Loaded: A Bad Boy Romance (2 page)

I don’t like it, and something deep inside me is fighting against it.

Why not?
I think to myself.
What does it matter that she’s a woman?

“If Ned talks, we’re fucked,” Manny says, and I know how right he is.

“Just this once,” I say, reluctantly.

I reach out and take the vial, putting it in my pocket.

“Just this once,” he says solemnly.

That’s
why this man is so dangerous: not only does he have an armory the size of a mansion, command a ruthless paramilitary organization, and have a
shocking
number of cops on his payroll, but he could sell ice to an Eskimo. He’s
that
convincing.

I look at Tessa’s picture again, trying to memorize every line of her face and every curve of her perfect body. I wonder what she’d look like naked, beneath me on a bed or even on top, riding my cock as her tits bounced.

God, what does she sound like when she comes, does she talk dirty or just moan —

“You’re good?” Manny asks, interrupting my thoughts.

“I’m good,” I say, standing.

For a moment I want to ask if I can take the picture with me — for
research
— but I know I can’t be found with it.

“You’ve got a tuxedo fitting tomorrow at eight,” he says. “Get some rest before your big day.”

I nod, then walk to the door. As my hand touches the knob, Manny speaks up again.

“Alex,” he says. “Thanks for doing this. We’re really in a bind.”

I turn around and thump one fist against my left pec, just below my collarbone.

Manny does it back.

We’ve got the exact same tattoo in that spot. Everyone in La Carretera does.

I turn and head out the door.

The two girls are still standing by the booth, talking to each other, while the other guys ogle them but don’t approach. They know better.

The girls are still hot and still ready to go, but suddenly I don’t feel like it anymore. It’s almost two in the morning, and this wedding is actually fucking
important
.

If the accountant goes to the feds, shit’s gonna get ugly, so I should get some sleep.

Tessa Fulbright and her sensible business outfit don’t have a goddamn thing to do with it.

I turn and take the back stairs down to the street, then drive home with the stereo blasting.

“
E
ddie
,” the bride says, her voice shaking as she speaks into the microphone. “I was falling and you were my parachute. You are my rock, my fortress, my life preserver in troubled waters.”

God, this is cheesy,
I think.

I have to look away for a moment, I’m so uncomfortable. I’ve known Karen for years, and I always knew she was one of those hopeless romantics, but this is really over the top.

“I love you like a fat kid loves cake,” the bride goes on, her voice breaking.

I hold my breath.

Did she really just say that?

I try to look around surreptitiously, just to see if anyone else is
hearing
this, but they’re all staring straight ahead, some of them dabbing at their eyes with tissues. Totally enthralled by a crying girl wearing white.

Shoulders shaking, the bride hands the microphone back to the officiant, and he starts droning on about something else. I shift in my chair yet again, trying to find a position that doesn’t feel like it’s breaking my spine.

No luck. These chairs obviously look a lot better than they feel.

At least it’s almost over,
I think, and look around at the other guests. They’re all crying.

Am I an unfeeling monster?
I wonder.

Everyone else seems really touched
.

“I now pronounce you,” the officiant says.

He takes a dramatic pause.

Come the fuck on
, I think.

“Man and wife! You may kiss the bride.”

Eddie grabs Karen in his arms and swings her backwards. She flails, clearly not expecting this, and my hands fly to my mouth involuntarily. Her veil catches on something on the wedding arch and tears off of her head.

Eddie goes into the veil face-first and then shakes his head back and forth, holding Karen in his arms, trying to get the gauzy white fabric off of himself. It’s a long couple of seconds, and then it finally works and he kisses her.

I clap automatically, relieved that this part is finally over.

Karen and Eddie walk back down the aisle, followed by their enormous wedding parties. The veil’s still hanging on the arch like some kind of dead bird.

I feel weirdly bad for it.

The guests start filtering out, and as they do, I swear to God I can feel someone
watching
me. I stare straight ahead, holding my clutch with both hands.

It’s just Andrew again
, I think.
Trying to figure out what he’s going to tell Nick about how I’m doing
.

Nick, my most recent ex, isn’t here, but his best friend is, and he’s a grade-A dickbag.
He’s
the one who convinced Nick that I only wanted him for his money.

Fuck you and your tiny penis
,
Andrew
, I think.
I hope you get syphilis and it falls off
.

I can still feel him staring.

Finally, I give up and look.

No. I
glare
.

It’s not Andrew. It is very, very much not Andrew — Andrew is short and scrawny, but the guy staring at me is a good six-foot-plus of
man
. His eyes meet my death glare and I my heart hitches in my chest. I look away as fast as I can, my pulse racing.

I don’t know what to do. Very hot men don’t stare at
me
, not ever, and definitely not when they’ve got blue eyes, black hair and a jawline straight out of a black-and-white movie.

I glance to my right, trying to figure out who he’s
actually
looking at, but it’s a mix of old ladies and kids.

Maybe one of them is his mom or something
, I think.

I take a deep breath and look over again. He’s walking into the aisle with the throng, not looking at me anymore.

He can
seriously
fill out a tux, though. I tend to like my guys in jeans and t-shirts, but I’d be willing to change my ways for
that
.

Behind me, someone clears her throat and I realize my row is empty, so I quit my perverted staring and join the other guests walking into the reception.

A
fter two glasses of champagne
, I feel better. The guy passing trays looked at me funny when I grabbed them both at once, but fuck it. I barely know anyone here besides my ex-boyfriend’s douchebag bestie, what else am I supposed to do?

I sidle up to a conversation with a couple of people whose names I think I might know, and they’re polite enough to act like they recognize me.

Karen and I were freshman roommates in college, and even though we stayed friends after that year was over, we don’t have any
other
friends in common. Well, except Andrew, who she introduced me to, who introduced me to Nick.

They all went to high school together in Santa Monica, some swanky private school, while I was at public school in Encino. Now I’m at Karen’s half-a-million-dollar wedding.

“Oh, I know,” a girl in the group I’ve infiltrated says. “I would
never
go to St. Bart’s in
March
, of course not!”

She laughs, showing off a mouthful of teeth so white and perfect they’ve gotta be fake. I smile into my glass and drain it, then step away, searching for the guy with the tray. There’s an open bar, but the line is still on the long side.

I have to walk carefully, lifting my dress out of the way of my feet with one hand. The wedding is black tie,
of course
, and I ended up renting a dress for it — meaning I couldn’t get it hemmed and had to wear four-inch heels instead.

I’m beginning to regret that choice, especially since it’s still a touch too long.

At last, I spy the tray of champagne. I put my empty glass down on a cocktail table, grab my dress in both hands, and follow him like I’m a
panther
, my eyes on the prize, stalking my prey through the jungle.

I will have you
, I think to the champagne tray.

You are my prey. You will be mine
.

I slip through the crowd unimpeded, and the tray is ten feet away. There are two glasses left, and then someone takes one. I grit my teeth.

Then I go
flying
.

One second I’m walking and the next my arms are in the air and I’m hurtling toward the ground with no warning, totally off-balance and ungainly, like a newborn giraffe instead of a panther.

The only thing I have time to think is
oh,
fuck
.

Out of nowhere someone catches me with an arm around my waist and I’m just staring down at the floor.

For a moment I stay still, not at all sure
what
the hell just happened.

Then he pushes me up to my feet, and I look at Mister Quick Reflexes.

It’s the blue-eyed, black-haired dreamboat.

He looks at me, and his face breaks into a mocking grin.

“Easy, tiger,” he says in a low, almost-raspy voice. “Might wanna ease off that champagne a little.”

“Oh, my goodness, I am
so
sorry,” I hear from behind me. I turn to see a middle-aged woman with both hands over her mouth. “Did I step on your dress? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I say.

Dreamboat still has one arm around my waist and his hand on my bare shoulder, and I wish he wouldn’t. I’m turning bright red and everyone’s
staring
at the girl who just tripped, and now he’s telling everyone that I’m trashed.

“I’m really sorry,” she says again, and I shake my head and wave her off.

“You can let me go,” I tell Dreamboat. I’m already humiliated, and I don’t need some guy standing around like I’m an invalid.

But when he does let me go, there’s a tiny twinge of disappointment.

“And I’m not drunk,” I say, as if I want to make
extra special sure
he’s not interested in me. “My dress is just too long.”

“If you say so,” he tells me. “But if you’re on the dance floor later grinding with someone’s grandfather, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

I snort.

“I don’t know how many women
you
know, but we’re not all two-drink drunks,” I say.

I’m two-drink tipsy
, I think.

He smiles.

“All right, you win,” he says, then backs away and sweeps his hand to one side, in an
after you
gesture that still manages to be sarcastic. “Don’t let me get between you and alcohol again. Lesson learned, tiger.”

I look at him stiffly, gather every remaining shred of my dignity that I can find, and walk away. The guy with the champagne is long gone, but I pretend I’ve got a destination and walk towards it with a
purpose
.

Moments later I’m looking a wall, because that’s what you find when you walk
with a purpose
indoors.

Bathroom
, I think.
Just act like you’re looking for a bathroom. No one questions that
.

Just as purposefully, I find the women’s room, head still high. Even the bathroom is fancy as hell, but I walk past a few other girls and into the handicapped stall.

Then I exhale, slumping against wall. Each stall in this place is a mini-room, tiled walls and all - no plastic stall separators for the Beverly Hills Resort.

This one’s got a picture of flowers over the toilet. For a moment I wonder if it’s
supposed
to symbolize a vagina, or if I’m reading too much into it.

Probably reading too much into it.

The tile is cool against my exposed shoulder, and I try to gather myself, just a little. It feels good to be here, all alone, where no one is looking at me or thinking I’m too drunk or deciding what to say to their best friend about me when they leave.

I wish I hadn’t come
, I think, but it’s not quite true. I’m glad I showed up for Karen, even if her vows were awkward and I already mouthed off to another guest after he prevented me from falling on my face.

Seriously, though.

Why are the hot ones always assholes?

Why couldn’t he say,
Hey, are you all right
, instead of
Reel it in, you crazy drunk?

I wonder if he’s here with someone
, I think. He probably is. Even when they’re assholes, men that good-looking never last in the wild.

Quit thinking about it
, I tell myself, taking a deep breath.
Don’t talk to him again, have a couple more drinks, and leave the second they cut the cake.

You can make it through this.

I pee since I’m already in the bathroom, then wash my hands and look at myself in the mirror. For a sloppy drunk I’m not bad. I was afraid a one-shouldered gown might fit funny, but it actually looks pretty good. Even my hair is holding up for once.

Okay
, I think.
Let’s do this
.

I leave the bathroom, head high, and go back into the wedding reception.

T
essa shoots
me another glare and then walks off, head high, shoulders straight. I follow her with my eyes for longer than I should, just watching the way her dress moves around her legs as she walks.

I really,
really
shouldn’t have caught her, but what else was I supposed to do? Just let her fall in front of everyone?

But now she knows my face. She can identify me later. Even if I’m not the one who actually kidnaps her, she can identify me.

Fuck
.

I turn back to the group I’ve been talking to, a couple of white guys in their thirties and forties.

“So then,” says the guy to my left, “Jim tells me that we were wrong about that hole — it’s par
three
, not par two! Can you believe it?”

The other three men laugh uproariously, so I laugh along with them even though I have no idea what’s so funny. I’ve never even played mini-golf.

“That Jim is a card,” says the guy who was telling the story.

“No kidding,” says another guy.

Yeah, sounds like a real loco motherfucker
, I think. But I just nod along, until one of them nods at me.

“You golf, Brent?” he asks.

I’m looking past the men at the hallway that Tessa disappeared into. It takes me split second to hear him, and then to remember that right now,
I’m
Brent.

“Hardly,” I say. “Who has the time anymore?”

I shrug, figuring they’ll fill in the rest. Each man nods in total understanding.

“Last year, I told the missus I was going on a business trip for a couple days, but me and the boys went out to Palm Springs and hit the links every day,” another one says. “It was heaven.”

The others act like it’s the baddest thing they’ve ever heard. I drain the last of my Scotch, the ice cubes sliding against my lip.

“I gotta grab a refill,” I say, putting the glass on the cocktail table. “Nice meeting you fellas.”

“See you around, Brent!” one says, holding up a glass like he’s toasting me, but I’m not paying attention anymore. I’m watching the edges of the room for a girl with auburn hair and a long black one-shouldered dress.

Drug her now
, I think.

I’m already making my way toward the open bar. The line’s finally gotten shorter, and I know this is my chance.

Do it now and she probably won’t remember you,
I tell myself.
Get her a drink to say you’re sorry for being a dick, roofie her,
escort her out to the car, then you can come back here and have some fun
.

It’s obviously the best plan, and probably the only way I’m going to keep from fucking this up
massively
.

So why the fuck don’t I want to do it?

Was it the way she
looked
at me like she was challenging me? The way she argued back?

The line moves forward. Out of the corner of my eye, I see what I’ve been looking for: deep red and a swish of black.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asks, the very picture of politeness.

I scan the bottles one last time.

“Ardbeg on the rocks, please,” I say. There’s a mirror behind the bar and I sneak a peek at myself.

James fucking Bond
, I think.

Bond wouldn’t fuck up his mission, though.

Fine.

“Could I also get an Old Fashioned?” I say, as he puts my drink in front of me.

He nods, and a minute later, hands over the second drink. I take them and turn away from the bar, heading to an empty cocktail table in the corner.

The vial’s heavy in my pocket, and I have this sense of
dread
. I put the drinks down, take a sip of mine, and reach into my pocket, looking around.

I spot Tessa. She’s not far away, alone at another cocktail table, looking at her phone.

I stare for too long, looking at the curve of her neck and thinking about the noise she’d make if I put my lips there.

The vial rolls between my fingers, small but heavy.

You have one job
, I remind myself.
One. Fucking. Job.

I know what happens when Manny’s disappointed, and it’s not pretty. La Carretera has plenty of guys who are missing their pinky fingers. Manny’s got an outbuilding on his property in Malibu set up
just
for that, with drains and everything.

I’ve been there. I’ve seen it in action. I
like
having all my fingers.

Tessa looks up from her phone and around the room and I think
again
about those goddamn perfect lips, her tongue sliding along my cock, and I think of what a shame it would be to drug her.

I don’t fuck girls who can’t say — no,
scream
— yes. That’s a hard line.

I let the vial slips through my fingers and I take my hand out of my pocket, pick up both drinks, and walk over to Tessa.

I can still kidnap her if she’s not drugged,
I tell myself.

She looks up as I slide the Old Fashioned toward her, then down at the drink. Her phone goes back into her bag without another glance from her.

“For me?” she asks. Her green eyes are skeptical, and she doesn’t touch the glass yet.

“I don’t see anybody else at this table,” I say.

“What is it?”

“It’s a drink.”

“You don’t have to be a smartass,” she says, but there’s a smile creeping onto her face, starting in her eyes.

“It’s an Old Fashioned. A serious drink for a serious drinker,” I say.

I know I shouldn’t try to press her buttons, but god
damn
I can’t help it.

It works. She flicks me an irritated glance.

“It’s none of your business how much I drink,” she says, her voice going brittle again, the smile disappearing. “And a more suspicious person might wonder
why
you’re suddenly bringing me drinks.”

I laugh.

“It’s an open bar, tiger,” I say, and I swear I watch her shoulders rise an inch. “They’re free.”

She still hasn’t taken a sip, and now she’s watching the drink like someone might have spit in it.

I laugh.

“You think I’m trying to roofie you?” I ask.

“That’s not what I meant,” she says, getting defensive.

I reach out for her drink, thanking all the saints that I
didn’t
doctor it, and take a sip. Then I put it back in front of her.

“You think I’d roofie you to get you to sleep with me?” I ask, my voice going low and dangerous. I’m just messing with her, but she doesn’t know that.

Tessa’s bright red. She opens her mouth to protest, but I cut her off.

“If I wanted to sleep with you, you’d already be up against the wall in the elevator,” I say. “I don’t need drugs.”

She stares at me for another moment, mouth open.

Then her eyebrows go up, and she starts
laughing
.

“You’re a cocky motherfucker, I’ll give you that,” she says.

She really has
no
idea.

“Are you like this with all the single girls at weddings?” she asks, and lifts the drink to her lips.

“Only the ones drunk enough to fall into my arms,” I say.

She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling now.

“That lady stepped on my dress. You watched her apologize.”

“You sure you weren’t making a last-ditch leap at the final glass of champagne?”

She looks over one shoulder for a moment, then back at me. That challenging look is back in her eyes, like she’s about to dare me to do something.

“If I’d thought it would work, I might have,” she says. “There’s only so long I can listen to rich bitches go on about the
perfect
spot for a vacation house.”

“I was going for the champagne too,” I admit, feeling confessional.

“
Now
the truth comes out,” she says. Her green eyes are practically sparkling. “Let me guess, you were escaping a dick-measuring contest over who’s got the best car?”

“I
wish
it had been a dick-measuring contest,” I say, grinning.

“Don’t get saucy,” she says. “I’m a nice girl, and we’ve already established that you’re not going to get me to sleep with you.”

The Old Fashioned is taking effect.

“
Did
we establish that?” I ask.

I take a sip of my Scotch, letting it slide down my throat.

“Well, I’m not currently, what was it, up against a wall in an elevator? So I believe we did,” she says.

I try not to imagine it, but it’s impossible: my body against hers, the cool metal wall behind her, her legs wrapped around me. Her heat against my cock as the floors tick upward.

My cock stiffens.
Fuck
. I look away and think about Manny, with his fat fingers and Hawaiian shirts.

“It could be arranged,” I say.

Socks with sandals,
I think
.

She laughs again, but it’s not derisive. It’s like she’s
daring
me to get her into that elevator, and holy
fuck
it’s hot.

Plaid shorts
, I tell myself.

“I’m not really the ‘fucking in the elevator’ type,” she says, taking the last swallow of her drink. “Historically, I’m more ‘missionary under the covers with the lights off.’”

Now I raise
my
eyebrows, and she turns red again, like she let the drink get the better of her for a minute.

“I’ll get you another drink if you tell me more about missionary with the lights off,” I say.

“I think I’ll hold off for now,” she says. “You never even told me your name.”

“I’m,” I say, and very nearly say
Alex
. “Brent.”

“Tessa,” she says, holding out her right hand. She squeezes mine hard and looks me dead in the eye as she does.

“You know,” I say slowly, “I don’t think
you’re
the missionary-in-the-dark type.”

“I
promise
I am,” she says, leaning her elbows on the table. “Grade-A, one hundred percent prude, right here.”

I also lean forward on my elbows. Now our faces are even closer, less than a foot apart.

“I think you’re fucking the wrong people,” I say.

She doesn’t back down, just looks me dead in the eye.

“You’re not wrong about that,” she says.

“How long were you with your last boyfriend?” I ask.

“Nosy,” she says.

“I already know how you like to fuck,” I tease.

She laughs.

“Three years,” she says.

“I bet
you
showed up in bed with a vibrator and handcuffs a couple of times,” I say.

She doesn’t answer right away, so I go on, ignoring the raging hard-on I’m getting at the thought of Tessa, naked and standing next to a bed, handcuffs dangling off one finger as she grins.

“And
he’s
the one who looked at that, reached over, and turned out the lights.”

Her eyes narrow slightly, like she’s trying to think of what to say, and I know I’m right.

A young woman in a server’s outfit steps up to us, saving her for a moment.

“Dinner will be served shortly,” she says. “We’re moving everyone into the ballroom.”

“Thanks,” Tessa says, and I nod, then look around. Most everyone else is already in the other room, seated at their tables. I was so focused on
her
that I didn’t even notice.

“What table are you at?” she asks, pulling her own place card out of her bag.

I fish mine out of my pocket.

Brent Parker, Table 8,
it says. The real Brent Parker is a low-level finance guy who owes Manny a
lot
of money. Manny
inspired
him to give up his seat at this wedding.

“Eight,” I say.

She holds up her card.

Tessa Fulbright, Table 8
.

“Guess you’re not rid of me just yet,” I say.

“You’ll have to wait until
after
dinner to find someone to fuck in the elevators,” she says, but she’s laughing.

Then she turns and walks into the ballroom and I follow, the sway of her hips almost hypnotic.

I have no fucking idea how I’m going to pull this kidnapping off. Every second I go without drugging her makes it harder, but I
can’t
bring myself to slip the stuff into her drink.

Jesus Christ, I think I’m fucked.