First Time Rush (Worth The Wait #1)

Chapter 1

Decker

A nother girl, another firing. That's how my week is going.

"It was just a hand job." Claudia rolls her eyes, and her fake lashes brush her tattooed brows. "That's barely even anything. I didn't even kiss him, for chrissake."

Her eyes dart to the corners of the room as if not looking at me will change the outcome of what’s about to happen.

"You know the rules," I say, fighting the urge to lecture her like a daughter instead of fire her like an employee.

Believe it or not, it hurts me every time I have to do this. I want to help them all, but in the end, they have to want it. I can't do it for them.

"I'm great at hand jobs. I got him off in like twenty seconds." Claudia pouts. "It's almost like shaking someone's hand. Would you fire Allister for shaking hands with one of the clients?"

Allister, my right-hand man, cuts in. "Congratulations on your skill set. And no, it is not like shaking hands. Did you wear a rubber glove?" His voice is always low, but when he's disappointed, it drops to something like a bass drum learning to speak.

He's pissed. He's the one who talked me into hiring her. I told him she wouldn't take it seriously. Looks like I was right. No pleasure in being right about this kind of thing.

I press my middle fingers into my temples. The lights in here drive ball-peen hammers into my skull.

I glance down at the open employee folder on my desk, then scan around the room. The office is all white. Some would say too white. Too cold. Not me.

Neatly stacked pillars of white boxes line one wall, labeled and color-coded by unpacking priority.

One of the girls asked me yesterday my favorite color.

When I told her ‘white’, she snorted, said that's not a color.

I disagree. White is clean, pure, without blemish.

My house is the same way, and I've lived there five years.

I haven't had time to make any of it anything else.

I re-focus on the task at hand.

Claudia.

Allister is my GM. And my best friend. Heart of gold inside a body the size of Texas. The stark lights reflect off his bald head as he shakes it, running a hand back and forth over it, staring at Claudia as she inspects her shimmering pink nails.

This is my club. My rules. The girls dance, they don't strip. They wear barely anything to start with, but nothing comes off, and every customer’s hands stay where I can see them.

But in this environment, today it's a hand job, tomorrow a blowjob, next week one of my girls is in the back of some asshole's car with her face bruised. I've seen it. I won't have it.

"So, I'm done?" Claudia juts out her hip and finally settles her vitriol on me.

"You're firing me? This is total bullshit.

One hand job and one joint, that's all it was.

And now you're firing me? I didn't even smoke it here, for chrissake.

You can't tell me what I can do on my own time.

This place is turning into the damn Westlake Baptist Church. "

I hold up her file. "Yep, you're done. You signed the contract.

School, no drugs, no drinking, don't touch the customers.

You fucked up." I shrug and close the file.

"I don't fire people, Claudia. They fire themselves.

Get your stuff out of your locker. We'll send you a month's pay to get on your feet.

Allister will walk you out. I wish you the best."

I lean back in my chair. My temples are still pounding, and my stomach is eating itself. One a.m. Haven't eaten since noon.

"You can suck my ass!" Claudia gives me one final middle finger before she stalks out the office door, Allister rolling his eyes at me as he walks behind her.

Sixteen years a Marine. Now I own nightclubs.

Funny how life turns out. I don't even drink, and strip clubs never did a damn thing for me.

But I got out, and the world doesn't have a lot of use for a retired jarhead with no taste for desk work, so this is what I built.

Monarch was the first. Four more after that.

This one, Monarch V, opened a month ago.

Every girl who walks through my door — and I do mean every one — gets the same offer.

Stick to the rules, and I'll cover whatever they need to get out of whatever they're in.

Rehab, attorneys, GEDs, college tuition.

I've bashed in a few pimps' faces along the way, too, when they came around looking to collect what they thought belonged to them.

Some of my girls are lawyers now. PTA mothers. Social workers. One's a fucking pediatrician. I keep every Christmas card.

The low bass from the floor bleeds through the open office door. I'm usually gone by midnight. Tonight I'm not. Tuesday is tryout night. Girls who want to dance come in, we look, we decide. I usually stick around for it.

After a few beats, Allister steps back into the office as I twist my head around on my neck, trying to relieve the pressure.

"All set?" I ask.

"Yeah. That girl is — colorful. Had some unique parting words for you." He licks his lips, then adds, "And me."

I shrug. "Yeah? I wish her well. A shame." My stomach roars again, and I push my chair back and stand up.

"You done for tonight?" Allister shoves his hands in his pockets, regarding me with a wry smile.

"I think so. Anyone else coming in tonight?" I straighten the papers on my desk and slide them into a drawer.

My Dunhill pen goes in next. The staff chipped in and bought it for me at Christmas. I'm a hard fuck to buy for, don't want for much, but I appreciate quality and rarity. That pen is the best fucking pen in the world.

"A few gals are still here to try out." Allister reaches for his back pocket and pulls out three Polaroids, flipping through them. He squints at my face. "You get some ice on that?"

"It's fine."

"Uh huh. You're not twenty anymore. Next time, call for backup."

A throb pulses under my left eye where I took a punch earlier tonight.

It will be purple by morning. Some asshole grabbed one of my girls by the hair on the floor and dragged her toward the bathroom hallway before a bouncer even moved.

I moved. The asshole got three of his friends in on it before it was over, and I came out with this bruise and a split knuckle. They came out worse.

"I got the job done."

"You know we hire bouncers for that shit. You take on three at a time, old man, just at least let me stand behind you. Got it?"

"I haven't lost a fight yet, have I? Who got carried out of here calling for their mommy? Me? Nope." I'm pissed because if the bouncers had been doing their jobs, I wouldn't have had to. "New subject."

Allister stares at me, then nods. He knows when I'm not messing around. "No problem." He flicks one of the pictures against his palm, black Sharpie scrawled across the white strip at the bottom of the photo.

He steps toward me, ready to show me the photos, but I'm already moving, coming around the desk. I grab my briefcase off the floor before he can get close, taking my jacket off the hook, marching for the door.

"Here." He jabs the photos toward me as I work my way to the door.

I take them without looking. Tryouts don't move me. None of them do. Never have. I don't even remember the last time I jerked off. That's a story for another day.

I'm too tired to care who's standing on the other side of that door. I roll my shoulders back anyway. I love the money I make, but I want it to matter. I want to make a difference in someone's life. That's what gets me off.

There's a tug on the skin of my chest as the muscles stretch over the scars, reminding me of why I retired from the military. I roll my neck again, still trying to loosen the tightness as we near the end of the hall.

"I can handle it, boss," Allister says from just behind my left shoulder, sensing my fatigue.

"Just get your food, take off, leave it to me.

Two of these girls look like they won't last a day with your rules anyway.

And the third?" He makes a noise in his throat.

"She looks like she's never been outside her nursery before.

Got a rack on her, though. Ass for days.

Thick. I guarantee she's never seen the inside of a club before. "

I grunt. Allister looks. He doesn't touch. Never has.

"Who's on the door tonight?" I ask, rubbing my chin.

"Buzz," he says with a huff.

"He's on his last warning."

My men work here as gentlemen, or they don't work here. Buzz thinks the place is his personal pussy buffet. It isn't.

"Yeah, I know. He's trying my patience, and there isn't much of that to begin with. When that little doe arrived, I gave him the stare. He was looking at her like she was a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken."

I bring the photos up into my line of vision.

I shoulder open the swinging door. The bright hallway light dies. The dim flash of the bar takes over. I glance down at the top photo —

And someone shoves a taser down my pants.

There she is, standing across the room, the same face as the one in the picture. Arms crossed, eyes darting around like she's just landed on Mars.

I know it's impossible, but I swear I can smell her. Some long-forgotten scent bombarding me with want for a tiny, lush stranger.

My pace quickens. I'm cutting a beeline for the three girls where Allister parked them. Except I only see one.

"I got this, old man." Allister urges me to make my way home. "Like I said, that little one isn't half-bad, it's just—"

"Shut up." The anger in my voice shocks me.

All he's doing is talking about her, and I'm ready to turn against my best friend.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I don't want anyone's eyes on her. Not his. Not a customer. Not Buzz. Especially not Buzz. She's here to dance half-naked for a roomful of men, and that thought has me ready to split heads.

"I'll send the other two home. I'll talk to this one." I look down at the picture in my hand, then back up.

My cock is filling my pants, a thing that has not happened, not once, in all the years I've been around these girls.

Whoever this little thing is, she's moved things inside me I wasn't sure were still alive.

Blood rushes through my ears, blocking out the music and the bar. Heat radiates from my core. I'm drawn into a vortex of something long forgotten. I want her in ways I didn't realize I could want. Some primal part of me stirs, and I know what I've been waiting for.

Right here.

Right now.

She's mine.

I just have to go tell her.