Chapter Seventeen
Jill
Another day, another shift at work. It’s been four days since I’ve worked—four days since I’ve seen Gage. That night at the club was a blur. I’m not sure I remember everything that happened. I mostly remember shots, dancing with Lana, and more shots. The one thing I remember vividly is flirting with Gage and how good he tastes when I’m tipsy.
I’m sure Gage has had his eyes on me on my days off, but watching me run errands and relax on the couch isn’t enough for him. He summoned me to pull a double shift tonight, making Miranda call me in early to set up the bar. The club is empty, and there won’t be anyone here for several hours.
Except Gage. I know he’s around here somewhere, watching.
It’s just him and me.
My handbag slips as I’m putting it in the locker, causing the contents to spill out onto the floor. I mutter a curse as I bend down to pick them up. Reaching for my lip balm and keys, my eyes snag on the keyring. An extra key has me doing a double take—it’s gold, the rest of my keys are silver. Where the hell did this come from? What does it open? Who put it here—
There’s only one person who could’ve done this.
I snap a picture with my phone and send it to Gage.
Me: What the fuck is this?
My phone dings almost immediately with a response, making me roll my eyes.
Gage: It’s a key.
I can just picture the smirk on his face while he’s looking at the phone right now.
Me: I’m not blind, I can see that. A key to what?
Gage: My house.
Me: And why is it on my keyring?
Gage: Because I put it there.
Frustration and irritation have my grip tightening on my phone, and it dings again.
Gage: You’re so hot when you’re angry.
I don’t bother to look around. I know he has eyes on me—whether it’s in person or through the cameras.
Me: I’m going to kill you. Slowly and painfully.
Gage: I love it when you’re mean to me.
Me: Why do I have a key to your house?
Gage: Because it’s so much harder to fuck you through a locked door.
Another text comes through.
Gage: I’m so hard right now just thinking about you using that key.
Me: You’re delusional if you think I’m going to use it.
Gage: You will. And I’ll be there to reward you when you do.
The last text that comes through is an address, and one-click shows me a townhouse in downtown Chicago. His house.
Desire burns through me as I close my locker and walk out of the dressing room. He’s not in his office, but I find him sitting at one of the tables just off the empty dance floor on the main floor. The look Gage gives me when I walk up says he was expecting me.
“You need to stop messing with me and my stuff,” I say, crossing my arms under my chest and cocking my hip. He smiles and runs his tongue along the bottom of his top teeth as his eyes travel over me.
“Yeah, not gonna happen.”
Rolling my eyes to the ceiling like I’m praying for strength, I huff out a deep breath dramatically and look around at the empty club. “You’re just sitting here in the silence alone?”
“I just finished meeting with the DJ for next month’s event. And now you’re here. Come have a seat,” Gage instructs, gesturing to his lap. I roll my eyes and place my hands on my hips.
“I already told you, the chairs around here aren’t built for bigger bodies.”
“Look again, little devil.” His words take me by surprise. “There’s not a single chair in my club that can’t handle all of you. Not anymore.”
“You’re lying,” I say, even as I look at the chair to see that he’s not. What used to be flimsy ‘chic’ chairs that were clearly chosen for aesthetic purposes have been replaced by elegant metal chairs that look as functional as they are pleasing to the eye. They actually look sturdy as hell.
“Call my bluff,” he goads with a smirk, knowing that I can’t. “I’m not having anything in my club, or anywhere else, that isn’t designed for you, Jill. You’re gonna have to think of another excuse if you want to avoid me, and I don’t plan on making it easy for you. Now come here.”
He reaches to snag my hand and starts to reel me in, and I let him. His eyes gazing into mine show the passion and desire that his nonchalant expression doesn’t. Once I reach him, I lift one leg over his, then the other, my arms wrapping around his neck until I’m straddling his lap. I lean in close to press my chest against his, our lips just centimeters apart. His hands plant firmly on my ass, pressing me even closer.
“Happy?” I breathe. His eyes roam my features like he’s already memorized them, and he’s simply refreshing his memory. The look on his face answers my question before he does.
“Very.”
He replaced every single chair in this entire club—for me. All because I made one comment. The thought has warmth rushing through me as a small knot forms in my stomach. I wait for him to mention the catch, or how I now owe him something in return. But it never comes.
Tommy would’ve told me exactly how much the new chairs cost, hinting that I cost him all that money—even if it was all his own idea. There were always string tied to everything.
Thinking back to when I was eighteen, I snuck out to meet up with my older brother and some of his friends. Tommy said the only way I was allowed to hangout with them was if I got them some beer. So I flirted with an old man outside a liquor store to buy a six-pack for me.
When I arrived at the overlook where Tommy and his friends always hung out, one of his friends, Trevor, was very excited to see me—too excited. He kept getting closer, trying to touch me. When he leaned in to kiss me, I’d pushed him off and decided I wanted to go home.
Tommy had rushed after me, trying to coax me to stay. That’s when I knew something was up.
“What’s going on?” I asked him, arms crossed.
“I lost a bet.” The way he said it had my eyes narrowing.
“What does that have to do with me?”
“Trevor lent me the money, with one condition,” Tommy winces as he continues. “He gets to makeout with you.”
“What?” The word leaves my mouth sounding more like an accusation than a question. “What the hell, Tommy?”
“I know, I’m sorry. I needed the money.” Seeing that I’m about to walk away, he grabs my arm. “But you’ve said Trevor is cute, right? So kissing him will be no big deal. Come on, Jillybean.”
I had stared at my degenerate brother for a moment, his big green eyes pleading with me. Trevor was a decent looking guy, so kissing him wouldn’t be the end of the world—under different circumstances, I probably would’ve been excited about it. So, I relented.
“Fine. But don’t ever try to pull this shit on me again. Next time I’m not going to rescue you.”
So I’d kissed Trevor— it was terrible and sloppy, and he tried to grope me in the process.
But that wasn’t the last time Tommy roped me in to save his ass, not even close.
“What are you thinking about?” Gage’s question pulls me out of my memories and my focus lands back on the man holding me. I pause for a moment to really look at him.
Taking advantage of my up close and personal view, my eyes run over the details of him. How the perpetual five o’clock shadow across his angular jaw adds a rough edge to his gorgeous face. That his dark brown eyes carry flecks of mocha and onyx in them, and how intricate the ink that covers him all the way up to his chin really is. “Your tattoos are beautiful.”
“So are you.”
“You sure lay it on thick, don’t you?”
“You like how thick I am. Or do I need to remind you?”
“Can we have a normal conversation for like five minutes before you turn into a horn dog?”
“We can try, but no promises.”
“Why tattoos? With your skill, you could’ve been an artist.”
“I am an artist. My work is recognized around the world. The canvas I’ve mastered is one of the most challenging. The human body is a beautiful and fragile thing, and I turn it into a masterpiece.”
“Is that why you’ve covered yourself in ink? To become a masterpiece?”
“Let’s be honest, I was a masterpiece without the ink. Now I’m a god.”
“Is that the purpose of all these?” I lightly trace some of the designs decorating the skin of his sternum with my fingertips.
“Tattoos don’t always need to serve a purpose. Sometimes, they’re a desire. Secrets, stories, dreams. All of them walking around for the world to see.”
“You seem very passionate about this. I like it.”
“You like when I’m passionate about other things, too.”
“Four minutes,” I announce. “You lasted four whole minutes without talking about sex.”
“Let’s try again. I have really good stamina, let me show you exactly how long I can really go.”
“Hmm, fifteen seconds. You finished before we even got started. I have to say, I’m very disappointed.”
“Third time’s the charm.” His gaze on me turns more serious. “Tell me about your family.”
“You want to have this conversation right now?” I look down pointedly at how we’re sitting. Gage simply tilts his head as he waits. “Let’s go back to talking about sex.”
“No,” he replies deeply. He’s clearly not going to drop this.
“There’s nothing to tell.” I shrug. “Now that Tommy’s gone, I don’t have one.”
“Your parents?”
“They’re both dead.” His insistent gaze doesn’t falter, so I relent. “My dad was a drunk. Some might have called him a functioning alcoholic. I don’t remember a time I was with my dad when he didn’t have a drink in his hand or alcohol on his breath. When he mixed his liquor, he got mean.”
“And your mom?”
“She was a broken woman and his biggest enabler. She never spoke up unless it was to make excuses for him. She cooked, cleaned, and taught me that women are meant to be seen, not heard. I don’t take after her, clearly.”
“How did they die?”
“A car accident.” Bitterness twists in my gut. I hate telling this story. Sensing my discomfort, Gage’s arms tighten around me to pull me in closer as I continue. “My mom went to go track my dad down at the bar and take him home. They got into a huge fight, and my dad took the keys from her. He was plastered and pissed. When he got like that, he liked to drive really fast just to scare us. When he lost control, he hit another car head-on. All three of them were pronounced dead on the scene: my mom, my dad, and the other driver.”
Wendy Corwin, the other driver, was a forty-six-year-old single mother of a pre-teen daughter. My dad created three orphans that night.
“How old were you?”
“You already know all of this,” I point out. “I know you know it.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“I was nineteen. My parents didn’t have much, but I inherited a few thousand dollars that I put towards community college and bartending classes.”
“What about Tommy?”
“What do you think?” I scoff. “Tommy’s share of the inheritance was down a slot machine within hours of the check being cashed. He was about to finish trade school to become a welder, just like my dad.” Dad had insisted it was the only appropriate profession for a real man. And with how much of a screw-up Tommy was, following in Dad’s footsteps was the only option to prove himself. If there’s anything my brother cared about more than a bet, it was my dad’s approval.
My brother and I weren’t super close before the accident. But losing both our parents in one night forced us together. Only having each other to lean on forged a new bond—one where I was the rock, and Tommy was the sand that shifted around it. We were dysfunctional, but we had each other. Until we didn’t.
Now it’s just me.
Sensing my darkening thoughts, Gage’s eyes read me like a book. “And then your brother disappeared.” I nod.
“And somehow, I got strung up in his noose.” I look at him pointedly, but there’s not an ounce of apology in his expression. Only intense interest and deep-seated possession.
I hate how much I like it.
“I prefer my diamonds around your neck. Or my hands.” And now we’re back to talking about sex. The subject change is a relief, which I suspect was his intent. The rattle of fresh ice being poured into the cooler behind the bar sounds in the background, announcing the arrival of a barback. It’s time to get ready for my shift.
“Are you just going to sit here and hold me on your lap all night?
“If I want to.”
“I have things to do.”
“I better be at the top of that list.”
“You wish.” I roll my eyes, but Gage’s arms flex around me.
“Yes, I do.”
“I’m getting up now. And you’re going to let me.” This time, when I pull away from him, he lets me. His hands linger on my hips when I stand, giving them a greedy squeeze before I step out of his reach. If there’s one thing this man knows how to do, it’s get me wet in the middle of the club.
Walking away with his eyes on me, I know I’m in for a tough night. There’s nothing worse than being forced to serve drinks all night in drenched panties, knowing the tattoo god who’s always just a few feet away would rail you to the point of no return.
I’m screwed. But not in the way I wish I were.