Hung (3 page)

I
didn't wake
up until almost midday, completely exhausted by last night's highs and lows, and by the time I had hauled myself out of my comfortable bed, where I could have hibernated for hours longer, and was done messing about in my apartment, getting my laundry done and giving the place a quick dust, it was more or less time for work.

The bar I worked at was on the east side of town – an upscale joint. I didn't care much for the clientele – mainly socialite white girls and the smug bankers they were trying to hitch their wagons to, but the hours were good and the tips were better. I had decided that if I couldn't make it in the music business, this place was going to pay my way through college.

Whatever happened, I was going to make something of myself.

"Hey, Alicia," my manager Tom called out as I walked past him, shucking off my thick coat, suddenly overwhelmed by the heat being inside and stuck under several layers. "Having a good week?"

I turned and flashed him a quick smile, careful not to linger – I knew he had a crush on me and I didn't want to do anything that would encourage it. Pleasant as he was, Tom didn't have that spice I looked for in a man, and no matter how well he dressed, nor how pleasant he was, he was never going to pin me down in bed and—

I shook my head, clearing it of the images that had suddenly begun to flood through my mind – every single one, without exception, casting a certain Clay Hunt in the starring role. It wasn't the first time today that cocky son of a bitch had crossed my mind, and I had a feeling it wouldn't be the last. Still, I shrugged; the chances of me running across his sexy body again were slim to none. More's the pity.

"You okay, Alicia?" Tom asked, looking concerned. "You haven't said nothing."

"Huh? Oh, sorry, Tom – it feels like it's been a long day already, and I've barely done a thing," I replied, glad that my cocoa skin would hide the red flush that was filling my cheeks in reaction to the filthy thoughts that had distracted me.

"Going to be a busy night tonight," he replied, looking put out that I hadn't given him my full attention. If only he'd had an inkling of what I'd been thinking about instead, he'd have been a whole lot more disappointed…

"Always is on a Saturday," I replied gaily, "but think of the tips, Tom, think of the tips!"

"Damn right," he agreed.

The hour or so before opening time passed quickly in a flurry of cleaning glassware, checking that the bottles of liquor were topped up and plenty of spares were at the ready nearby to slake the thirst of the inevitable flood of wealthy bankers, stockbrokers and advertising executives all on the prowl for a piece of ass to take home on a Saturday night.

When the doors opened, it didn't take long for the place to fill up. My bar wasn't like The Joint – the place I played in the night before. It was a bit more upmarket, a bit classier. At least, it was in terms of decor – and it didn't tend to get quite so busy. The Joint was more of a club, whereas the Cocktail Club, despite the name, was definitely an upmarket bar – the kind of place where wealthy men went to meet their future trophy wives.

I didn't like it much. It wasn't my kind of place. Hell, I was just about the only black face in the place, and that was definitely true if Sean wasn't working. Still, I reminded myself, I did it for the tips. And they were damn good. Nothing like a bit of cleavage to get the guys going, and I knew my tits were one of my best assets, and I wasn't afraid to use them – especially in a harmless environment like this.

"An old-fashioned," came my first order, and I had to bite back my frustration. Who did this guy think he was, Don Draper? I comforted myself with the thought that, judging by the look of him, he was unlikely to be taking a girl home tonight – especially after sinking a couple of our hefty whiskey drinks.

As I was twirling the ice in the glass, I could have sworn I saw a couple of sorority girls, the kind on the wealthy end of the scale, pointing and staring at me. Thinking I must have been mistaken, I dismissed the thought and kept paying attention to stirring the ice into the drink.

"No way," I heard one of them simper, and then the other one reply simply, "
Way.
"

I just kept my head down; no sense getting involved in the stupid drama that went on in this place on a Saturday night. I sure as hell didn't need
that
in my life.

"Go ask her, go on," I heard the second girl say, speaking loudly and acting nowhere near as subtle after a couple of drinks as she thought she was.

"Hell no," the first girl said, "what if it's not her?"

"Who cares, she's just a bartender…" They both giggled and covered their mouths. Inside, I was fuming.

Just a bartender?

"You girls got something to say?" I finally said, snapping and looking up, shooting them both a stern glare. Tom wouldn't like it, but Tom was at the other end of the bar, being flirted with by pretty girls like usual and doling out free drinks without realizing they were just taking advantage of him.

They both looked at me with a guilty stare. "Um, sorry about that," the prettier one finally offered. "Can we ask you something?"

"You may as well now," I finally relented, slightly mollified by the quick apology and aware that the more I buttered them up, the more likely it was I'd get a nice tip next time I served them… I decided to hurry that up.

"You girls want a drink?" I asked, squeezing a twisted orange peel over the cocktail I was finishing up and pushing it over to the swaying banker standing in front of me. He paid with a twenty and didn't stick around for his change.

"I guess," they tittered, looking at each other as though daring themselves. "Two Long Island iced teas, please," they said.

I busied myself with their drinks orders. "So, what was it you girls needed to ask me?"

They looked at each other again – a habit that was quickly beginning to grate on me – before finally bursting out with, "Are you that girl from the video?"

"What video?" I asked, pouring in the freshly squeezed lemon juice and topping up their glasses to the rim with cold Coca-Cola. I was pretty sure I was about to shoot whatever nonsense these girls were spouting down, so I wasn't really paying much attention.

"She so totally is," the plainer girl repeated, a little alcohol-induced vocal fry creeping into her voice.

"Spit it out, girls," I said, pushing their drinks over towards them. They grabbed them greedily and sucked a few droplets out through the straw.

"You know who Clay Hunt is?" the pretty girl asked.

Clay Hunt…

The name rocked me back on my heels as suddenly and thoroughly as the man himself had the night before. Again, a flood of sexual imagery surged through my brain and I had to blink to turn it off, but not before I felt a wetness beginning to prickle between my thighs.

"What you talking about Clay Hunt for?" I asked, a little more bite creeping into my tone than I had intended.

"Oh my God!" The plain girl exclaimed, turning to a friend. "You were so totally right – it is her." She turned back to me eyes bright with excitement. "Can we get, like, your autograph or something?"

The pretty girl looked at me. "What was he
like
?" She leaned in conspiratorially. "You totally went home with him, didn't you?" She winked. "Was he as amazing in bed as they say? I bet you're sore this morning…"

"Jesus Christ!" I snapped. "What the hell are you guys talking about? I sure as hell didn't go home with Clay Hunt last night, if that's what you're saying."

"Show her the video, Claire," the pretty girl ordered, but Claire was already way ahead of her, her fingers typing furiously into her iPhone, and in seconds the screen was shoved right into my face. The loading bar took only a second, and then I saw myself –
myself
– on YouTube.

"Oh my God," I whispered under my breath. "How the hell?"

"Five million views!" Clare announced triumphantly. "Five million views in less than twenty-four hours," she repeated. "Iit's gonna be,
like
, the quickest video to a hundred million views on YouTube this year!"

"Oh my God, Claire," the pretty girl announced, "I can't believe she had no idea she was famous…"

Famous?

Five million views!

I was beginning to feel unsteady on my feet, like the whole world was shifting beneath me and I was the only thing not moving with it. The only thing I could think to say after the huge revelation the girls had just delivered was, "That's, uh, twenty-five bucks, please."

They looked at each other and giggled. "Sure thing. Can we get a selfie?"

"I guess so," I agreed, not used to random strangers coming up to me and asking me for a photo.

Was this actually happening?

They got their photo and disappeared off into the dimly lit depths of the bar, giggling and high-fiving each other, and I was left on my own in shock. I switched back to autopilot mode – my brain apparently deciding I would have to deal with this unexpected revelation when I got home.

I served the next couple of customers automatically, my body operating as though it was under some kind of mental torpor, like I had been anaesthetized and I was still recovering.

"Alicia Hudson?"

Oh Christ, what now?

"Huh? Who said that?" I asked.

A suavely dressed thin man in his mid-thirties wearing an open-collar midnight blue suit raised his right arm and beckoned me over. "You're Alicia, right?"

"You getting a drink, buddy?" I asked, keeping my voice friendly – but with just enough bite to let him know that, right now, I wasn't the kind of girl he should be messing with. "And how do you know my name?" I asked, finally clocking how creepy that was. "Are you some kind of stalker or something?"

He didn't
look
like a stalker, but then, I guessed most good stalkers probably didn't. And after the shock I'd already experienced tonight, I wasn't prepared to be friendly on the off chance it was all just a misunderstanding.

"No, no," he looked a little bit affronted, "nothing of the sort."

I stirred, looking sassy with my hands on my hips. To hell with what Tom would think. "Drink?" I asked, cocking my eyebrow dangerously.

"Gin and tonic, please."

Nice and easy, good. At least he wasn't planning on messing me around. I picked up a bottle of Aviation Gin and a bottle of imported British tonic water in either hand and poured them into a chilled highball glass over ice, squeezed a sprig of rosemary in my palm and arranged it delicately on top. I handed it over.

"Thanks," he said, taking a long sip and maintaining eye contact with me.

He didn't look like he was in any hurry to move things along, and I was beginning to feel far too impatient to deal with this guy's nonsense.

"So spit it out," I said. "Why you here?"

"You're not afraid to speak your mind, are you?" he asked, grinning. "I like that."

He reached into his unbuttoned suit jacket, pulling a wallet out of the left inside pocket. It was patently obvious what he was doing – showing off the fact that it was stuffed with bills – but regardless, it did make him seem somewhat more credible in my eyes. He handed over a fifty, then reached into the pocket on the right and pulled out a business card.

I pulled it out of his fingers before he was quite ready to give it over, eager to take a little bit of control back over the situation.

"Mike Riley?" I asked. "Who the hell is Mike Riley?"

"That would be me, Alicia. I'm Mr. Hunt's agent."

"Mr. Hunt?" I laughed. "You're calling him
Mister
, are you?" The fact that I was apparently standing opposite a platinum selling artist's agent didn't seem to bother me in the slightest, probably because I'd been through so much in the past twenty-four hours that, right now, nothing would. I leaned forward, resting my arms on the mahogany bar between us. "So why are you here, Mr. Riley?"

"Five million views, Alicia. That's the kind of thing a man like me notices. You're a star, you know that?"

"I guessed it had something to do with that," I said deliberately, "but you haven't actually told me
why
you're here."

"I want to make you an offer…"

I
was
up at the studio by nine in the morning, stone cold sober and with a clear head. It was probably the earliest I'd been there in months, if not years.

I wasn't there to record, I just needed to see Mike. The moment he appeared around the door, even before he'd had a chance to set his briefcase down on the floor, I shot to my feet and pounced.

"So?"

He looked at me, unwinding an expensive Armani scarf from his neck. "So what?"

"You know exactly what, Mike. Don't play games," I shot back frostily. Usually I enjoyed this little verbal repartee with my manager, but right now all I could think about was the fact that it was getting in the way of me and my cocoa crush.

"Ah, the girl…"

"She's more than a girl, Mike."

"She certainly is," he agreed. "That girl's got something about her. She's smart."

"What happened last night?" I asked, for the first time in years interested in discussing one of Mike's negotiations. Usually, he had to practically rope me to the desk before he got me to talk about business. Today, I was jumping down his throat to hear more.

"I'm not exactly sure," Mike admitted. "We chatted, I basically offered to make her a star, but…"

"She said no?" I asked, incredulous. "Why?"

"Not exactly," Mike said, and my heart leapt with joy. This girl had the organ – both my organs – tied down with bungee cord, and I couldn't take this rollercoaster ride much longer.

"She said she needed some time to think about it."

"What's there to think about?" I asked, surprised. "We're going to make this girl famous. Hell, she's already famous – have you seen, it's up to twenty million? This shit's off the charts!"

"You, Clay. That's what she needs to think about," he said, fixing me with a stern, managerial stare.

"Me?" I said recoiling. "What the hell did I do?"

"She thinks you just want to get into her pants, and judging by the looks you are giving her on that video, I'm not surprised."

"I don't
just
want to sleep with her," I replied lamely. "I haven't sung like that in years…" It was true, I wanted to feel joy in my music again, instead of feeling like it was just a constant procession of identical commercial tracks designed to make me as much money as possible. I'd done that. I'd played that game for years.

But that didn't mean I didn't also want to fuck her, because I did. I wanted that more than anything in the world. I wanted to see her gorgeous, rich cocoa skin against my sheets, the pink of the slit between her thighs…

I shook my head, my cock stiffening again.

God, what hold has this girl got on me?

And then I heard it, a knocking at the door. I was so horny that it was like all my senses were supercharged, so I wasn't surprised when someone stuck their head around the door, but I sure as hell wasn't prepared for
her
to appear on the other side.

"
You guys busy?"
she asked.

"For you? Never," I replied gallantly. The look she shot me in return made me more than aware of how lame my comment had been.

"Miss Hudson, you've decided to join us?" Mike said, leaping to his feet. "I have to say, I'm somewhat surprised…"

Alicia walked around the door and took my breath away. She was even more drop dead gorgeous than I remembered, and I remembered her being a fucking ebony goddess. She wasn't dressed up – far from it – just tight black jeans tucked into calf-high leather boots and a sky blue, floral top, but she still looked better than any woman I'd ever had in my bed. I couldn't keep my eyes off her.

"I thought about it," she said, "and I decided to give it a go."

"Incredible," Mike began – but she cut him off almost immediately.

"I'm glad you agree," she said drily, "but I have some conditions."

"Conditions?" Mike said, looking a little bit less confident. I'd never seen him knocked off his game like this before and I was reassured by the fact that it wasn't just
me
she had some kind of hold over.

Or was that more worrying? Who was this girl?

"Just a few. I've had a think about this, and the way I see it, we can both be very useful to each other," she said, looking completely self-assured.

"Miss Hudson," Mike began confidently, "I think you'll find with Mr. Hunt's, sorry – Clay's resources by your side, we'll be rather more useful to you…"

"I don't think so," she said. For many other woman, it would have sounded cocky, almost arrogant, but from Alicia – I savored the way her name sounded – from Alicia it just sounded calm and confident. "I think you and your client," she began, shooting me an almost contemptuous look that made me, if anything, want her more, "need me quite a lot."

"How do you figure?" Mike asked.

"When was the last time Clay here," she looked me up and down, "hit the top ten?"

"That's beside the point…" Mike began, but this time
I
cut
him off
.

"Hey, what's your problem?" I asked furiously. "What the hell I have done to you?"

Shit, Clay – that's not the way to get her to like you!

"It's nothing personal," Alicia said calmly, "but my phone has been ringing off the hook for almost a day now, all people offering me different record deals. It's been kinda nuts…" She finally sounded, well, human with her final aside.

"So why are you here?" I asked jealously. "Why not go with one of these
other
opportunities?"

She shot me a look, but it was one that I couldn't quite figure out. It was almost
hungry
, but no sooner had I seen it, it was gone – subsumed by her calm, assured demeanor. This girl was driving me wild.

"You, Clay," she said simply. My heart did another fucking backflip, and so did my cock as it dared to believe that she was here for me. It was all I'd wanted for two days now, and I could almost reach out and touch it – touch her.

"Me?" I replied, touching my hand to my broad, thick chest and allowing a self-satisfied, smug smile to reach the corners of my mouth. "I'm glad you think of me so highly—"

"Not like that," she replied haughtily, but this time I certainly didn't miss the rapid flick of her eyes down towards the bulge now clearly visible in my jeans. "We, uh, sing well together, Clay. I'm not cocky enough to ignore that fact."

"Oh, we'd do more than just
sing
well together," I growled, looking at her meaningfully. I could have sworn she flushed under my hungry, primal stare, but her lustrous cocoa skin hid it well.

"Clay," Mike interjected, "behave yourself." I shot him a filthy look. Why couldn't he understand that I didn't care about my career – all I wanted to do was pin this beauty down and ravage her till she came, calling my name? My cock jerked.

"I don't think so," she said simply, shooting me down. Still, the flush on her cheeks was undeniable now, evidence enough for me that she wasn't entirely resistant to my charms. "I'm here to
sing
, Clay, not fuck you. Your bedpost has quite enough notches, thank you very much, and I don't want to be one of them."

I growled. "Believe me, baby, you wouldn't just be a notch on my bedpost. I'd give you everything, everything you ever wanted."

"Oh, don't worry," she said. "I’ll get there myself."