Chapter 11

 

Jax

 

When I get to the beach, Brando’s already hitting waves with all the determination of a man trying to win a competition. When I make my way closer to the shore, surfboard under my arm, I can see why. It’s not a trophy he’s trying to win over, but a couple of big breasted blondes in thongs you can barely see between their ample asses.

I stand beside them and watch as Marco crashes out after an over-ambitious run.

“He’s trying to impress you, you know,” I say to them, when they turn their attention towards me.

“He was doing a good a job,” the nearest one, the one with the smaller tits but longer legs says, “until you came along.”

I give them the smile, the one that’s meant to hint at future possibilities, and make my way towards the water. Brando sees me and waves me in with his bodybuilder-esque arms.

There are three reasons I love surfing. One; it keeps my body ripped and toned, two; it’s the perfect excuse to publicly show off the aforementioned body, and three; when you live on the edge as much as I do, you crave adrenaline: and this gives you a natural high you never lose your taste for, that you can’t get any other way.

It’s also the perfect chance for me and Brando to engage in a little bro-talk. On the only other occasions we see each other, there are usually several women around us – and while I’m always up for the company of women, every guy needs to exercise his full vocabulary once in a while.

I hit the water and paddle out to within thirty yards of Brando, just in time to hit a sweet wave that I ride, expertly balancing on the rolling curve, until it releases me. I slice back out into the water and turn around to see Brando do the same, though his wave’s definitely a little smaller than mine.

My hand shoots up, and I whip my head around to fling the water off my face and shout: “Mine! That set was definitely mine!”

Brando rises up from beneath the water, droplets falling off his hulking frame like a swamp thing, and curls his face into an expression that could scare a whole prison cell block.

“No fucking way, dude! That was all me! Your wave was lame!”

“Were your eyes even open when I rode it, bro?” He shakes his head, rolling his eyes.

One more thing about me and Brando, if it wasn’t completely obvious – we’re the most competitive pair of guys you’ll see outside of a boxing ring.

I never formally met Brando, but I started seeing him around about eighteen months ago, just after he moved from NYC to the LA area. Suddenly, this giant fucking Italian had started turning up in all my usual haunts. This was back when I worked alone. I didn’t need crutches, and it’s not like I was in danger of not meeting anyone. Brando was the same.

He was the new hotshot encroaching on my turf. A guy who went out looking for one thing, and never went home without it. Not that there aren’t hundreds of guys looking for the same thing, but there’s room for only one at the top. That’s me – until Brando decided he wanted that spot himself.

A spaghetti Western could be written about Brando and I dueling it out for the hottest women in LA. I’d swoop in and take home the girl he’d been talking to for the whole night as soon he went to the bathroom. He’d make for the two hottest girls in the bar the moment I looked at them.

Things got real dirty, real fast. One night, I made a move for a redhead with the body of a ballerina, only to hear that an olive-skinned guy in the corner had told her that I had a wife. I responded in kind, by telling every girl I slept with about the serial killer from New York who I believed was stalking me. Strangely, I think that helped him in some cases.

After a few months of having my style seriously cramped, and my reputation dragged through the dirt, I was beginning to focus more on beating Brando than on snagging a beautiful girl to fuck sweetly in a public place – not that the two things were mutually exclusive.

It ended the only way it could. In a fight.

One minute we were surrounded by a group of dancers, out for the night in their ripped, revealing concert clothes, the next, we were verbally sparring across a thumping dancefloor.

Brando, being the hothead that he is, threw the first punch, of course. Right-hooking a fist the size of Thor’s hammer, and about twice as powerful. At least, I assume it would have felt that way, if I hadn’t ducked easily out of the way.

Brando is big, and strong. He orders family combos when he eats alone, consistently rips his shirts ‘accidentally’ when he flexes, and when he smacks a girl’s ass, it makes her tits jiggle.

What I’m saying is that Brando fights tough – but I can fight clever.

Even hard punches can’t hurt if they don’t hit. After ducking and weaving like LA’s best-dressed Ali impersonator, landing some lucky hits that probably did more damage to my fists than Brando’s jaw, he decides to stop with the games, picks me up like a bag of groceries, and tosses me onto a set of tables.

Once the bouncers are done throwing us both out of the bar, Brando walks over to me as I’m picking glass out of my bloody hands, and sits on the curb beside me, ice pack on his jaw.

“You fight like a pussy,” he says, through clenched teeth.

“You throw like a girl,” I reply.

After a minute of silence, he looks at me and offers his hand.

“Brando.”

“I know,” I say, offering my non-bloody hand. “Jax.”

“Yeah,” he says, taking it and squeezing the shit out of it. “I know.”

From that day on, we teamed up – but only when it came to women. Whether it’s a surfboard, a tennis racquet, or a checkers board, Brando and I still fight like our lives depend on it.

After about an hour of surfing, we make our way back to the beach. Brando’s gaze is fixed on the two blondes like they’ll disappear if he looks away. As we step onto the beach, without looking at me, he says:

“Where you been, Wilder? I haven’t seen you at the bar in days.”

“I’ve been seeing a girl,” I say, casually, though I know what Brando’s reaction will be.

He spins his head away from the blondes, and looks at me – eyes twice as big, mouth open so wide I can see his tonsils, and I swear even his nostrils flare up.

“What?! Wait wait wait wait,” he raises a hand, as if he’s interrupting me. “What?!”

“I’ve been seeing a girl,” I repeat, toweling off my hair.

“Holy shit, are you kidding me, bro?” Brando’s accent goes so Brooklyn I can almost smell the coffee and bagels.

“You remember the brunette, from a few nights ago? Backless dress?”

Brando looks up. This is his party trick. Numbers, names, nights – Brando remembers like he’s got a hard drive stuck in his head.

“The night I had a chocolate sundae? And you had a long tall drink of platinum gold?”

That’s how he does it. No. I don’t understand it either.

“Well yeah, but I got together with the brunette later.”

“Damn,” Brando says, clutching his towel like he forgot how to use it. “And now you’re dating?”

“No. We’re not dating. It’s just… not the usual thing.”

Brando looks at his towel like there might be an explanation written on it, then back at me. “Don’t tell me you’re in love.”

“Fuck no!”

“She pregnant? You marrying her? You got to use condoms, bro.”

“Pregnant? In three days?” I smirk at Brando but he’s shaking his head.

Today is officially day three—which means that after tonight, I still have four more days ahead of me, four more days of the most intense teaching, teasing, and fucking I can imagine. Now I have to push away about a billion images of Lizzie naked and moaning, her long legs spread wide open for me, because the last thing I want is to end up stranded out here on the beach with a tent in my boardshorts.

“It’s not serious,” I insist.

Brando raises his arms like he’s imploring the good Lord for answers. “Then what the fuck is it, dude?”

“If you shut up and pass me a beer maybe I can tell you.”

Brando reaches into the cooler and passes me a bottle. We sit on the towels. I check out the blondes – they must come to the beach often, they know all the right ways to sit.

“She’s only been with one guy. Christ knows how with a body like hers. A boyfriend she had since high school. A couple of days ago, she breaks up with him, and gets with me.”

“Shit!” Brando says, taking a swig that drains half his beer bottle.

“That’s not even the interesting part. After she gets with me, she – get this – asks me to teach her how to fuck. She wants to know everything. Wants to be able to please any man she comes across, so when she meets the next guy she likes, she’ll be able to keep him.”

Brando slaps a big hand on his forehead and laughs so loud the blondes almost laugh along with him.

“Dude! I swear a saw a porno with that plot once! Why the fuck does that shit never happen to me?”

“There it is,” I shrug.

“I got one question for you though,” Brando says, dropping his laugh and getting serious. “How many times you fucked her?”

It takes me a while to think. “Four, five… Maybe six times.”

“And you’re not bored of her yet?” Brando says, like a lawyer who’s been waiting to stick the killer question.

“It’s not going to last forever. When it’s done, it’s done. And anyway, she’s pretty smart. Sharp. Funny as hell. Most important thing is that she’s sexy as all hell. Doesn’t demand anything from me, got some spark in her.”

Brando is shaking his head.

“What?” I say, confrontationally.

Brando chuckles like I’m a lost cause. “Last time I heard a guy describe a girl like that, he got married within a week. This is serious, dude.”

“Not serious.”

“Way serious.”

I shake my head at how wrong he is. “Wouldn’t you like a girl like that? A girl willing to do whatever you want? Anything you can think of.”

“Dude,” Brando says, leaning forward like I’m about to hear some secret society wisdom, “we already live like that.”

I laugh.

“Tell me one thing,” Brando says, “are you looking forward to seeing her again?”

“Yeah, I am.”

Brando groans, gets up, and starts walking towards the ocean.

“Where you going?” I shout.

Brando walks backwards, thumbing over his shoulder towards the water. “I think my bro Jax is still out there in the sea. I don’t know who you are, but don’t take any more of my beers, ok dude?”

He spins around and continues walking. He’s not going to the sea, he’s heading for the blondes.

I take a gulp of beer and shake my head as I witness Brando’s beach lothario routine. That went pretty much as I expected.

My phone rings and I reach over to get it. When I see that it’s Lizzie, I pretend to myself that I’m not really fucking glad. Shit. I’m embarrassing myself and there’s nobody around.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey, Jax.”

I pause before speaking. “You sound nervous. What’s up?”

“Do I? Ugh, I dunno.”

This is not what I want to hear. This is the kind of abstract thing women say in relationships. This is the kind of unspoken feeling that doesn’t involve lust. After Brando’s teasing, this feels like a blow to the head.

But damn. Is there another girl who can sound so fucking sexy even when she ain’t saying much at all?

“Listen,” I say, taking control, “pack some clothes. I’ll take you somewhere this weekend. We’ll get natural in all senses. Commit a few sins in our own garden of Eden.”

I hear her sigh through a smile on the other end. “That sounds amazing. But… I have commitments.”

I’m not fazed. I’ve seen this hard-to-get act plenty of times before. “I had you down as someone afraid of commitment. Does this commitment trump a burning fireplace, bearskin rug, and two incredibly sexy people seeing who can hold out the longest?”

She laughs sexily, but I can still detect a note of tension in it. “I have to go to a wedding. It’s a mutual friend.”

“Mutual? I know him?”

“Mutual between me and Brody. Meaning that I’ll have to stand around being verbally stoned just out of earshot, while I watch my boyfriend enjoy a lot of sympathy flirting. If I survive – and it really is a big ‘if’ – then maybe we can meet the next day?”

I take a moment to think – but I don’t really need to think about it. I’ll take any opportunity to be with Lizzie. Instead, I check that Brando is still occupied with the blondes, and say: “How about I just come along to this wedding with you? And in exchange for me doing you a solid, you can do me. A solid.”

“What?”

“I’ll come with you. It’s just a wedding. It’s like going to a bar, but the dresses are longer, and the women are twice as drunk and three times as desperate.”

“Really? You don’t have to.”

“Sure, it’ll be fun.” I crack open another beer and watch Brando touch one of the blondes on the upper arm as she types her number into his phone.

Lizzie lets out a huge sigh of relief. “Oh my God. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. There’s still one condition.”

She pauses a moment before timidly saying, “What is it?”

“Don’t wear any panties.”

This time there’s no hesitation. “Deal.”

“And one more thing—you’re gonna meet me at a club tonight. You sound way too stressed right now, and we can’t have any of that.”

“Oh, really. And so you’re planning to show me how to work it off?” she teases.

“No,” I say. “You’re gonna show me.”

 

We meet just after dinner, and I smile from my seat at the ultra-modern frosted glass bar as I see Lizzie walk in wearing exactly the right kind of dress for dancing— not too low-cut for her to let loose on the dance floor, but just snug enough to show off her mind-blowing curves. And it’s black. I take another swallow of my drink and head toward her.

“You’re looking less stressed already,” I say as I meet her near the door. “See how good I am for you?”

“Very,” she admits, glancing around at the elegant upscale décor anxiously. “So what’s the lesson? What am I supposed to show you?”

I pull her body close against mine, letting my fingers trace lightly over the curve of her ass, and whisper in her ear, “How you move.”

She draws herself back, quirking an eyebrow. “You’re just going to watch me dance? Like, all by myself?”

Behind her, the dance floor is packed. It’s not like at the bar—the people here aren’t just blowing off steam with their friends or prowling for the first one-night stand they can find. Their movements are controlled, calculating, and completely focused as their bodies press into each other. The pounding bass from the music throbs in their chests and between their legs. It’s a subtle difference, but I can tell by Lizzie’s face that she senses it.

“Dancing isn’t the only way to seduce a man from across the room, Lizzie,” I explain. “But I’m not gonna spell it out for you. Now get out there and make me want you.”

She narrows her eyes and then smiles. “I’m on it, coach.”

Then she grabs my drink and gulps down a healthy portion of it before shoving the nearly-empty glass back in my hand and sauntering towards the dance floor. That’s my girl.

Lizzie dances alone, hesitant at first, lost in the crowd. I know she’s got all the right moves—hell, I’ve seen them in action—but right now it looks like she’s forgotten all of them.

“Hey, stud,” a voice behind me purrs. “Haven’t seen you around here in a while.”

I look over my shoulder and see a tall redhead eyeing me up and down over the rim of her cocktail. She’s vaguely familiar, and then I get a flashback of a stall in the men’s room, the sound of this woman’s theatrical moans, and a not-so-polite request to leave by security. Oh, and one hell of a hangover the next day. But hooking up with some random chick is the last thing on my mind tonight.

“I’ve been busy,” I say. “You know how it is. Never a free moment.”

When I glance over at Lizzie, I see a young guy sporting a silver shirt and an obscene amount of hair gel getting way too close to her, grinding against my girl like he’s at some trashy club—and she’s letting him.

“Sounds rough,” the redhead says. “Though I do know a few ways you could blow off some steam.” She stares at me again, totally direct, tonguing the straw in her drink.

“Sorry, but I’m not here solo,” I tell her, sliding off my stool. “You enjoy your night.”

I make my way back over to Lizzie, cutting through the churning bodies like a shark through water. Hair Gel must notice me heading over, because by the time I reach Lizzie the guy is long gone.

“What was that?” I ask.

“What do you mean?” Lizzie replies. “I was showing you my moves!”

I shake my head and put my arm around her, guiding her back through the dancers and over to the bar. She orders a bottled water, but I signal the bartender for another scotch.

“What’d I do wrong?” Lizzie asks. As she crosses her legs, her dress rides up her thigh just enough to distract me, but I quickly look back into her frustrated face and tuck a stray lock of her hair back into place.

“You froze out there. You gotta look like you’re having fun, like the other night.”

“That was different,” Lizzie protests. “I was out with my friends. Tonight I’m alone.” She gulps down her water, and I watch her throat as she swallows. The sight of it sends a shot of heat straight to my cock, and I lean closer to her.

“Look. First off, you’re never alone when there’s a man watching you,” I say. “And second, if you can’t be sexy as fuck all by yourself, how’s a guy gonna know you are? Make me hard, Lizzie.”

Lizzie quickly gets up, and I see her hot determination to make me sweat.

After that, I see a real change on the dance floor. Lizzie’s swiveling her hips to the music, dancing like nobody’s business, catching my eye every few minutes to shoot me a come-hither stare. Other women cast envious glances her way, and more than a few men approach her, but she ignores them all. It’s like my own private show, except she’s in the middle of a crowded dance floor. When the song stops, she tugs at the front of her dress and blows down at her cleavage to cool off. I’m floored.

There’s another guy making his way toward her from across the floor. But I’m faster.

“Some additional rules to keep in mind,” I tell her as I pull her body against me. I see the interloper make a sharp turn toward a more available woman, though she’s not as hot as Lizzie is.

“I’m listening,” she says, turning around to dance against me, playfully grinding her ass against my thigh.

“If a guy wants to dance with you and you don’t like it, you can say no.”

“I know that,” she says, turning back towards me to wrap an arm around my neck. Her eyes are shining and she’s breathing hard, her breasts heaving against my chest. I nuzzle her neck as we dance, taking in the scent of her skin, her perfume, her sweat.

“And if he starts to make a move and you don’t like it, say no to that, too. Remember: you’re in control, at all times. You call the shots. That’s what the real turn-on is.”

“But what if I do like it?” she asks, whispering into my ear, making the hair on the back of my neck rise. “What if I want it, too?”

“Even more reason to say no,” I tell her. “Nothing’s gonna make a guy want you more than a little resistance. Trust me.”

I draw back and use my thumb to tilt her chin until her lips meet mine. I expect her to resist like I just told her, but instead she kisses me back like she’s been waiting for it all night and I’m hit with the energy in her tongue, the raw need of her mouth, the way her hands tighten around my neck as our body heat meshes together. Finally our kiss eases a little.

“People are looking,” Lizzie says in between stroking my tongue with hers.

“That’s the whole point,” I tell her, pulling her even closer. “When it comes to PDA, you should know that some guys really get off on other people watching.”

She laughs and then attacks my mouth with renewed enthusiasm. I don’t mind. I can feel the other dancers moving all around us, but for a moment it’s like we’re the only people in the room. I slide my hands from her waist to cup her ass, and she moans right into my mouth. There’s no doubt she’s feeling my hard-on pressing into her crotch, and I know I need to restrain myself before something indecent happens in the middle of this floor.

When I pull away, I’m almost dizzy.

“We’re leaving,” I say. “Something’s come up.”

Lizzie brushes her knuckles against my straining fly with a smirk. “I could tell.”

Visions of the rest of our night are already flashing before my eyes as I lead her out of the club and back outside, where the cool night air gives me a gorgeous view of Lizzie’s rock hard nipples through the thin fabric of her dress. When the valet leaves to get our cars, I notice there’s a wicked grin playing across Lizzie’s face.

“So what’d you learn tonight?” I ask her.

“How to be sexy as fuck all by myself, that it’s good to say no, and that I’m always in control,” she recites. “And how to do PDA.”

“Owning it,” I tell her, a note of pride in my voice.

The valet pulls up with my Testarossa, and a moment later another one drives up behind the Ferrari with Lizzie’s sedan.

“Follow me back to my place,” I tell her.

“No,” she says. But she’s smiling. I smile back.

“You’re a fast learner,” I say. “And you are the boss tonight. Should I follow you back to my place, then?”

She shakes her head. “I mean it, Jax. I have to get up early for the wedding. It’s already after midnight, so…” Lizzie shrugs, that sexy grin back on her face.

“Come on. I was going to give you an oral exam.” She giggles, but crosses her arms and shakes her head no. I press her. “You can leave early in the morning to get ready—”

“Nope. I am not going home with you tonight.” For a moment her smile falters, and I see her wavering. But then she’s all steel again. “I’ll make it up to you tomorrow. We can call it extra credit.”

For a second, I don’t say a word. This shouldn’t matter to me, but I’m feeling something I haven’t felt in a long time: disappointment. But that can’t be right. Jax Wilder softens for no woman. And besides, I can’t argue with my own logic. Even if my balls are bluer than a blue jay.

Thirty minutes later I get a text: I’m home. How’d I do tonight?

A+, all the way. Sleep tight, I text back before crawling into bed. My half-hearted attempts at jerking off don’t work their usual magic. I give up after a few minutes, frustrated that I’m not thrusting into Lizzie’s hot body, listening to the sounds of her moans.

It takes a long time to fall asleep with the memory of her gorgeous body dancing through my brain. Even if she did give me the brush-off at the end of the night.

And damn if I don’t want her even more now.