Made: A Bad Boy Romance (Bad Boy Games) (3 page)

Hunter holds up a hand, preventing her from marching through the VIP door. “You’ll have to leave your purse with me.”

“Why? So you can steal my lipstick? No way. See the B on the clasp? That’s my initial. It’s special, and I’m not leaving it with you.”

“Ma’am, please, your belongings will be perfectly safe. I’ll put your bag right here on this shelf and guard it until I can return it to you personally. Will that be satisfactory?”

Miss Deja Booty gives Hunter another earful. Better him than me.

I stand there in the doorway for a minute listening to them argue and wondering what the hell is wrong with me, thinking she’s an innocent who needs saving. I’m the one who needs his head examined.

Wrong.

Screw the rules. I need that redhead.

Now.

BROOKE

The guy guarding the door to the club takes his time looking me over. He’s the size of a small house with arms like tree trunks and an intelligent light behind his eyes that doesn’t match the gym candy addict exterior. His gaze goes top-to-bottom and back up again at a leisurely pace. I have to force myself not to squirm under the examination. He’s just the muscle; I’m just another girl trying to get inside the hottest new place in town. I notice when a flicker of heat flares behind his glance. A little thrill runs up my spine and makes me stand straighter and thrust my boobs forward. He’s stripping me naked with his eyes, which is the whole point of the dress I’m wearing. It’s a rich, dark red that flows over my curves like good wine and sets off my pale skin. I borrowed it from Caylee because there’s no way I could ever afford anything like this dress; without it, there’s no way I’d make it past the entrance hotness test currently underway. Because I’m five inches taller than Caylee, the dress is almost indecently short, but that fact also works in my favor. The guard must be a leg man.

Since I couldn’t find my only good evening bag—a satin one that belonged to my mother—I borrowed one from Caylee. For shoes, I was on my own since Caylee and I don’t wear the same size. I managed to scrounge a pair of nude heels from the back of my closet. They’re cheap, big box store knock-offs of a fashionable style. Unlike my size nines, Caylee’s delicate size sixes are currently shod in the sexiest pair of red shoes I’ve ever seen. They probably cost more than I make in a week. When she showed them to me while we were getting ready at her place, I was afraid to ask how much they cost. Of course, Caylee being Caylee, she told me anyway.

“They were free. They came with the card.” She dangles the shoes from two fingers. They’re sleek and elegant, sexy without being trashy. I think about wearing them while I tuck my foot into a man’s big hand. Slowly, ever so slowly, he slides the shoe off. Maybe then I’d drag my toe along his inner thigh—

And then the fantasy vanishes.

“You’re talking about that business card? The one you showed me the other day that tells you where to go to sign up and then. . .” My voice trails off because I don’t remember the rest of the story. When she’d started telling me about it, the whole deal had sounded so far fetched I hadn’t paid attention. “That thing. . .it’s tonight? You’re actually going through with it?”

A sly grin curves Caylee’s features as she nods. “I knew you didn’t believe me. You’re right. It’s on. Tonight’s the night.”

A business card matching the one she gave me lays on the edge of her nightstand. She picks it up with her free hand.
Harley & Sweet
is printed on the creamy stock along with an address I recognize across the river in New Jersey as being prosperous and respectable. There’s nothing unique about it. It looks like any other business card, assuming the firm is into accounting or law or something equally ordinary.

I can’t figure out how hot red shoes fit into the picture.

“You’re saying the people at this Harley & Sweet company set you up on a
blind date
and supplied totally gorgeous shoes because conscientious lawyers and accountants don’t have anything better to do than play at being high-end pimps. . .”

Caylee blinks at me, a slight frown on her face. My sarcasm is lost on her. “It’s sort of like that, but not.” She waves a hand airily at the card. “Their office is just where you go to sign the contract.”

Contract.
Right.

Since when do pimps issue contracts? Maybe only very, very exclusive pimps? I shake my head, figuring I’m way out of my depth, or this thing is a total scam, and I haven’t found the angle. Yet. But I will. Caylee and I have been best friends since seventh grade. No way am I letting her walk into anything remotely dangerous. “What happened next?”

She shrugs and drops to the side of the bed to slip her feet into the shoes. “These lovely things arrived along with instructions. It was pretty simple and straightforward. I know you don’t believe me, but it’s totally legit. It’s all classy and very above board.”

“And all you have to do is show up at the club tonight, go on your date. . .and that’s it?”

“If the night goes well, I walk away with at least $10K. Isn’t that enough?”

I scowl at her skeptically. “Just like that, they’re going to hand you all that money? For one date?”

She pivots on those hot shoes and studies her image in the mirror. “If my date likes me and things work out, it could turn into even more money.”

Like your pussy is golden?
I can’t say that.

I also can’t say the word for what we’re talking about. I don’t like the word. I don’t like the Miss Judgy-pants feeling that comes over me and makes my throat tight when I think about it.

But it is what it is: whore.

I don’t say this to my friend because that would be shitty and who am I to judge? If somebody offered me ten thousand dollars, and I didn’t have to kill anyone for the money, I’d jump at it. The sad thing is that even that much cash wouldn’t dig me out of the financial hole I’ve been sinking into since my parents died when I was seventeen.

It sure would help. A lot.

I close my eyes and shiver as if a cool breeze dances over my skin.

So much money. . .

“One night,” Caylee says softly like she knows what I’m thinking. “You only have to commit to one night. If you want to stay or the guy wants you longer, that’s up to you and him.”

“If you stay more nights, how much more do you get?”

Caylee names a figure. It hits me like a punch in the chest—life-changing money. Enough money to pay off my student loans and credit cards; enough to move my little sister and I out of our craptastic shoebox of an apartment and fix my car. Heck, maybe enough to buy us a new car. All I’d have to do is put myself (well, at least my body) in the hands of a rich and powerful man for one or more nights.

It’s the contract that bothers me—that and the fact that the whole deal sounds suspicious. Since when do the uber-rich have a hard time getting their horny hands on hot young women? Answer: they don’t.

Rich old men and poor young women go together like peanut butter and chocolate.

One thing I know for sure even though I’m not a lawyer and haven’t seen the contract, there will be strings attached to Caylee’s deal—strings concealed at the beginning that only come to light when it’s too late. Yeah, I’ve probably seen too many movies. Whatevs. Call me a pessimist or a realist—I don’t care. I’m a survivor, which is more than I can say for my best friend. Caylee Bennett still believes in rainbows and thinks unicorn farts will smell sweet. I’m the one who’ll be scrubbing unicorn poo off the driveway.

“Come with me tonight,” she pleads.

“On your date?” I snort. “Did they ask for a three-way?”

“Hah! No. Just come, hang out, have a little fun for a change. See how things work out for me and then you’ll have something to go on to make your decision.”

Like I’m going to do this crazy ass thing, too? What is she on? Just because she gave me their business card, she thinks I’m going to hustle across the river to Jersey and sign up? I tossed the card she gave me on the stack of bills on the dining room table because I’d told her I’d think about it. I wasn’t lying; I did think about it. . .and then said
no
in my mind. Because she’s not stupid, Caylee knows the promise of all that money is something I can’t ignore even if I won’t admit it, even to myself.

There’s another critical point. “If things turn sketchy tonight, and you need to bail, I’ll be there for you.”

“Okay, worrywart, but that’s not going to happen.” Caylee runs a hand through her long chestnut hair. “Tonight is going to be amazing, Brooke. I just know it. If you sign up, too, you can change your life.” She shrugs. “Or you can go home by your lonesome, put on your sweats and try to remember where you hid the vibe so Samantha won’t find it. Fun times.”

“She turned eighteen last week. Maybe I should get Samantha her own vibe.”

“As if curvy eighteen-year-olds need that kind of assistance.”

That’s a low blow, but she isn’t wrong.

My little sister, Samantha, turned eighteen last week and even though I keep a close eye on where she goes, what she’s doing, and with whom, it’s getting more difficult. She’s not a little girl any longer, as she reminds me every chance she gets.

For myself, it’s been about two months since the last time I had sex. That encounter was a one-night stand that will go down as one of the worst ideas in the history of one-night stands. I gave in and screwed my boss. Or rather, he screwed me, because there was nothing satisfying about the encounter on my quickie, missionary-style end of things. A hit-and-run would have been more memorable.

My mind drifts back to the luscious red shoes. I do want a pair. Who wouldn’t? I imagine a big, male hand wrapped around my ankle, guiding my foot until it touches his hardness. An ache sets up between my legs, reminding me of everything lacking in my life.

Caylee’s right. I need money, I work too much and never do anything fun, and I need to get laid, not necessarily in that order. Plus, going with her and checking things out makes sense from a security and practical point of view.

Which is how I wound up standing at the door to an exclusive club named Dominion, smiling into the eyes of the guard while he stamps my right hand with a luminescent letter D. I follow Caylee inside.

We get drinks and position ourselves on the second-floor mezzanine where we have an overview of the crowded main floor. The music is so loud it feels like it’s penetrating my body. We have to lean close to hear each other.

“How’re you supposed to find your date?” I ask.

Caylee takes a delicate sip through the tiny red straw in her frothy drink. “I don’t. He has to decide if I’m acceptable first.”

I’m about to lay into her for the sheer stupidity of any male finding Caylee
unacceptable
when she says something that stops me cold.

“I think there’s a tracker in the shoes.”

Of course, there is. Could this thing be any more James Bond?

Turning her head, Caylee scans the crowd. “He could be anywhere in here right now, checking me out and deciding if he wants to go through with it.” She frowns and adds in a small voice. “It could happen, you know. I might not be chosen. They said that in the contract.”

As if.

Mother Nature built Caylee Bennett like a pint-sized Barbie: skinny all over, but curvy where it counts. She’s been turning heads since she was twelve. Males gravitate to her as if propelled by some mysterious, magnetic force in nature that grabs them by the balls and shoves them her direction. It was the same way with this deal with the red shoes—it just came to her out of the blue. She said some woman approached her in a coffee shop, raving about the most amazing deal. She was sure Caylee would love it.

Ten thousand large for starters is enough to get anyone’s attention.

I’m forced to admit there’s something sexy and exciting when I think about a mysterious stranger studying me, imagining all the things he wants to do to me. One night and no facing the jerk at work the next day. (God, what was I thinking?) So yeah, I can see the attraction and not just the dollar signs of a big payout.

“What’s Samantha doing tonight?” Caylee asks.

“She’s spending the night at a friend’s house. She’s still pissed we had to cancel her birthday party and re-schedule. I promised to make it up to her.”

“She’ll get over it.” Caylee flashes me a wicked smile. “Here’s the thing: if you’ve got the place to yourself tonight, girl, you might as well go for it.”

The club reeks of luxurious perfumes, sex, and a light overlay of sweat. The odors swirl below my nose. I take a sip of my martini and let the icy liquid trickle slowly over my tongue. I think about taking a man home, putting him in my mouth, feeling his girth and his heat. I let my gaze wander across the crowded space, skipping from one expensive suit to another. A few of the men fill out the sleek cuts of their silk and wool suits with massive shoulders and impressive pecs. My eyes linger on them. I have a weakness for big men who make me feel petite. What would it be like if
I
wore the red shoes? What kind of man would play a game like this?

That’s when I suddenly understand: this
deal
must appeal to men who have everything, men who can buy anyone. They don’t merely want a night with a young and beautiful woman. They can have that easily; probably have more opportunities than they have time for. The staid business address in New Jersey offers an experience, something unique; one they can’t have anywhere else or with anyone else.

What would that mean for the young woman who slides her feet into a pair of special shoes?

Butterflies in my stomach. . .

If I were wearing the red shoes right now, he’d be here in the club, somewhere, watching. Would he show himself to me right away? Or make me wait? Will he stalk me like a hunter only to take me without warning. . .

My nipples go tight imagining my fantasy mystery man and if he’s wondering how my tits will feel in his hands, how my pussy will get wet for him. Will he get hard just looking at me? Heat rushes from my pussy up my belly and across my chest.