Sick Bastard, page 13
“London, this is my cousin, Carmine.” He bows like some royal asshole.
“It’s nice to meet you, Carmine.”
Smiling he winks at her. “Call me Cam.”
“Cam?” Jesus Christ, I wish he’d go the fuck away. I’m not in the mood for his overly exaggerated pretentious antics. Doesn’t he have shit he could be doing?
“Short for Carmine Cameron Marc-ugh, Marx,” I gut check him before he fucks everything up.
“Enough. Come here, Cam.” That was too fucking close.
Grabbing his shoulder, I pull his annoying ass away from her. “Is there a reason you’re over here?” He just laughs and nods stupidly.
“It can wait.” He laughs.
“The fuck it can. Let’s go over there.” I point a few feet away from earshot. Looking back at London, I tell her, “I’ll be right back.”
“What do you want, Cam?” With his hands shoved into his pockets, he shifts around with a gleam in his eye.
“So she doesn’t know, does she?” I wish it was okay to just punch him right here, right now, in front of everyone.
“No, and she won’t find out so keep your fucking mouth shut. Now get on with it.” Fucking prick, he’s enjoying this.
“Got word that you need to make an appearance.”
“Is that so? When?”
“Tonight. Late.”
“Fine. Did you see that fucker messing with London earlier? Look into it.” He nods his understanding. I spend ten minutes getting details and giving instructions. A phone call pulls me away for another ten before I find myself back at the table.
I find London alone and lip deep in a shot, and four empties sitting in a semicircle around her. “Did I miss the party, beautiful?” Throwing back the shot, she shakes her head no and hiccups. “Where’d your friend go?” Shrugging, she points over her shoulder.
“Found some man candy and they’re headed to man candy’s room, I think.”
“Want to know what I think? I think you’ve had enough, cara.”
“Yeah, I think you might be right.” She grumbles. Pushing off the seat, she sways a little once on her feet. I make a grab for her to steady her and she jerks away from me.
“I got it,” she assures me. Holding up my hands, I back away a step.
“Okay.” I watch her throw that last shot back and slam the glass down on the table. She’s gonna hate herself in the morning.
“How are you getting home?” I ask her.
“Cab. I gave Al the rest of the night off,” she shrugs. That’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard. Her drunk in a cab for a few hours spells disaster. Nothing good could come of that. “Have you seen my purse?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Fuck. Must have left it in the town car.”
“Come on,” Grabbing her arm, I walk her towards the door. She’s got me bending. Any other woman I’d send in a cab and not think twice about it, but not London.
“Where ya takin’ me, bossy pants?” She slurs.
“Home, Now shut up.”
~~~~~~
“A limo, huh?” She smiles wickedly. “Are you overcompensating for something, Mr. Marx?” I know what that look means and she’s playing with fire.
“London?”
“Is someone trying to make up for something with this long limo?”
It took me thirty minutes to get her out of there and onto the sidewalk. We’re not getting distracted now, no matter how bad I want to fuck her inside this lime and show her I have nothing to compensate for. “Get in the fucking car, London.”
The dirtiest of looks flashes across her face before she turns away and trudges to the door. “This dress is a fucking pain.” She slurs and starts tugging on it while trying to get in. She lifts it up obscenely high to crawl into the back seat. I think I catch a glimpse of ass, but I know I get a perfect view of those long, tan legs. Damn. “As soon as I'm home, it's coming off.” Yes, and I’d love to be the one to take it off, I think idly.
“You,” I point at her and then to the far end of the car, “sit over there.” There’s absolutely no way I can sit by her and possibly keep my hands to myself, not while she’s lifting that dress up and shifting around. She sits on her side like a good girl. I’m not in the business of fucking drunk women.
Driving for a while, neither of us say anything and I’m good with that. I answer a ridiculous amount of e-mails and send off a few documents. Little by little, she’s gotten closer to me, but she’s not looking at me or speaking to me, so I leave her be.
I’m engrossed in a rather obnoxious e-mail from Rocco about unimportant details when I feel her lean against my side. Looking down at her, she’s staring up at me, “You sit over there.” I point back over by the door on her side. She blinks and starts chewing on that fucking lip.
“I’m cold, and it’s lonely over there.” She whispers. Why can’t I just move her? I just can’t tell her no.
“Fine.” I concede. No use in fighting her because Lord knows, she’ll win.
Sleeping beauty falls asleep and I try to keep my attention on my phone. She’s resting against me, curled into my side, using my shoulder as a pillow while one of her hands rests on my fucking thigh. I even took off my two thousand dollar suit jacket and draped it over her legs to keep her warm and comfortable. Sitting here next to her, I turn my phone off and stare at her for the rest of the ride.
~~~~~~
“Sir, we're here.” Branson alerts me from the front.
“Thank you. It'll be a minute,” I tell him. I actually feel a little bad about waking her up. She looks comfortable and content, but she can’t sleep in the limo all night.
“London?” I speak quietly, trying my hardest to wake her up in the nicest way possible. “London?” I try a little louder. The car is so damn quiet I feel like I'm shouting. Cracking an eye open, she stares at me through her long lashes. “You're home. Do you have your key?” She ignores me and lets her eye drift closed.
“Time to get up,” I try again, giving her a gentle shake. “Do you have a key?”
With one quick shake of her head she grumbles, “Nope.” Shit.
“Do you have your phone to call your friend?”
“Nope. Matt,” she mumbles.
“I’m not Matt,” I remind her.
“I know that,” she states dryly, “Matt has a key and mine is in my purse, hopefully in the town car.” I didn’t even think of that.
What the hell am I supposed to do with her? I know what I want to do and it’s shit I know I shouldn’t. I’m trying to be a gentleman right now. “How the hell am I supposed to get you inside?” She closes her eyes and says nothing else.
Am I just supposed to babysit her? I can’t very well just leave her on the sidewalk. The doorman is gone for the night and the manager won't get a key to us until morning if we're lucky.
I have no choice.
“Take us home, Branson.”
~~~~~~
Getting her out of the car is a feat. She’s drunk and sleepy, and if she wasn’t such a pain in the ass, this might actually be funny. “We're here.” Standing outside of the door, I hold my hand out to her, but of course she bats it away.
“I got it.” Drunk, sleepy London isn’t very friendly.
She stumbles as soon as she’s out of the car and her feet land in a mud puddle. “Come on, you fucking pain.” I pick her up and throw her over my shoulder, removing her shoes as I go. I’m done fucking around on the sidewalk while she prances around in mud.
Standing in my hall, I debate on what to do with her. I’ve never brought a woman here. I have no clue what I should do with her.
I have one bed. Four rooms, but none are for guests because I don’t ever have guests in my house. If I put her on the couch, I don’t want her falling off in the middle of the night and breaking her goddamn neck. I could put her on the floor, but I’m just not that mean. Fuck, my room it is.
Laying her down on my bed, my hands start shaking. This whole thing is fucking with my head. My nasty little obsession is here, sprawled out on my bed. It screws with self-control. She’s every sick fantasy I’ve had playing out before me. She’s everything I shouldn’t want, but do with a desperation that borders on unhealthy. Her hair looks a mess, her eye makeup is smeared, and her dress is ruined, and still, she couldn’t be any fucking sexier. I hate how much I love it.
Swallowing hard, I do something I shouldn’t. Crawling up on the bed next to her, I look for a zipper. I’ve done this dance plenty of times, but never has it felt so right, yet so wrong. I suck back the fucked up emotions and try to get her comfortable. Leaning into her, I run my hands up and down her perfectly curved body, but she doesn’t move. That light citrus scent makes me hard and twitchy. Running my hands down her sides, I find the zipper. Unzipping it, I slip the dress off and find out what a bad idea this was. Bad, bad fucking idea.
She’s wearing a sexy lace bra and matching panties. The bra only covers the bottom portion of her tits, which pushes the rest up high. Fuck, this is so wrong. I have a serious obsession with those fucking tits of hers. She’s out of her mind and out of her clothes and oh, the things I could do. The tie on my dresser catches my attention and I have to adjust my dick just thinking of what I wanna do with it. But I don’t do a goddamn thing. I’m gonna have to take care of myself, but I’d much rather have her hand, or her mouth, wrapped around my dick.
I get the sheets and comforter out from under her and cover her up. Rearranging the pillows, I get her comfortable. There, she’s as comfortable as she’s gonna get and I need to leave and to deal with my other head.
~~~~~~
Leaning back onto the chaise lounge chair in the corner, I get comfortable. I never understood why my interior designer put this pointless piece of furniture in here, but now I get it. Sitting in my secluded corner of the room, I watch her sleep and I start to think about this family situation of hers.
Everyone is playing her, including me, of course. I want what she has, or will have. She has no idea what she stands to gain. She also has no clue as to what her grandfather is getting her into. I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad thing for me, but I do know I have competition to eliminate. Whatever the case may be, I’ll look into it and remedy the issue accordingly. At this point, who knows what her father and Perry have up their sleeves. There may be more players to the game now, helping them.
Sipping my bourbon, I watch her. Forty minutes I’ve sat here in relaxed silence. Why did she have to be her. Why have I let myself go this far with her. How am I going to handle it when she finds out the truth and the lies, because they will come out. I don’t want to hurt her, but I’m set on what I have to do for my family and it’s future.
She’s perfect. Everything about her is beautiful. She’s sexy, exciting, and most of all, she makes me feel. She’s changed something in me and I’m head over heels for her.
This whole situation couldn’t get any worse.
Ten
Mr. Knight In Shining Stalker
London
“Holy fuck,” I whisper to myself as soon as the fog of sleep lifts. The heels of my hands find my eyes and try desperately to rub the sleep away. I haven't even opened them and I already feel like I've been run over by a Mac truck, and then backed over and hit again. I feel like road kill.
My eyelids feel like lead and my throat is dry. Don’t even get me started on the grossness going on in my mouth. My body, as a whole, feels like … well, it feels like a Mac truck hit me.
Lying in bed, I listen for Matt, wondering how drunk he got last night. Did man candy come home with him? Oh hell, they better not have had sex in my kitchen again.
I can’t lay here forever, even though I’d love nothing more. I move to sit up but my head spins and my stomach rolls. I'm never drinking again. I recall telling myself that the last time I drank and look at me now. I should really listen to myself more often.
Once the spinning subsides, I pry my eyes open only to stare directly into blinding light. Jesus, it's deliriously fucking bright in here. Rays of sunshine shoot through the windows and assault my aching eyes. I make a mental note to get darker curtains. It takes me a good three minutes to fully open them, but it's not without a lot of effort.
Wait a minute … Where the fuck? Oh no. Taking in my unfamiliar surroundings, last night comes crashing down on me hard and it brings my headache screaming back. Drinks, Dante, drinks at the party, Perry, and more drinks. What a fucking mess. Dancing with Dante is the last thing I remember. Stupid fucking London. You let your stalker take you home, I chastise myself.
What the fuck did I do last night? Holy hell, did I have sex with him and not even remember it? I would remember that. I think I would, anyways. God, I hope I’d remember that. With the way he touched me while we were dancing I would want to remember.
I need some answers, some coffee, and some strong coma inducing medication. But what I really need to do is get the fuck out of here.
Standing at the foot of the bed, I take in his room. It's nothing like I would’ve expected. The room is actually nice and calming with the bed in the center of the room, and all the colors are in whites, browns, and creams. It's peaceful and inviting. Nothing scary and nothing creepy. He probably has his scary shit in a dark basement with his whips, chains, and torture devices.
I make it up and tip toe to the door. I peek my head out the bedroom, “Mr. Marx? Dante?” I call quietly. I listen but get nothing in return. Where could he be? I look back into the room for some idea. Did he just leave me here?
Looking back in the room, I find a clock. It’s nine am. I also find my dress folded and laid neatly over a chair. Why are my shoes muddy? They both look sad and the dress is in need of a good dry cleaning. Picking up my dress, I see some splatters of mud on the bottom. Great. I’ll have to do the walk of shame in a dirty dress and muddy shoes. Fabulous.
Looking down at myself and back at the dress, I figure fuck it. I find a closet and boom, tons of button up dress shirts, all smelling like Dante. At least I now know I didn’t leave with some random stranger. Thank God for small miracles. I grab the first one closest off the hanger and put it on. I’m sure I wouldn’t be the first half-naked chick Dante will see in his lifetime. In fact, I’m sure of it.
I walk into the hallway, peeking around corners. I find a long hall to my right with a few closed doors and to the left, it opens to what I’m guessing is the living room or kitchen.
I try staying quiet while I wander down the hall in my bare feet. I have no clue where Dante is or where I'm going in general. The living room and kitchen can't be that hard to find, right?
Rounding the corner, I find what I’m looking for and it's massive. I'm sensing a theme here―everything large and over the top with Mr. Personalities. Everything with this man is excessive.?
I thought I had a big living room, but mine doesn't compare to his. His is huge. Two large, soft gray suede couches face each other, and between them sits a large coffee table in dark distressed wood. Okay, I need to focus. Coffee is the only thing I should be looking for.
The dining room is the next room over and opens into the kitchen. Damn, this man has amazing taste. His clothes and his home are impressive. He has every conceivable appliance, except a coffee pot. No coffeepot, but I find a Keurig with the most amazing little cups of coffee in them.
I walk over to it and get it ready, and now all I need is a cup. I open the first cabinet and voilà. It’s starting off to be a good day, minus the hangover shit. I make my coffee, add some milk from the fridge and I’m in coffee heaven. I sit at the table, drinking it ‘til I’m finished and put the cup into the sink. It’s time to go hunt down Dante and get the hell out of here.
Walking back into the living room, I find him. Well that was easy. There he is, asleep on the couch that faces away from the hall. Walking a little closer, I peek over it at him. He is a sight.
I got a tiny glimpse of it last night, but his hard, menacing face looks so relaxed and peaceful. He looks normal. His lips are parted slightly and his eyelashes leave shadows on his cheeks. A long arm is thrown carelessly over his head while the other is draped off the side of the couch. He looks beautiful and handsome. He also looks uncomfortable. His body is too long and muscular to be squished into the couch. Why the fuck didn’t he lay on one of those big ass suede couches?
On one shoulder and over to his back I see a black wing. It almost looks like feathers wrapping around to his shoulder and up to his neck. Shifting, he moves and the couch creeks in the silent room and I damn near have a heart attack.
As much as I’d love to stand here all morning and into the early afternoon staring at him, I’ve got to find a bathroom. With a final look, I leave him be and wander my ass back to his room to get to the bathroom.
Just like the rest of his home, the bathroom is large and opulent. What really draws my eyes, besides the toilet, is the beautiful oval claw foot tub in the middle of the room. It’s calling to me, begging me to get in.
I'll gladly give the tub what it wants. Who am I to deny it? I’m hung over and grubby, so I could use a good soak. Dante won’t mind. Hell, he’s still sleeping anyways. I need him awake to get me out of here so this will kill some time.
I can’t imagine a man like Dante taking baths. He’s a shower man all the way. I’m only showing this beautiful tub the love it deserves. I do my thing and run the water, letting the beautiful tub fill up.
Sinking into the hot water, I shutter and damn near groan. It’s deep, long, wide, and the rounded sides make for a perfect place to rest your head and feet. I think I just found a little slice of heaven here on Earth.
~~~~~~
I stay in the tub so long that I’m starting to wrinkle, and I’m pretty sure I nodded off a few times. My headache has turned into a dull throb and my need for more coffee has marginally subsided. I’m relaxed until I feel the air shift. The skin on the back of my neck prickles and my heart begins to hammer in my chest.
