Women. They smell good, they look good, they taste good, but they can be so bad for you.
I’ve been Grey Suit back there. Even in the shadows of the warehouse I can read the look on his face, the narrowed eyes, slightly turned down mouth. He’s a guy who knows that just because he’s the one who’s taking this girl out tonight it doesn’t mean he’s going home with her. Back when I was fighting, my girlfriend at the time used the hours I was knocking guys’ blocks off to get her rocks off. She even slept with some of my opponents, who I beat anyway, but still—I don’t know if she was just bored or mean, didn’t love me or herself or both, but when we broke up two years ago, I swore off relationships. My motto is get in and get out, in all ways possible.
So Tight Dress standing in front of me, just the right size to straddle my lap in the front seat of my Audi, would usually be the perfect ending to a night.
But I can’t abide dishonesty, not even from a one-night stand. Like I said: there are standards.
“Your date’s not doing it for you?” I say, nodding at Grey Suit who’s now standing by the door where people are starting to exit. It must be after two a.m. by now and a weeknight, which means most of these people are six hours away from clocking in at the office tomorrow. Thrill seekers by night, executive decision makers by day, that’s a lot of our audience, and even though I’ve never been able to tolerate living that kind of rigid, conventional lifestyle for myself, their money’s just as good as anyone else’s. They may even have a greater appreciation for the brawls, since bare-knuckles fighting is a far cry from whatever uptight Fortune 500 company or corporate law firm they work at.
She glances at Grey Suit, then turns back to me. “He’s okay,” she says. That pretty mouth of hers widens. Despite the darkness of the warehouse, her teeth gleam like white stones. “But you’re Ryder Cole.” She runs her hand lightly over my arm. “And I’m willing.”
My bicep belies my intention to be behave, contracting instinctively as her fingers linger on my suit sleeve. “To do what?”
“Anything you want.”
I lean close to her. “I want you to go home with the guy that brought you and fuck his brains out like a good girl,” I say. “But you can think about me while you’re doing it.”
I cross to where Tyler waits by the door. Security will close up. We’ve got business to attend to.
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BOOTYCALL: PART ONE
Chapter 1
Dylan
Movie reviews are bullshit, but I like to think the one that said I have the 'eyes of a man before the kill and the smile of one who enjoys it' got it right.
At least tonight, anyway.
I’ve spent almost the entire day working out, and though there’s a dull ache flowing through my body, there’s also that tingle of electricity I get whenever I stand still for too long. A twinge in my muscles that makes me want to move, to find some action. Luckily I know all the right places to find it.
I step out of the shower and towel myself off as I walk into the bedroom, grabbing the beer I left on the desk and downing all of it. It’ll take a lot more than beer to cool off the energy that’s gathering momentum inside of me though. There’s a song with a slow beat and a growling guitar playing, and the dusty light of a dying LA sun highlighting parts of my room through the blinds. I grab my phone as I settle on the edge of the bed and spin through the contacts.
I pause before hitting dial on a friend. I could dress sharp and head out to the bars of Los Angeles, get plenty drunk, and see where my instincts lead me – most likely my place or hers – but that’s not what I want tonight. I love the thrill of the chase, but I’m ready for action right now.
Then there’s ‘Hot Ass,’ ‘Kinky Blonde,’ ‘Finger Sucker,’ ‘Leggy Redhead,’ and all the other girls with talents memorable enough to give them a special place in my contacts, but even that won’t cut it.
Tonight I want something dirty. Something new. Something a little dangerous. My body’s thirsting for a new taste.
I walk through the long hallway and down the staircase that runs to the gigantic den of the mansion, big and empty but for the expensive toys and random beer bottles lying around. I open the BootyCall app on my phone and it presents me with a big green button, the word ‘chat’ written across it like a big understatement. I swipe it with my thumb and hold the phone to my ear.
“Hey,” comes a dark, husky voice on the other end. Now this is more like it. I pour myself some of the whiskey I keep on the coffee table and stretch out on the couch.
“Hello there.”
“So. What you looking for?” she says, making it clear what she’s looking for herself.
“I’m not sure. But I’ll know when I find it.”