Slow Burn

Chapter 12

BECKETT

The sounds of the club ring out in a continuous thump of bass and beat. A little too loud, a lot too trendy, and way too superficial for my taste. Give me a dark corner, a draft beer, and some short skirts paired with pairs of boots, and I’m in Heaven.

Then again, a man has no right complaining about the ample display of bare flesh making the rounds in front of me. But damn, just like that first night we met in Las Vegas, I can’t help the one sight my eyes keep drifting to.

The one person they keep getting lost on.

This is beginning to be a serious problem.

Now that I’ve tasted the temptation of Haddie—taken her scent, her sounds, and her addictive flavor to compare others against—hell if that one time hasn’t been seared into my goddamn memory.

And damn.

Just damn.

Then there’s that look in her eyes. The one that screams she needs someone to help her see through the grief, to prove to her that opening up doesn’t mean she has to close the fuck down.

And hell if I’m not a sucker for long-legged blondes with smart mouths who need a shoulder to cry on. Who the fuck am I kidding? The only crying I want her doing is my name while she comes. But that would make me an insensitive fucker, and I’m anything but. Hell yes, I may be thinking it, but, c’mon, it’s Haddie.

I’d be a stupid bastard not to want her again. Or a blind one.

My groan as I watch her work her clients on the floor—laughing, connecting, entertaining—is smothered by the music of the club, and it’s clear as day that there’s just something about her that pulls me in and makes me care. Like “sitting on the other end of a silent phone line for two hours just to make sure that she’s okay” type of thing.

I’ve sure as hell never done something like that before. She sounded so lost, so much like a little girl. How in the hell could I hang up when she so clearly needed me?

And as I watch her across the club from me, she most definitely does not look like a little girl. The way she moves is beyond enticing. The sway of her hips and the flip of her hair over her shoulder. I take in her shapely legs and the low cut V of her top hugging those perfect tits of hers. Lips glossed, smoky eyes, and body screaming to be sexed.

As much as my dick is begging for a second—huh, I guess I should say a fifth—time to make her come and find its way between those supple, tanned thighs of hers, all I want to do is be close enough to see her eyes. To make sure she’s okay.

I take a long drink of my Merit and Coke, my head nodding to the beat, my eyes tracking her.

“Dude, if you want to fuck her that much, then go get her. Talk to her. Take what you want.”

If looks could kill, Walker would be in a body bag about now. “First of all, that’s no way to talk about a lady,” I warn my brother, shifting in my seat to face him, let him know to shut his goddamn mouth and not to talk about Had like that.

“Yeah, but I have a feeling the things you want to do to her fall in the ‘the lady on the street but a freak in the sheets’ type of category, so then in all reality, we really aren’t talking about the ‘lady’ aspect now, are we?”

I glare at him, my call to the coroner on speed dial right now. Hell yes, he’s right, but, uh, no one gets to talk about Haddie that way.

And why is that? Why do I care so much when she doesn’t?

I call bullshit. She cares. She doesn’t want to, but she does.

I guess that’s why I dragged Walker here, anyway. I mean, fuck, I can see the struggle, hear trepidation in her voice, feel the fear emanating off her. … The question is, why?

So I watch her move through the club. Head thrown back as she laughs. Hand placed on a male patron’s biceps, which has me gritting my teeth. Skirt inching up as she bends over to grab the shot glass from the table in front of her and downs the liquor like a pro. Impressive. Too bad my thoughts drift to where else those lips of hers can go down.

“Oooohhhh,” Walker says, synapses firing and his eyes widening with understanding as I look back at him, “so I was under the impression you dragged me along tonight because you wanted to spend time with me. Well, that and because your broom is on his honeymoon.”

“Broom?” I laugh, trying to figure out what in the hell random thing my little brother is talking about.

“Yeah, bromance. Married. Groom.” He shrugs with a shit eating grin on his face. “Broom.”

I laugh again. Can’t help it. He’s such a little shit, but dude’s funny as hell. Plus I know he’s sometimes jealous of my friendship with Colton—how close we are—so I allow him a few digs now and again just cuz he’s my little brother. “Where do you come up with this shit?”

“It’s what happens when you’re born second.” He takes a swig from his bottle of beer. “Mom used up all the errant genes with you, and so I got all of the vetted ones. The smart ones who didn’t go multiplying at first sight, dazed by the big fat prize, you know?”

Is he really serious? He must be drunk already, and we’re only an hour into our night. I just blink and shake my head as I try to process the fact that he most definitely was dropped on his head as a child. Had to be. Mom must have had an accident one day—dropped Walker—then just brushed him off and kept on going, not knowing the damage done beneath the surface.

“Order another drink, Becks, and it will all make sense,” he teases me. I roll my eyes at him and then look back out to the club beyond us, eyes searching to make sure she’s okay. I catch sight of her sparkly top, the lights playing off her movements and reflecting against her pale hair. My dick stirs in reflex to the sight of her. Can’t help it.

When I know she’s fine, I look back toward my little brother and raise my eyebrows at him, wanting to see what pieces he fills in because I sure as hell am not going to offer up the information he wants freely.

Walker points to me and then back to the vicinity of Haddie and then back to me. “So … uh … that’s Haddie? You two … uh …?” He raises his eyebrows at me but doesn’t ask if we’ve had sex. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, what?” I’m not giving any details here. He may be my little bro, but dude’s gonna have to work for the info since he’ll most likely go straight to Aubrey, who in turn will go straight to my mom. And I really don’t need her breathing down my neck right now about marriage and babies.

And those damn pink flip-flops.

“Dude, I’m a lot confused.”

I reach over and cuff him on the shoulder. “Like that’s a news flash.” I flinch back as he fakes a punch to my biceps in a move between us as tried and true as time.

“Well, you show up at the cabin with fucking stars in your eyes. Deena shows up out of the blue a few days later. … I kinda just figured you were having some regression pussy—”

I almost spit my drink out—find it very hard not to—so I cough out in choked laughter instead. “Regression pussy? What the hell, Walk …?” The coughing strikes me again, my eyes watering and my throat burning. “What in the hell are you talking about?”

He just continues looking at me, amusement in his eyes and a smirk on his face. He shrugs. “Well your birthday is coming up. You keep saying you’re feeling like an old fucker, so I figured that you were double-dipping into the past by starting shit with Deena again. Regressing some so that you could feel like you did back in the day, a young buck and shit. But now we’re here tonight, and you’re watching that hottie over there like you want to hit it like you’re a baseball bat, and so now I’m curious.”

“I swear there is no way we came from the same mother.” I shake my head at him, even though I should be used to his roundabout randomness. “And first of all, buck? Stallion would be more like it.”

“You wish,” He snorts. “So? You banging Deena and now moving on to her,” he says, lifting his chin in Haddie’s direction, “or what? Cuz, dude, that’s so unlike you.”

Irritation flickers. “There was no banging Deena.” When he just rolls his eyes in disbelief, I continue. “Been there, done that, and honestly, I know you always had a crush on her, but she’s not that great.”

Now it’s his turn to choke on his drink. And for some reason, I find an odd amusement in watching him cough. “She’s like a fifteen on a scale of one to ten.”

“Yeah, on the hot factor, she’s definitely a fifteen, but the things I know now versus the things I knew back then … man.” I shake my head, recalling how perfect I thought Deena was. How I thought she was the shit in bed, yet now with age and more experience, I realize how naive we really were. I think of how one night with Haddie blew the fifty-odd times with Deena out of the water.

“Maybe Dee’s learned more since college too.”

“Quite possibly.” I mull over thoughts of her and young love, but none of them sticks in my mind. It was all fumbling hands and false fronts of confidence as we explored and experimented. Then I think back to a few days ago when Deena showed up out of the blue, just passing through town. I was more than down with rekindling things for one night … and then we ran into Haddie.

Fucking Haddie. With her doe-shaped eyes and quivering chin asking me questions without any words. So stubborn she refuses to admit she needs someone when she’s hurting. And then she called me and unloaded on me about friends and strings and hell if I was going to sit there and take her shit without saying something in return.

Until she made that one little sound. That hiccup that told me everything. How much she feared and needed and wanted and didn’t want to be alone.

“Dude, like I said … you want to hit it, it seems like she’s quite the flirtatious one.”

It takes everything I have not to snap back at him. How dare he judge her when she’s out there doing her job? And I realize that’s exactly what he wants. He wants me to react, to call me to the table so that he knows where I stand, and hell if I’m going to walk right into that open fucking door.

“First off, Walker, it’s a wonder Aubrey doesn’t kick you out to the curb with that mind-set. Secondly, don’t you know sometimes slow and steady wins the race? I sit back, bide my time, and reel her in, and then once I have her hooked, I can figure out just what it is that she wants.”

“This ain’t the tortoise and the hare, bro.” He shakes his head at me as if he’s ashamed and takes a sip of his beer.

“True.” I nod and motion for another round to the waitress as she walks by. My mind vaguely recalls Haddie’s words to me the night we first met in Vegas, something similar to what I just said about slow and steady wins the race, and I think how well she pegged me way back then. “But at least the tortoise stays hard and has one hell of a shelf life.”

“Jesus fucking Christ! You really need to work on not being so goddamn dorky if you think you’re going to catch the likes of that hotter-than-hell woman.”

Little does he know I already have. Little does he know the woman owns more than just my thoughts right now.

The drinks come more slowly, the night wears on, but I can see Haddie getting a little less stable on her feet. Fuck. I know she needs tonight to go well. This is event two of three for her, and if she wants this client in the bag, then she needs to be on top of her game. Is she still upset so she’s drinking to bury it and put on a brave face?

It bugs me that I care so much. It pisses me off that Walker is watching me like a goddamn hawk, trying to figure out why I’m so wrapped up in a possible piece of ass that he doesn’t even know I’ve had yet.

Thank God she hasn’t ventured to our side of the club—doesn’t even know that we are here—because for some reason I think that if she did, she might be drinking more. Her need not to need me would fuel that desire of hers to escape by downing another shot.

And speaking of shots, I watch her toss back another and cringe. Yeah, she’s stretched them out, but hell if they’re not taking their toll and beginning to cloud her judgment. Fuck. Why do I care? I run a hand through my hair to shake off my own displeasure with myself. I mean, seriously … why am I here? Why the hell did I drag Walker out here to watch Haddie work the floor like some overprotective brother?

Or some lovesick idiot?

Shit. Maybe I should call Deena. Maybe I should revisit those thighs to remind me why Haddie is just too much goddamn work right now since her head’s all over the place.

And then I see him. The asshole to her right—slick-backed hair, one too many drinks under his belt and his hand placed perfectly on her ass. I’m out of my chair in a flash, but before I can even take five damn steps, her hand is fisted in his shirt, and something is said before she shoves him backward.

“Well, there’s that,” I mutter under my breath, more than pleased to see that Haddie can take care of herself. And for some reason that little show of hers makes me want her that much more. It shows me that despite being perfectly capable of handling assholes like him, she still has that vulnerable side to her that I get to see, that needs me.

And hell if I don’t like that an awful lot. The mixture of feisty and vulnerable is a total turn-on. When I turn around and sit back down, Walker’s studying my every movement, ready to pounce on me with a comment about what a little bitch I’m being, watching some chick—letting her drag me around by the balls.

But hell, he has no clue about the power of Haddie’s voodoo pussy.

I choke on my drink. Did I really just call Haddie my voodoo? Oh my fucking God. I’m turning into Colton. My heart races momentarily as I recall his explanation for why he fell so hard and fast for Rylee. Then I consider the fact that the term just rolled into my thoughts and correlated with her name without a second thought.

There’s no fucking way. She can’t—I can’t—I mean, shit, we had sex one time. A lot of sex in that one time, but hell if I’m going to let a woman grab me by the balls and own me after one night of sex.

Incredible, mind-blowing, ball-tightening, toe-curling sex, but sex nonetheless.

Damn.

I shake my head, trying to push the thought away. Blame it on the alcohol. Immediately I order a round of shots for Walker and me. I need something to clear my head—or numb it—of the ludicrous thoughts that keep circling. Of voodoo pussies that most definitely have no right as of yet to lay any kind of claim on me.

The shots come, the music drums out an annoying electronic vibe—who the hell can dance to this techno crap, anyway?—and my brother keeps me entertained as he starts a rating system of the women who approach us.

“C’mon, she was a left nutter,” he says as I simply sigh and down the rest of my drink.

I stand, needing to stretch some. “Walk, I agree that the one before was most definitely fugly, but I’m sure she had some kind of awesome bedroom skills that would knock your socks off….” I look toward where she disappeared and then back to him. “But that last one? I’m sorry, but I wouldn’t be giving my left nut to sleep with her. Too much empty space up top,” I tell him, as my thoughts shift back to the one woman I would give both of my nuts to have beneath me right now.

“Dude, if I wasn’t happy with Aubrey, the empty space I’m worried about is between her thighs and not in her head. I mean …”

Walker’s words are drowned out by the noise of the club because I’m on the move without any further thought. The slick-haired bastard is back, and his hands are on her. He has her positioned perfectly against a wall where she can’t escape, and all I can see is fucking red as I move across the crowded space between us.

I don’t even pay attention to whether she’s fighting him off. Can’t tell if she’s kissing him back when his mouth takes hers because all I can think about is that she’s mine. And I don’t even flinch this time as the thought crosses my mind because somewhere in that space of time I’ve determined that I don’t care how fucking long it takes to prove otherwise, but Haddie Montgomery is not going to walk away from me again without a fight.

I immediately know I’m going to regret that personal decree, but I don’t have time to argue with myself because I see her head trying to twist from side to side, her hands shove against Slick’s chest, and I see her knee lift up.

But I have him by the shoulders, and I’m pulling him backward before she gets the chance to even connect. I move on instinct, alcohol fueling my irrationality, and I really don’t give a crap. I’m blinded with anger and disgust, and I shove Slick back up against a wall, the strobe lights making everything seem like it’s happening in slow motion.

“What the fuck?” I shout at the guy, forearm against his chest, other hand gripped firmly in his shirt so that the buttons are popping off. “The lady said no.”

And the goddamn asshole just laughs at me. He has the gall to smirk and chuckle without even coming off like I’ve scared him at all. “Fuck you. I don’t believe more is her saying no, asshole.”

His words shock me somewhat sober. What? Was Haddie wanting this asshole to kiss her?

It’s my name I hear now. Haddie yelling my name over and over breaks through the rush of white noise that’s filling my ears. Her hands on my biceps, holding my cocked arm from propelling forward and into his nose.

And I’m so confused. From him. With her. My mind undergoes a sudden assault—dredging up every one of the five senses of mine that she has marked somehow with her presence—and so I react in the only way that makes sense to my alcohol-influenced mind.

Slick is forgotten in a second. I hear him gasp in a breath, but it’s drowned out by the one that Haddie sucks in as I turn from him and face her. Without even thinking, I have her lifted up and tossed over my shoulder.

I don’t think about her ass hanging out beneath her tiny skirt for the world to see. I don’t care about the event she’s supposed to be managing because frankly it’s well under way, and it seems to me like she’s caring a little too much about the patrons for my liking. I couldn’t care less about her fists pounding on my back, demanding that I put her down or the looks from half-drunk clubgoers that tell me I’m crazy. I don’t care about any of it.

None of it.

Because all I can focus on is the thought of her hands on him and how I want them to be on me instead.

I readjust the grip of my arms over her hips, her fight growing stronger as I wait for the crowd to disperse so that I can walk through without her kicking somebody. The music is so loud, I can’t really hear the curse words I know she’s calling me right now, or maybe I choose not to because I sure as hell hear Walker say, “So much for slow and steady, huh?” as I walk past him.

I just raise my eyebrows and keep moving out the side exit of the club, where a bouncer approaches me and then steps back when I say, “She’s gonna throw up. Watch out.”

And that just makes Haddie struggle more, fists pound harder, and me laugh louder. When I clear the exit, I keep on walking though. Down the sidewalk, the whole two blocks to my conveniently and centrally located condo.

I hear her say Bastard and Put me down and How dare you? I get puzzled looks from passersby, and I am actually quite shocked that not a single one of them tries to stop me to make sure she’s all right and that I’m not some random psycho kidnapping her. Either the crazy-ass grin on my face tells them all is okay or that I am a lunatic and to back the fuck off. Regardless, I’m so busy trying to concentrate on not dropping her squirrely body that I don’t have a moment to think about this narrative on our society as I normally would.

Of course, by the time I walk up the front steps to my building, Haddie’s skirt has inched up so handily that my arm is touching bare flesh, meaning my only line of sight is toned legs and four-inch heels.

I work a swallow down my throat as I wait for the elevator. I debate taking the stairs—think it might be best to work off some of this pent-up lust, which makes me want to take her up against the elevator wall right now—but I know that she’s going to put up a damn good fight—already has—and I’m going to need my strength to make sure she hears me this time around.

Because I’m not letting her go until she hears what I need to say.

And I need to say a whole helluva lot.