bing on The Sopranos. Wow!

“This is really
something,” I held my glass of The Glenlivet 21 Year Old Archive in a mock
toast to Jack. “Absolute perfection. You’ve really outdone yourself.”

“It was the
least I could do for the boss’s son.” Jack returned the toast.

As I sipped on
one of the finest whiskeys I’d tasted in long time, I took in the exotic
chandeliers, custom-made, reproduction antique furniture and the lavish
cocktail bars strategically placed throughout the venue. Even the artwork decorating
the walls was high class, contemporary and above all, they were original works.
Now I don’t know shit from clay about art, but I know an expensive piece of it
when I see it.