18. Wesley
18
WESLEY
This woman is going to be the death of me.
She’s charming and sexy. That, I already knew, but the moment she stepped out of her room, all feeling rushed to my groin. The dress stretches across her ass and the back dips low, revealing skin I ache to learn if it’s as soft as it looks. From the mouth I want to consume to the mile-long legs I want wrapped around my waist, Nina Laffley is the woman I wholeheartedly crave.
The club is everything I’d expect a royal to frequent. Its modern elegance says no one with less than a few million dollars in their checking account is here. Medium crowd, predominantly men. Dim, cool lighting. Acrobats twist in the air.
The building is square with exits only on the east and west walls. Nina enters a lounge with her sister and cousin. I stand across from the roped-off section, my back against the north wall to keep both exit points within view.
I watch as my client does her best to have a good time. Her hesitant smile and minimal words tell me her discomfort. She’s more open and relaxed when wandering down a quaint street, conversing with locals in her slow, choppy Maldanian, and when she spots a bookstore with an English section. She prefers cultural experiences more than any of this.
Dread suddenly slices into me. I’m not one to pay this close attention to a person’s life unless they’re my target. I study their habits, strengths, weaknesses, looking for areas to exploit.
Nina is not my target.
Why do I have to remind myself of that? I have less control of my own mind than I thought. The muscles in my arms twitch, aching to move. The push-ups I did last night weren’t enough. I need to do more . Do something to make me feel alive.
I don’t exist to kill.
“If you’re not killing men for me, then what are you good for?”
I roll my neck, reveling in the crack. Santiago is dead. I’m alive. There’s goodness in the world—I’m looking at her now. My chest weighs with fear. How can I live up to everything she is?
Bloody memories claw the edges of my vision. No one here bore witness to what I’ve done. Nina’s curious and starting to ask more questions. Her pleads usually overpower me, but I won’t let her win this one. She can never know. My final hope of being a better man would vanish if she discovered the type of person I truly am. She looks at me like she trusts me. As if I’m someone worth trusting.
I’ll do whatever it takes for her to look at me like that forever.
I blink myself back into reality when she and her family switch to the dance floor. I shift my spot for a better view before eating a protein bar from my shirt pocket. My shift is going on fourteen hours. It’s not my longest, but I need to do little tasks to keep going. It’s best when the girls are in the same room at the hotel; Mason and I alternate so we can take breaks. I spot my coworker from the other side of the room and offer a nod.
Every now and again, a woman will saunter up to me and suggest I buy her a drink or take her dancing. I brush them off as politely and quickly as I can. I lose my manners with the more stubborn women; the only stubborn woman I want tonight doesn’t spare me a single glance. Not as she dances with her sister and not as a man approaches her. The hairs on the back of my neck rise in warning.
It’s a club, Wesley. People flirt and dance at a club.
Still, I glare at the six-foot Caucasian man with blond hair as he slides behind Nina. My chest doubles in weight when she tosses him a considering look before backing into him. His hands find her waist—the waist I’d caressed just days ago—and dip lower to her hips. My ears burn. My jaw aches from how hard I clench my teeth. Images of snapping the man’s wrists flash across my mind, followed with breaking his neck as he lowers to kiss hers.
I shut my eyes from the crushing realization that tonight, I won’t be sliding up that glittery dress and tasting every drop of her. I won’t be feeling her twitch and hearing her moan while her thighs tighten around my head as a climax overtakes her. I take a few deep breaths, my hands clasped in front of me to hide my hard-on. They dance together for the next few minutes, and I watch in agony.
A good man wouldn’t imagine all the ways he’d kill a person simply for touching his client. He wouldn’t dream of putting a bullet through said person’s throat.
Luckily, I can’t call myself a good man just yet.
A woman appears at my side, her breasts grazing my arm. I step away. She persists by shifting in front of me. I glance down into blue eyes, and before she speaks, I demand, “Leave.”
“I’m sorry?” she says, recoiling.
When I don’t reply, she mutters a slew of curse words as she walks off. I resettle my attention on Nina only to see that a second man joined them. Roughly the same build as the first, but with brown hair.
Between them, Nina stiffens. She offers a polite smile as she tries to peel the second guy’s hands off her. The first man presses her closer to his body. I take a step ahead, my hands itching to hurt someone . Again, she tries to move from between them, but they’re persistent and lost in the music. She lifts her head, gaze searching the area until she finds me. I raise a questioning brow, and at her frantic nod, I spring into action.
I cut through the crowd without caring who I bump into. The goal isn’t to kill despite my growing wish to. I slip my arm around Nina’s waist, shouldering between the man in front of her. She swiftly escapes from them, her hand wrapped around my elbow.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
She nods. “I’m fine. He wouldn’t let go.”
I fight every instinct to confront them, but my job is to protect Nina and avoid all conflict. Which is why I nearly smile when the unwanted guest claps a hand on my shoulder.
“Wait your turn,” he says in Maldanian.
The bass thumps in my chest. I look at him, studying his pointy features. “Please remove your hand from my shoulder.”
He laughs, tossing a look at his friend. Nina shifts closer to me, her arm still around my elbow. Her presence is a reminder—deescalate and leave. But the man’s hold tightens, and I think of this exact hand touching her without permission.
In a fluid motion, I contort his hand until I feel his wrist snap. He yelps, almost dropping to his knees as he cradles his broken bones. His friend rears back with a fist, but I send the knuckle of my index finger to the pressure point between his brows. His head reels back from my phoenix eye fist, so disconcerted that he collapses. Nina gasps and the crowd backs away.
Maia appears, asking what happened. When Vanessa pops up, I pull Nina aside and tell her we need to leave.
“What? Why?”
“The bouncer will more than likely kick both of us out. That will bring attention, especially with Princess Vanessa around.”
Nina doesn’t hesitate. When she grabs her things and heads to the restroom, Maia walks up to me with Mason not far behind. In heels, Maia is at least an inch taller than me.
“Are you taking her home?”
“If that’s what she wants,” I say.
“Well, are you going to take care of her? She’s drunk.”
A minute ago, I broke someone’s wrist and wounded another because they put their hands on Nina. And Maia is still ensuring that I’ll take care of her sister.
“I give you my word that she’ll return safely.”
She points a threatening finger at me. “She fucking better.”
The corner of my mouth quirks. After slipping out the private entrance, Nina latches onto my arm as we head toward the main road.
“I can’t believe you did that!”
With the amount of entitlement those two men had, they would have gone to great lengths to inconvenience my life. It isn’t a notable event to me, but she’s thrilled by it.
“You won’t get in trouble?” she asks, stumbling over the cobblestone.
I reach out to steady her. “No. He came at me first.”
She laughs. “That was so cool! You know, I punched someone before.”
“Did you, now?”
She doesn’t notice my sarcasm. Her hold on my arm tightens as she staggers over the bumpy street. I’ve seen my share of drunk women; being around any drunk person gets old fast. Not Nina. She doesn’t do this often—the fact that she can’t hold her liquor tells me so.
The road is mostly empty, considering all the shops are closed. The neighborhood is wealthy, making street crime less likely.
“I was a freshman in high school,” she begins. “Me and my friends were hanging out in a parking lot and I had Maia with me because I picked her up from school. She was only in sixth or seventh grade and this boy called her a bitch! So I punched him in the nose and it got blood everywhere . Maia was totally being a bitch but I wasn’t about to let anyone else call her that.”
I scratch the back of my neck as she presses her body weight into me with each step. For six years, I worked for one of the strongest crime bosses and arms dealers. I’ve been shot, stabbed, and done things that warrant a death penalty—and Nina’s bragging about giving a boy a bloody nose a decade ago.
Yet when she leans her head on my shoulder, a hint of contentment punctures my chest.