Seven Sons Page 2

  “You look like you’re about to pass out,” he says, placing the water on a cardboard coaster in front of me. He brings a bar stool over and sets it down behind me.

  I take the water and the seat gratefully, my entire body suddenly aching and tired.

  You knew there was a chance you would see him. You knew this was part of the deal.

  I shrug and take a sip of water, attempting to pull myself together. If my plan is going to work, I have got to keep it together.

  “It must be the sun,” I say, smiling innocently. “I’m not used to this heat.” I hope he doesn’t ask me where I’m from. Nebraska is even hotter than California. I feel my story already beginning to crumple under the weight of its artifice.

  “Well, take it easy,” he says, going back to his side of the bar.

  “Thank you,” I say meekly, the words tasting like bitter lies on my tongue.

  Dornan appears a short time later at the top of the stairs, whistling loudly. “Come on up,” he says, beckoning to his office beyond. I look around, unsure if he is even speaking to me.

  “Yes, you. Hurry up, I ain’t got all goddamn day.” He disappears past the doorway and I slide off my stool. I take a deep breath. This is my moment of truth.

  This is my one shot to get onside with Dornan and bring this motherfucking family to its shattered kneecaps.

  Chapter Three

  He is somehow less frightening than I remember him, and I have to remind myself that I’m taller and stronger than I was when I was fifteen. Back then, I was still so young. Plus, I’m wearing ridiculous heels which make me even taller. Dornan sits behind a desk – my fathers old desk – and sifts through paperwork, seemingly oblivious to the fact that I’m standing there. I use the time to take in my surroundings. Nothing special – a generic particle-board desk, a dead pot plant, a couple of tall metal filing cabinets behind the desk. The only item that looks expensive is the painting on the wall, a beach scene that looks like it’s from Hawaii or someplace equally beautiful. It doesn’t fit in with the room at all, and I wonder if it once belonged to my father.

  “Looking for the safe, sweetheart?”

  I snap my attention back to Dornan, who is smirking as he pounds numbers into a calculator with his long, thick fingers.

  “Looking for the stage,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. My entire plan hinges on him hiring me as a dancer for the club. If he doesn’t, I’ll have to go to plan B. Which I haven’t thought of yet.

  He leans back in his chair and surveys me properly for the first time. I wait patiently, knowing that I tick all of his boxes – brunette, tanned, big tits and young enough to fuck and employ without getting arrested for employing a minor in the club. I bat my eyelashes and study his face. He is older now, but still bears the strong features that made each of his seven sons unmistakably his. He had no daughters, and that could only be a small mercy fate had delivered.

  “What’s your name, darlin?” he asks finally, apparently satisfied with my looks. He is still just as blatantly attractive as he was six years ago. Black hair. Wide, sensual lips. Three days growth on his face that makes him look tough and rugged, but not unattractively so. My stomach sinks as I realize that I was wrong, that he and Jase are actually strikingly similar in looks.

  “Astrid,” I answer, feeling like my heart is about to pound out of my chest.

  “Not your stage name,” he says, looking irritated. “Your real name.”

  “Samantha. Sammi.”

  He looks unimpressed. “You twenty-one?”

  I nod. “Twenty-two, actually.”

  “You got ID to prove that?”

  I nod, sliding my fake ID out of my back pocket and handing it to him. I fight back the urge to flee as my fingers brush against his.

  He leans back in his chair and studies the small rectangular card. I know he is looking for signs it’s a fake. He holds it up to the light, turns it over in his palm, and scrapes his thumbnail along the edge.

  “It’s real,” I say. He doesn’t respond.

  “What’d you say your name was, again?”

  “Sammi. Samantha Peyton.”

  “Two first names?” he says dubiously. “Who has two first names?”

  I smile. “I don’t know, Mr. Ross. It is a little strange.”

  He smirks, the closest thing to a smile he’s cracked since he called me up here. “Well, Sammi two-first-names Peyton, what kind of job are you looking for?”

  I can’t believe I’m saying this. “What kind of job do you want me to do?”

  He drops the smile. “I’m a busy man. Let’s cut to the chase. You dance?”

  I nod.

  “You do private dances?”

  I nod.

  “You do anything else that sets you apart from the other hundred girls who come here each week looking for a job?”

  I smile wickedly. “I can dislocate my jaw so my mouth opens real wide.”

  He laughs and slaps the desk in front of him, sending the papers spilling over the side.

  “I like you,” he decides. “So why here? I mean, I’m sure you know about our… reputation.”

  I try to look young and helpless. “I just got out of a bad relationship,” I say. “Back home in Texas. I could use the protection you offer your employees.”

  He sucks on his lip, mulling that over.

  “Your ex,” he says. “Is he a member of any rival motorcycle clubs? A cop? Links to anyone I should be aware of?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “You positive about that?”

  I nod. “Yeah. He’s just an asshole who thinks he owns me.”

  He nods, apparently satisfied with my act. “You wanna dance first or fuck first?” he asks casually.

  I grin from ear to ear, because I’m in. And I know it.

  “Mr Ross,” I say, leaning over the desk so that my tits are inches from his face, “after I fuck you, it won’t matter how well I dance.”

  Dornan slides past me as he shuts and locks the door, making sure to brush his hardness against my ass as he squeezes past. There is plenty of room behind me and it’s completely unnecessary that he even needs to touch me as he walks past, but he obviously feels the need to assert his domination over me. He stands behind me as I face the desk and I can feel his warm breath on my shoulder.

  “Turn around,” he commands, and I do. He’s standing so close to me, I can feel the heat radiating from him in the already stuffy room. His pupils are dilated and he’s clearly excited by me.

  “Shirt off,” he commands, and I oblige, whipping it over my head so that I am wearing nothing but my tiny cut-off shorts and a scrap of lace that cost way more than a bra of that size should. I unhook my bra and let it fall to the ground between us.

  “Nice,” he says, cupping a breast in each hand. “Not real, though.”

  I shrug. “I doubt any of your dancers have real ones.”

  He smirks, and I shudder inwardly. I’m going to make you a star.

  “Shorts,” he says, tugging at the frayed denim that hugs my thighs. It is at this moment that I panic.

  Oh, fuck.

  My hip bone. The scars. I really hadn’t been expecting to have to screw him right here in the office, not today. I had expected to come in, talk business, and come back to audition at night when the stage was set for the rest of the dancers. I know what will happen if he sees it.

  He’ll kill me.

  And this will all be for nothing.

  He can see my hesitation and steps back.

  “You sure you can handle this kind of work?” he asks me, obviously unimpressed.

  I smile tightly. “Of course. I just wasn’t expecting it to be today.”

  “You gonna fuck better next week?” he asks impatiently.

  “No,” I say quickly. I turn around, shimmy out of my shorts and panties so that I am completely naked, and place my palms flat against the desk. I turn my head to see Dornan watching me with what appears to be a mixture of lust and in
trigue.

  “I was just thinking,” I shrug, flashing him a wicked grin, “I should show you my best stuff straight off the bat.”

  He laughs and slaps my bare ass with his open hand, squeezing a handful of flesh.

  He leans close to my ear, tugging a handful of my long brown hair, forcing my head back. “What do you want from me?” he asks quietly.

  I think of how he ruined my life, how he ripped my father from me, how he took my virginity and shared it with his equally sick bastard offspring. I think of the past six years, of staying hidden, of fearing for my life, and I set my jaw squarely.

  I want to make you suffer.

  “I want you to make me a star,” I say sweetly. I want to bury you alive, you murdering fucking asshole.

  He grins. “Now that I can do.”

  I turn back to the desk and take a deep breath.

  “Well, come on, then,” I say, grinding myself against his hardness. “Before I change my mind.”

  I hear a zipper, and feel his fingers as they explore my pussy. “You don’t get to change your mind with me.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut and bite down on my lip, tasting blood as he spits on his hand, using it to lube his cock. I tense as I feel the tip of his shaft press against my opening.

  I moan in pain as he shoves his cock deep inside my ass and groans loudly.

  “Thought you liked it this way, sweetheart,” he says, his balls slapping against skin as he gains speed with his strokes. Each time he pulls out, he thrusts back in with such force, I want to cry.

  “I love it,” I whisper, hating every second of it.

  I force myself to keep up the act, thankful that he won’t see my tell-tale branding, and vow to get a tattoo to cover my stupid fucking scars first thing tomorrow morning.

  I gasp as I feel a finger press against my clit, and despite my hatred, my traitorous body responds, melting like butter in the midday sun. I suck in a breath as he continues to pleasure me, and I feel my inner resistance fraying and weakening with every swirl of his fingertip. My ass is a cataclysm of pleasure and pain, and the way he is thrumming his fingers against my clit is making me dangerously close to coming.

  I am defenceless against his skilled hands as he brings me to the crest of climax, a bitter war waging within me.

  Because it shouldn’t feel this good.

  I moan, bucking my hips against his as my body betrays me completely, greedy for that climax, eager for release.

  “Baby girl,” Dornan moans, as I explode into a million pieces underneath his deft fingers. That must turn him on, because just as my core clenches and I come, Dornan pulls out of me, stays completely still for a moment, and then groans that groan, pushing my face against the desk and spilling hot cum all over my lower back.

  I force myself to stay perfectly still, my legs shaking slightly because I’ve been on my tiptoes, my cheek pressed against the cool desk, because if I don’t, I’ll scream. I’ll scream and claw at his eyes and try to rip them out.

  And I can’t. I can’t just end it all, especially now that I’ve let him inside me again.

  He puffs, catching his breath, his hands still loose around my hips. I lean awkwardly over the desk, mindful that if I stand up straight I’ll make a mess on the floor. Dornan reaches for a box of tissues on the desk and wipes his sticky fluid from my skin.

  “Thanks,” I murmur, turning around to face him, my arm precariously covering my hip. He definitely looks more relaxed than when I first arrived, though he looks tired, too. Too many late nights. Too much blood on his hands. Too many innocent lives, ended at his will.

  He strokes my breasts, seemingly absent-minded. I want to push him away, to grab the silver letter-opener from his desk and jam it straight into the family crest on the back of his neck.

  “You can clean up in there,” he says, pointing to the bathroom that adjoins the office. “Take a shower if you want.”

  I’ll be taking a shower. The hottest fucking shower ever to burn your touch off my skin.

  “I’ll be quick,” I say, high-tailing it into the bathroom with my clothes still held over my torso, covering my scars. I close the door, fighting an inner battle as to whether I should lock the door or not. In the end I don’t, but I pull my shorts on immediately, not bothering with the shower. I immediately feel better once they’re zipped up and the marred flesh on my hipbone is covered. I grab a towel from the shelf and run it under the faucet until the water is warm, adding a squirt of soap to the material. I wash my back as best I can. I just need to be presentable enough to get back to my hotel before I give myself third-degree burns in the privacy of my own shower.

  I put my bra and t-shirt back on and look at myself in the large mirror that hangs over the sink.

  A complete stranger stares back at me, so different I wouldn’t recognize her as me. Juliette had shoulder-length blonde hair, pale skin, and green eyes. The girl I’m staring at has dark brown hair that skims her ass, thanks to extensions, bronzed skin, thanks to hours lying in a tanning bed, and dark blue eyes that still reflect the tiniest hint of hazel that the contact lenses can’t stifle.

  I miss being Juliette. But I feel invigorated by my new appearance at the same time. The anonymity it affords me is something I underestimated when Dr. Lee and I were going over my surgical rework plans. I’m on an adrenalin high; having just screwed Dornan, my ass is throbbing but my spirit is elated.

  I did it. I fucking did it. I fooled him.

  He has no idea who I am.

  Chapter Four

  When I exit the bathroom, Dornan is back behind his desk as if nothing ever happened.

  “So,” I say, as if I don’t already know. “Did I get the job?”

  He stabs the air with his pen, gesturing for me to sit down. I drag out the metal stool from under the desk – the desk we just fucked on – and sit my throbbing ass down.

  “You into drugs?” Dornan asks. “Drinking? What’s your thing?”

  I shrug. “I’m kind of boring, really.”

  Dornan smiles knowingly, and flashes his straight teeth. He and his sons might be rough and tattooed, but they all have amazingly straight, white teeth.

  “Well,” I say, shifting uncomfortably in my seat, “I have a lot of sex with a lot of different people. Could that be a problem?”

  His smile stretches so wide I think his face might break under the weight of it. “I don’t see that being a problem, no.”

  “I do have one other problem,” I say, looking at the floor. “I mean, I just got here from Texas, I don’t know anyone … I’m staying at a backpackers’ hostel a few blocks away, but I’m going to run out of cash soon.”

  He nods. “You need cash?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t take money unless I earn it. I just need … somewhere to stay, a few weeks at the most.”

  Say it, Dornan. Come on and fucking say it.

  “That’s not a problem,” he says, waving his hand dismissively. “You’ll stay at the clubhouse. Plenty of extra rooms. You’ll have to sign a non-disclosure statement and agree not to speak with anyone about what goes on there, of course.”

  Hooked, line and sinker. Sucker.

  “What goes on there?” I say, my Bambi eyes as wide as I can stretch them.

  “Baby girl,” he replies, clearly high-fiving himself for his luck today. “Why don’t you just see for yourself?”

  He writes the address down on the back of a business card and hands it to me, letting his fingers brush against mine again. I see the glazed look in his eyes and a small burst of adrenalin spurts into my stomach as I realize he’s pretty damn taken with Samantha Peyton.

  “Here,” he says, handing me a roll of crisp fifties. There’s probably cocaine on them. “Get yourself some nice clothes. Damn, I like those shorts, but you gotta wear something a little more upmarket if you’re gonna be working here.”

  I laugh to myself, thinking that he still holds his club to such a high esteem even though he’s turned it from an artist
ic burlesque club to a strip club and whore house.

  The cell phone on his desk vibrates and he gives me one last look up and down. “I gotta take this. Go shopping, get yourself some nice things to wear, and I’ll see you here,” he points to the address on the business card, “tonight. Be there at eight. We’ll go over everything then.”

  I smile broadly and offer my hand. He looks at it, takes it, and pulls me across the desk. I feel his lips on mine and the only thing I can do is respond. He’s a good kisser, even though the feel of his hot tongue in my mouth makes me want to clamp my teeth down and bite it off.

  He breaks away and lets go of me.

  “I think that’s a little more appropriate than shaking hands, don’t you think?”

  I giggle, licking my lips. “Yes, sir.”

  His phone continues to buzz angrily. “Eight,” he says, answering the phone and holding it to his ear. “Now get that piece of ass out of here before I spend my entire day fucking it.” He starts barking things into the phone and I back away, grab my roll-along suitcase, and make my way as quickly and quietly as I can down the stairs.

  I pass Jase, who is still polishing beer glasses, but I don’t make eye contact. I’m almost at the set of doors, where I can go outside and fill my lungs with fresh air before I have a complete meltdown, when he speaks just behind me.

  “Did you get the job?”

  I turn slowly, ashamed that he has to look at me like this. Like a whore. “Yeah,” I reply quietly. “I got the job.”

  Jase looks intrigued, and I have to wonder if he senses something about me. About us. After all, I might be Samantha now, but before that I was Juliette, the first girl he ever loved.

  “What’s your name?” he asks me, setting a tray of glasses on a table between us.

  Julz! Don’t touch her! Get away from her! Juliette!

  I turn, swallowing back a lifetime of tears, and smile at him. “Samantha. You can call me Sammi.”

  He nods. “Well, see you ‘round, Sammi.”