Page 25 of Black Sheep

“You’re wasting your time and mine if all you called for is to preach hearts and flowers and forgiveness, Bolton. I’ve stated my terms. No more visits from anyone. No more fucking phone calls.”

“Or what?” he snaps.

My silence is loud enough as I turn away to select a pair of tailored pants from the hanger. He’s still there because I hear him taking deep breaths. Regrouping. Which is surprising. The brother I knew before would have hung up by now. For all his peacemaking tendencies, Bolton’s short attention span is usually shorter when he’s stressed.

The hairs on my nape sizzle to attention as I listen to him take another breath. “You may not want to know or care, but shit is heading south fast, brother. Putting yourself between him and the Armenians was the wrong move. Now the fucking Albanians too? Jesus, Axel, the moment the Bratva get wind of it, they’ll pull out too. Pa will go apeshit.”

I’m counting on it.

“Things are getting unpredictable around here,” Bolton continues. “For everyone. You think you’re a fucking island because you washed your hands off us years ago? Well, you’re not. Shit can blow back on you in a thousand different ways. When it does, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“We’re done here, Bolton. Goodbye.” This time I don’t hesitate to end the call.

* * *

Despite my need to forget, Bolton’s words ricochet around in my head as the petite, curvy redhead I picked up an hour ago performs a curious switch between grinding against and climbing my leg. When my hand slides around her waist, her face all but lights with joy as her gyrations intensify.

I drain the shot of Balvenie whisky in my glass and nod to my private bartender for a refill.

“Are you going to put the drink down and dance with me?” the redhead whispers sultrily in my ear, long false lashes promising any- and everything I desire.

My free hand slides into her over-teased hair. I tighten my grip hard enough to get her attention. She stops moving, a soft gasp leaving her lips.

“Are you enjoying my VIP lounge, doll? Do you want to stay up here all night long?” I ask, struggling to temper my tone.

She nods eagerly. “Oh yes, I do. You have no idea how many times I’ve been here, hoping you would invite me to—”

“Then don’t fucking talk.”

Her mouth drops open then she blinks. “I…what?”

“You really want me to repeat myself?”

Her mouth clamps shut, and she shakes her head. Wide, increasingly excited eyes slide from my face to my clenched jaw to the glass in my hand and back to my face. She’s a closet danger whore, one I didn’t spot before now. Before coming to XYNYC, I did a passing tour through my other three New York nightclubs.

Viper Red and Viper Black cater to the edgier clientele and I could’ve had easy pickings of women who welcome my darker proclivities. But for some reason, I wasn’t in the mood for that.

My Harlem club, Playhouse X, was equally lacking. I realized why when I spotted a blonde with a passing resemblance to Cleo, and my pulse kicked up a notch. Furious with myself, I went with the redhead. Jerking off to Cleo’s image is one thing; actively seeking her out in other women is unacceptable.

I stare down at the redhead, and I wonder if I picked her out of the many available women tonight because she managed to hide her true intentions until now. As I’m idly musing what I’m going to do about it, she sways closer, an eager smile curving her burgundy-colored lips. Her fingers tiptoe up my chest. After exploring for a short spell, she slides one hand over my nape, the other reaching for the glass of Dom Pérignon she’s knocking back with almost comical greed.

She grinds against my thigh hard enough for me to feel her pelvic bone. Beneath her burnt-orange cocktail dress, her nipples pucker to hard, visible points.

I take a beat to collate her attributes.

Lush breasts. Perky ass. Fuckable mouth, if painted in too garish a color. I bend my head and inhale her scent. The smell of wet arousal hits my nostrils.

Ready, warm, willing pussy.

I wait for all of the above to pleasantly coalesce and work its way to the cock that was semi-hard a couple of hours ago. Nothing. Zero interest.

I haven’t fucked in…hell, almost three weeks. It isn’t an unthinkable record for me, but it is a disturbing one given that I didn’t make abstinence a clear choice and fucking is a great and regular stress releaser for me.

Almost three weeks…

Ever since Cleo’s first visit.

“Fuck.” The curse is loud and vicious enough to earn a worried glance from the redhead, even though she’s exploring more of my body than I’ve given her permission to.

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