HEAT: A Bad Boy Romance (7 page)

E
very bone
in my body tells me not to trust Jake Ferry when he approaches me from across the lounge, where he’s just talked down and then put down an armed robber, but all I can think about is that if anything had happened to Chester, or if someone in my restaurant was shot, it would be the end of everything.

So when he comes close, his dark eyes filled with what looks like genuine concern, all I can think to say is, “Thank you.”

Jake shakes his head. “I don’t think he was serious. Are you okay?”

“Not really,” I tell him honestly. “If someone had been hurt… I’m going to have to do something about my security detail. I thought a couple of bouncers were enough, but it never occurred to me that someone could come in and rob the place during business hours. I mean what was he possibly thinking?”

Jake shrugs, sympathetic and just as confused as I am. “I don’t know. Desperate, I guess. People do strange things when they’re pushed hard enough. Things they might not normally do. Who knows what his story is?”

“Well, hopefully the police catch him,” I say. “It’s dangerous to have someone like that running around out there. Plenty of people got that on video. I think you’ll be immortalized forever, or at least for the next few weeks.” A thought occurs to me—a nasty one—and I blurt it out before I realize I’m speaking. “It’ll probably be great for your father’s restaurant, right?”

Jake blinks, his lips parted, and then starts to turn away. “I guess we’ll see.”

I should let him go. I don’t like him. I mean he’s gorgeous, and there’s something about a man who will face down danger that is objectively, undeniably sexy, but Jake Ferry is the enemy. Nonetheless, I find myself reaching out to stop him. “Jake, wait.”

He does, and for a moment I’m searching for the words. That’s about the time the police arrive.

J
ake waits
for me while I give my statement to the police along with everyone else. I have Chester show one of the officers the security footage from the night, and avoid being a bitch about how long it took for them to arrive. Chester hit the silent alarm behind the bar just a few seconds after he realized what was happening. Next time, someone could be dead.

But that’s the last kind of talk I want to have with the police, especially right now. So instead it’s all humility and profuse gratitude while they gather everything they can—which isn’t much. They take the gun, at least, and hope to get prints off of it. Since Jake touched it too, they have to print him just in case the robber isn’t on file. Jake is gracious about that, but people are taking pictures and I do wonder if maybe this won’t look bad for the Ferrys when it gets online.

And that’s a vicious thought, not the kind I’m used to having. Guilt worms into my stomach—this is the man that just saved my bar, my bartender, and if things had gone really badly, who knows—maybe even my life. I shouldn’t be thinking about whether the PR for this is going to hurt him. That’s not who I am. Is it?

When everything is done, and the police are on their way out, Jake comes back to me, looking embarrassed, his hands in his pockets. “Kind of a fiasco I guess.”

“Armed robbery usually is,” I say.

He laughs quietly, and shrugs. “I guess you’re probably right.”

“Noncommittal. Is that like a thing with you?” I wince at my own tone, and put a hand lightly on his arm. “I’m sorry. I’m just… my nerves are shot and I get sarcastic when that happens. It’s a defense mechanism, that’s all.”

“No, you’re… you’re not wrong,” he says. He puts his large, warm hand over mine. His hands are soft. Not that I should expect anything else—he isn’t a field worker, after all. I’m not certain Jake Ferry has worked a hard day in his life.

Just behind him, several yards away, Gloria is practically on her tiptoes, trying to peek past him to see what we’re about.

As if reading Gloria’s thoughts, or mine, Jake glances over his shoulder and then back at me. “Would you… like me to take you home? We can leave out the back so no one can see us. I’m not parked far.”

I want to laugh. People have already “seen us.” But it’s a sweet thought. I did drive my own car but… “Sure,” my mouth says before I can get ahead of it. “That would be good.”

When he smiles, I almost want to kiss him, and that’s the most ridiculous thought I’ve had in recent memory. So I take my hand off his arm, out from under his hand, and go to retrieve my purse instead. I’m not kissing Jake Ferry. Not yet, anyway.

I
probably look
as nervous as I feel on the way back to my place. Every time I try to start up a conversation, the words get stuck in my throat. Maybe I just don’t want to pop whatever illusory bubble I’m actually in right now. Maybe I’m worried I’ll say the wrong thing. This isn’t one of my talents—making nice with someone I very recently would have had killed if I thought I could get away with it.

I probably could have gotten a two-for-one deal on him and Gloria both.

So instead I drum my fingers on my knee and stare out the passenger-side window. We slow down at one point, well before we get to my building, and I realize that Jake is pulling up to a drive-through juice bar.

“I know just the thing,” he says. “This place makes a great herbal bubble tea for stress and anxiety. They’ve been here for a few years. Nothing gross, either—you’ll like it.”

“Oh, okay,” I say, like an idiot. “Um… thanks.”

A few minutes later he hands me a drink, and I give it a taste test. Herbal hoodoo isn’t really my bag. Western medicine for me, thanks—I’ve seen Mama go through everything from Reiki to acupuncture to six-hour chakra realignment workshops, and that’s not even including the laundry list of “miraculous” herbal supplements she’s tried.

I don’t know if this herbal thing is going to do anything for my nerves or not, but it’s delicious and that right there is medication enough for me. “Thank you,” I tell Jake. “It’s really good.”

“Glad you like it.”

All the way home I expect that any moment he’s going to make a move. And, honestly, if he did this would be his lucky night. Who knows why, other than the fact that it’s been ages since I got any, but I’m primed for it at this very moment.

He doesn’t, though. Jake Ferry is, mysteriously, a perfect gentleman all the way home, even up to the point where he walks me to my door. I work the key into the lock while he keeps a lookout for any danger, I guess, and when I’ve got it, push it open a bit and then turn to lean on it and watch him. I will him to make some kind of a move because I am not going to be the one that goes crawling after him like some puppy.

“I hope you feel better,” he says, instead of taking me upstairs. In fact, he takes a step down, and looks up at me with those smoldering eyes. They stay on mine, which, in this dress, has to be an act of will worthy of Viking ballads. “Have a good night, Janie.”

“Yeah,” I say, numb with need, taking in his cheekbones, his square jaw, his ruffled hair. His broad shoulders. “You too.”

A last smile, and then he’s gone, and I’m rushing inside to get ahold of myself.

I’m in the elevator, totally alone—except for whoever eventually watches the security tapes—before I sag against the wall and let my breath catch up to my racing heart. Heat surges between my legs, and I’m swirling away in thoughts of Jake Ferry, of his large, warm hands, his soft-looking mouth and… whatever else he’s got to work with.

By the time I get to my floor, I’m ready to ooze out of the elevator and leave a trail all the way to my apartment door. I rush to get into my place, shaking slightly until I can finally unzip my dress and recline on my couch, my fingers quickly working to get Jake out of my mind—or deeper into it, depending on your point of view, I suppose.

Flicking and stroking myself, I imagine those eyes looking up at me from my wet pussy as he laps at me, his tongue teasing me, and I can already feel the growing heat and tension beginning to build and—

As if he can hear me thinking dirty thoughts about him, my phone chimes loudly from inside my bra and I jerk my hand away from my sex like I’ve been caught by my grandma. It’s Jake. How did he even get my number? Never mind. There’s probably some billionaire boys’ club you just dial up like 411.

“You getting some rest?” he asks.

I roll my eyes. “Something like that. Trying to relax. Unwind.”

“Good. Sorry. Just thinking about you.”

Just thinking about me? I half wonder if he’s jerking off in his car the same way I was about to rub one out. “Don’t think too hard,” I text him. “Dangerous to drive one-handed.”

Once I hit send, only then do I realize what I’ve just done. It’s a long time before he texts me back.

“Fine now, both hands on the wheel.”

I get the image of Jake in my mind, stroking himself while he imagines me in the passenger seat, rubbing my clit for him. The image comes unbidden, out of nowhere, and with it comes a pile of misgivings. Do I really want to get sucked in by Jake Ferry? Everything he does comes with strings attached—Reginald Ferry’s strings, whether Jake means it or not.

No… it’s better if I don’t. So, I won’t. I turn my ringer off, and put my phone on the table facedown.

I won’t.

R
eginald’s invitation
to what he calls the “Big Boys Club”—his shareholder meeting—is the first I’ve received, but it’s not precisely an honor. “You need to meet these men,” he tells me, “if you plan on taking over my company when I retire.”

The implied consequence, of course, is that failure to attend is tantamount to turning down that offer. And I almost do. But then again, being there means I know what they discuss, and for all I know my absence means they’ll be discussing how to establish someone else as Reginald’s heir—or worse, how to blacklist me entirely in every venue they can.

Instead, they discuss plans for Janie Hall’s location. The meeting is at a massive cabin upstate, about an hour’s drive into the foothills at the edge of a sparkling lake. One of Reginald’s vacation properties. Seated around the large meeting room at the back of the luxury cabin, his fifteen principle shareholders pass around Cuban cigars, hundred-year-old whiskey, and discuss the men’s lodge they plan to put where Red Hall currently stands—as if it’s a foregone conclusion that Janie will be out of business any day now.

“It is, Jack,” Reginald tells the one man who bothers to ask that very question. He claps me on the shoulder. “My boy is on it. Janie Hall’s pussy is so wet for him, he’ll have her right where we want her in no time.”

“Not right where we want her,” Paul, a man old enough to be my grandfather, says lasciviously. He laughs as he makes the universal sign for blowjob, and the rest of the shareholders join in.

Reginald laughs along with them, and winks at me. “I’m sure Jake wouldn’t mind passing her around—would you, son?”

I don’t answer, but I don’t need to. My father claps me on the shoulder. “Jake is finally ready to run with the big dogs.”

“Congratulations,” pour in from the group, along with “about time,” and “welcome to the big leagues.”

I try to smile, and probably do a convincing job of it. To sell it, I have to shut down inside. Reginald may be smiling, but I can tell it’s just as fake as mine. Except he isn’t shut down, and in his eyes is the warning that’s been there for days now, nonstop.
Don’t even think about failing or fucking me
, they say.

After a little more banter, Reginald calls the meeting more or less to order. “Carl, you said you got blueprints in. Lay them out, let’s see what your guys came up with.”

Carl grins, and goes to retrieve a long white tube, from which he produces a roll of stacked papers. In the middle of the room, on the wide table we’re all seated around, he rolls them out and uses paperweights to pin them down.

I can tell just by looking that the plans aren’t meant for renovations. This is for a new building. They want to tear down the existing structure and build something new on it.

“Casino’s on the ground floor,” Carl explains, “with a lounge on the second floor. General admission in the front, VIP in the back, of course.”

“The stage?” Paul asks, pointing at a section of the plans for the second floor.

“Optional,” Carl says, smiling, “but do we really want a twenty-four-hour sausage party in there?”

Reginald barks a laugh, and thumps me in the shoulder like I’m his buddy. “Good thinking. Everything’s better with tits in the background, right?”

They go over the details, and the talk goes over general plans and layouts. Of supreme interest seems to be some of the private sauna rooms and the prospect of hiring Swedish prostitutes to offer oral service in them. It’s Paul’s idea, after visiting a particular coffee shop with a similar model in Sweden. There’s also the more technical talk of materials, who has what connections with this or that contractor or sub-contractor, where to import the materials in, and how to undermine the necessary foreign markets ahead of time to get the best deal.

None of them seem concerned about the possibility that Janie Hall won’t fail—that no matter what I do, or what anyone else does, she’ll manage to keep her head above water long enough to outlast Ferry Lights. Once she gets a solid foothold, dislodging Red Hall will become far more difficult, and Reginald knows that.

And he knows that I know it, which is almost worse. Throughout the night, he’s giving me that warning look, as though my fate is still undecided. Which it is. Not just by him—I haven’t got Janie in my pocket just yet, and honestly I’m not sure I can put her there.

Oh, I’m certain I can get her into bed. I’ve got my foot in the door. But she’s still cautious, and she has her priorities straight. She isn’t going to topple just because she’s got a hot rush for a guy like me. Not even if I want her to.

Eventually the meeting is over, and I can’t get out of the place fast enough. Most of them will spend the night—there are strippers and hookers inbound soon, now that all the business is over with—but I drove myself up here specifically so I could leave.

Reginald doesn’t push me to stay, though. He pulls me aside once the shareholders disperse. “Give me an update,” he says. “How far along is Janie Hall?”

“I don’t know yet,” I tell him. “She’s a tough nut. Confident. Self-sufficient. We’ve been talking, though.”

“Talking?” he asks. He laughs. “You’ve been talking? About what? Your fucking feelings? Jesus Christ, I didn’t raise a fucking therapist. What’s taking so long?”

“Not every woman bends over just because you snap your fingers,” I argue. “Janie has integrity—she has to be convinced. Seduced.”

“Just show her your big fucking Ferry dick,” Reginald grunts. “Get her wet and she’ll bend over. I don’t need her to want to have your fucking babies, Jake. I need her to be susceptible to sabotage. Fuck her and get it over with. Fast track it. You hear me?”

It occurs to me that my father doesn’t understand women. He’s never needed to. He understands hookers and gold diggers, and how to spot them—but that’s like understanding a carpenter or baker. He understands occupations, not people.

Trying to explain Janie to him is pointless, so I just rattle my keys and smile. “Yeah, Dad. I’ll get on it.”

“I want an update in two days,” he growls. “And I want to hear good news. Is that clear?”

Crystal clear. If I don’t have good news, there will be consequences. “Yes, sir.”

Reginald smiles that fake, predatory smile and puts his paw on the back of my neck, pulling me close. “You’re my son,” he says quietly. “Don’t fucking disappoint me.”

He lets me go to return to his “boys.” I watch him leave, wondering how he navigates the world. But, then, I suppose that’s the wrong way to look at it. Reginald has spent his life changing the world to navigate him.

I leave them to their philandering and circle-jerking, and spend the drive back to the city wondering why I would ever want to be a part of that world in the first place.