Kaeden Read online

  “Some men prefer this to the harder work,” Shotgun mutters.

  “Not Sammy Smith though, eh?” I clap him on the back.

  “Shit, Kaeden.”

  “What?”

  “You only use my real name when you want to take my head off, like that time at the El Royale.”

  I spit and laugh at the same time. “You’re eyeballing me the same way you did at that damn poker table, like you reckon you can read my cards in the reflection of my eyes or some shit. I know you want to say something and I know it isn’t about the job, because then you’d just say it. So what?”

  He grins. “I think you know.”

  I peer down my scope so I don’t have to look at his too-pleased face. But there’s nothing down there for me except an empty bar. “I’ve got no idea what the fuck you’re talking about,” I tell him.

  “You’ve seen that pink-haired girl twice, right? That’s where you went last night, after we scoped out another pointless fucking place? Eh?” He punches me in the arm, grinning even wider. “That seems damn strange from the outside, Kaeden, since I’ve never known you to spend more than an hour with any one woman. Even the club girls; all the fellas have their favorite, but not you.”

  “I don’t know what to say.” I take out a cigarette and look at it, turning it over and around so that the stars and the moon light it up in different ways. Then I hand it to Shotgun, who takes it and lights it in one fluid motion.

  “What about the light?” he asks.

  “Let them come. It’ll be better than listening to this horseshit.”

  “How’s it horseshit, though, if I’m right? Have you seen her more than once?”

  “Why the fuck do you care?” I growl. “What is this, fucking Oprah? What do you want from me, you ginger bastard? Yes, I’ve seen her more than once. So fucking what?”

  “So, it’s strange,” Shotgun says, smiling. One of the most annoying things about this man is his ability to completely ignore my name-calling. “Is this more than just a fuck-and-chuck then?”

  “Jesus-goddamn-Christ, Sammy. The fuck do you want, a confessional? I don’t know what it is.”

  “Are you seeing her again?”

  I stay silent, but the prick can read me.

  “Is it a date?”

  Again, he reads me.

  “Well, shit, I never thought I’d see the day when Silence went on a date with a lady. She must be pretty damn special. Look, I’m happy for you. I reckon it’s about time you actually had some human contact that wasn’t fucking or killing. It does a man good to experience something else. Maybe she’ll buy you some flowers.” He takes a long, smug drag on his cigarette.

  “Go fuck yourself,” I snap.

  He grins, shrugs as if to say ‘fair enough,’ and then takes another drag.

  “You know, for a man with a reputation for being ice-cold, you can be pretty sensitive sometimes.”

  “Maybe I’ll see how sensitive your skull is, and we can compare.”

  He grins, and I grin, and it’s all settled. We move onto something else as we stare at the empty, misleading warehouse.

  But his words play on my mind for the rest of the night. I begin to ask myself just what the hell I’m doing. Why did I go to her place last night? I’ve already gotten what I want from her. I fucked her, and it was amazing, and I left her … and that was that. Usually that’d be it, anyway. But instead I had to see her again; that body hounded my thoughts constantly. But was it just her body? And last night, that attitude she had, that spunk, her pink hair damp against her forehead, her nipples poking through her pink tank top, the way she raised her eyebrows and the way her nose ring shifted as her nose curled. Cute as hell, dammit. Cute as goddamn hell.

  I ride back to my place after another wasted job and crash down on the couch with my cell phone in my hand, flipping it over and wondering if I ought to call Fiona and tell her the date is off. It’s bullshit, really, a man like me going on a date. Going to dinner with a woman: sitting down, complimenting her, sharing a bottle of wine, all that shit. It’s not me, and it never has been me. If a man in this life knows anything, it’s that getting too close is a bad idea.

  I get her number easily enough with a text to one of my contacts, and then I call her.

  “Um, hello?” she says, sounding unsure since she doesn’t have my number.

  “I …”

  “Kaeden?” she prompts, when I don’t say anything else.

  “Yeah.” I sigh. The fuck am I doing? I sound like a nervous high-school kid. “We need to talk about tomorrow.”

  “The date?” She sounds cute when she says this. I can hear how excited she is for it, even if our previous encounters have been rough and wild and crazy. She’s excited, it’s clear, but if I tell her that I’m calling it off … “What about it?” she goes on. “Do you need to change times?” She laughs, sounding nervous.

  “I …” I grit my teeth, annoyed with myself. I ought to be able to tell some chick that I don’t want to have dinner with her, but every time I try and muster the words, I think about her smile and the attitude in her eyes, the way she yelled at me right after I throat-fucked her, the way she came with my cock in her mouth: sexual and something else, mixed together, dominating my mind. And to make it all more confusing, my cock is getting hard just from the way she is breathing down the phone, close to my ear. There’s something magical about this girl. There’s got to be.

  “Kaeden?”

  I reach down, clamping my hand down on my cock. “Where are you?” I ask.

  “At home.”

  “Alone?”

  “It’s two in the morning, so yeah, I’m alone. I’m in bed.”

  “What are you wearing?” I stroke my cock, up and down, listening to the way she giggles when I ask the question. She’s game, make no mistake, but I also get the sense that she doesn’t do this often; she’ll only do it for me. “Eh?”

  “Nothing but my underwear,” she whispers, a moan in her voice now. “Just my panties, actually. It’s a warm night. I took my bra off.”

  “Do you have any idea what you do to me when you say a thing like that?” I snarl, taking my cock from my jeans and stroking it even harder, thinking about her there with her bouncy breasts and her perfect ass, that round ass that looked so goddamn sexy grinding down on my cock at the Firefly. “I want you to put me on speaker—but not loud—and then rub your tits with one hand and your pussy with another.”

  “Are you bossing me around now?” she asks, giggling again, though this time it’s breathier.

  “Yes, I am. Do it.”

  “Okay, hang on a second.”

  There’s a pause, and then she whispers, “I’m rubbing myself for you, Kaeden.”

  “Do it fast,” I command. “Do it really goddamn fast. Do you understand?” Talking is difficult now with her breathing in my ear and my hand on my cock, imagining it’s her hand, knowing that I could go over there and drill her in right now. Yet there’s something about this that I like; I’ve never done it before, not once. “I want to hear you come.”

  “I’m … doing it … fast.”

  “I’m stroking my cock for you. You remember how it felt when I fucked your face, eh? You remember how fucking hard you came? Keep rubbing for me. Fuck, keep rubbing that pussy. Are you pinching your nipples?”

  “Do you … want me … to?”

  “Pinch them as you rub yourself for me.”

  “It hurts,” she moans. “But it feels good … too … ah … I’m close, baby. Fuck.”

  “I want you to remember how fucking hard I drilled you back at the bar, fucking bent you over and just—fuck, just…fucking drilled you.”

  “Yeah, baby, I—yeah, yeah.”

  “I’m so goddamn close,” I growl. “Keep moaning like that. Just like that. Right down the fucking phone. Moan like you mean it.”

  “I … do … mean it … baby.”

  We don’t talk any longer. I don’t think she’s able to, and it’s enough fo
r me just to hear her moan, a song-like sound that drives me to rub my cock harder and faster each moment. Then the song-like quality of her moan breaks and it’s replaced with a hollow-sounding release. She’s coming, she’s coming hard, and listening to her come is too much right now; I pump my arm fast, thinking about her all sweaty in her bed for me, coming on her hand for me, and then I release it all in several long mindless seconds.

  When I come to we are both breathing heavily, and I’m left wondering what the hell just happened. Didn’t I call to end things with this girl?

  “Kaeden?” she whispers.

  “Wear something sexy tomorrow,” I say. “Wear something just for me.”

  “Okay,” she says. “But only as long as you wear something just for me.”

  “Like what?” I laugh.

  “A shirt would be nice,” she says. “Goodnight, Kaeden. See you tomorrow.”

  She hangs up and I stare at the ceiling, my come cooling on my belly.

  “Goddamn,” I whisper. “I’m going to have to buy a fucking shirt.”

  5

  Fiona

  “I never thought I’d see the day when Fiona Louisa Wilkes put so much effort into getting ready for a man.” Jocelyn grins at me over her glass of warm apple cider, just one of the many odd beverages she chooses to drink in the blistering Texan summer. “But here she is, a prize poodle, poking and prodding herself.”

  “Wow, alliteration.” I shake my head firmly at her, hoping it has some effect. “Are you here to support me, or just to make snide comments?”

  “A little bit of both, I guess.”

  I slide into a pink dress that comes up to my neck but shows some leg below the knee. It’s not very sexy, but it’s the sort of thing I’d usually wear for a sit-down dinner, not that I’ve had a sit-down dinner in a couple of years. I think Jocelyn being here is making me pick more conservatively. Wear something sexy, he said … is this something sexy? Maybe she’s right; maybe I shouldn’t be putting so much effort into pleasing him. But then, isn’t that the point of a date?

  “Are you nervous?” she asks for the umpteenth time.

  “Maybe I’d be less nervous,” I tell her, as she helps me straighten my hair, “if you’d stop asking me if I was nervous.”

  “Your makeup looks nice,” she comments.

  “Thanks,” I return.

  She leaves soon after, but not before delivering what seems like a preplanned speech.

  “Listen,” she says, standing wide in the doorway, as though blocking my escape. “You don’t have to do what he wants you to do just because he’s a biker-gang man, okay? You can leave any time you want. Don’t feel pressured into anything. Don’t feel—”

  “Oh my God, JJ. I get it, okay! Anyway, when have you ever known me to do something I don’t want to do? I dropped out of college precisely because I didn’t want to do it, even though it would’ve made sense to grit my teeth and get through it. So there you go; I have a proven track record of doing exactly what I want.” I fold my arms. “Anything else?”

  She blows me a kiss and backs out of the doorway. “Speak soon.”

  I close the door behind her and then go to the mirror, my hair going straight down to just around my chin, framing my face. Then I glance at my outfit and decide that it’s not eye-catching enough. It needs to be the sort of outfit where he’ll reflexively look at my body first, and then turn to my face. This seems very important. I want to turn him on, I realize, just as much as he turns me on. So I strip out of the dress and throw on another one, my Seriously Sexy Dress, which is red and glittery and shows some cleavage and a whole lot of leg. I put on the matching red heels and stand in front of the mirror again. Much better; if this doesn’t catch his eye, I don’t know what will.

  I strut around the apartment, which really means that I practice walking in heels which are several inches taller than I’d ever normally wear. Usually I conform to the unspoken yet sacred rule that tall women should never wear heels. But since Kaeden is such a giant, I don’t think it’s much of a problem today. I check my phone about a hundred times, and manage to make a full circuit without stumbling after only ten minutes of trying.

  Finally, the door knock comes.

  When I open up, I find Kaeden looking smart in a plain green shirt, tucked into trousers, and in shiny black shoes. It all looks new and he wears it with slight discomfort. But he forgets his discomfort when his eyes turn to me, locking onto the dress as though with a laser.

  “I said wear something sexy. I reckon you listened.” I smile, and he grins at me. “Come on,” he goes on, nodding for me to follow him. “It’s time we got some liquor in us.”

  He takes me down to a jeep parked across the street and even opens the door for me, which shocks me so much at first that I stand there, staring at the hand that grips the door. Then my senses return to me and I thank him and get into the car. As he drives, he glances across at me. “Those goddamn legs, Fiona.”

  “What legs?” I lean back in the chair and stretch my legs out as much as I can, tingles moving up and down my thighs as his eyes ravish me. “These legs?”

  “Ha, do you want me to crash this car? Because I will. I reckon it’d be worth it for those legs.”

  “You’re a pig!” I giggle, slapping him on the arm, feeling far freer than I perhaps have any right to be. A woman is supposed to be nervous on the first date, and I am, but nowhere near as much as I might be.

  He doesn’t say anything else for the rest of the car ride and I struggle to think of anything to say, too. Silence is true to his name, and we leave the car wordlessly and head into the restaurant. The only time he talks is when giving his name to the greeter, which isn’t necessary since the old gray-haired three-piece-suit-man hurries Kaeden in as though he’s a celebrity. It reminds me of that scene from Goodfellas when they go to the show and everyone is nodding to Ray Liotta; everybody in this place shows Kaeden and me more respect than I’ve ever been given.

  Finally we’re alone at a table in the top corner of the restaurant, which is open-plan over two floors. Abstract art hangs on the walls and a modern chandelier—all shiny metal, very unique—hangs from the ceiling. From our table we overlook the lower floor, which is teeming with ladies in dresses and men in suits.

  “Wow,” I mutter. “This is quite a place.”

  “Yeah,” he says, looking down at the menu.

  It’s bizarre; the closer we got to the restaurant, the quieter he became. And now that we’re in the restaurant, it’s like he’s struggling to find even a few words to say to me. He glances at me and then looks lost, maybe because he can’t do anything sexual with so many people around us. It occurs to me for the first time that the only interactions we’ve had have been sexual. Suddenly fear grips me; what if there is nothing else? What if this entire date idea is a waste of time? What if I really was just a hole for him?

  “Shall we get a drink?” I ask, hiding the panic from my voice … I think.

  “Yes,” he replies, lighting up for the first time. He raises his hand and a waiter immediately appears. “Whisky for me; just bring a bottle.” He turns to me.

  “A glass of wine, please. Large. Red. Thank you.”

  When the waiter leaves, I tell myself that we can’t just sit here in silence anymore, and it’s clear that he’s not going to take the reins in this department. Maybe this is a natural push and pull; he takes the lead with the sexual stuff and I pick up the slack for the nonsexual stuff.

  “So, Kaeden, what’s your favorite movie?”

  He grins at me sideways. “My favorite movie?” It’s like he’s never been asked the question before. Or by a woman: yes, he’s never been asked a question like this by a woman. He narrows his eyes, studying me for a moment, and then shakes his head. It’s more that he shakes it at the situation, I think, rather than the question itself. “Do you really give a shit about that?”

  I sit up straighter, conscious that I’m taking on the demeanor of an old college lecturer, a lad
y called Alexandria who was particularly judgmental. “Yes,” I say. “I do. And since this is a date, I would be grateful if you answered.”

  His grin gets wider, lighting his face up boyishly. It disappears a moment later, but not completely. “My favorite movie is True Grit, the one where that girl goes after her father’s killer and Jeff Bridges is a real asshole. I like Jeff Bridges in that movie …”

  “Because he’s a real asshole, and he reminds you of you?”

  He grabs my hand, which is resting on the table. “Do you think I’m an asshole?” he asks, smirking as he moves his hand up my forearm. “Is that really what you think?”

  I slide my hand away and toss my head, playing the prima donna. “Maybe I do!” I exclaim, smiling the sting out of it. “Maybe I think you’re the biggest asshole I’ve ever met. Can you blame me?”

  “I’m no Prince Charming, I’ll give you that.” The conversation trails off when the waiter brings our drinks. He takes his bottle of whisky and the sparkling-clean glass, looks at the glass, and then drinks straight from the bottle.

  I sip my wine slowly, knowing what wine can do to me. “That’s an understatement,” I say as alcohol rushes like daggers into my head. Soft daggers, though, welcome daggers. I feel myself loosening up slightly. “You’re about the furthest thing from Prince Charming I’ve ever met.”

  “Well, there you go.” He takes another, smaller swig. “But the fuck does a woman want with Prince Charming, anyhow? I reckon there’s too much of that going on these days; too many soft men saying soft things to try’n get into a woman’s pants. Here’s the dirty little secret, Fiona: all those nice men who cry at movies and watch your bullshit reality shows and go on spa weekends with you—most of them would fuck you like animals if they got half the chance. So no, I’m no Prince Charming. And you ought to be glad about that.”