Grind (One Night Book 2) Read online

  Level 2 is our exclusive VIP lounge. It’s where my A-listers prefer to party. 1:1 bottle service. Strict security. Private dance floor. Big ticket DJs. If you’re looking for visual entertainment, you can request one of my dancers from the upper levels to give you a private performance.

  Ring-side seats to the circus without having to shovel the shit.

  Most people would take an upgrade like that and run.

  Not Briana.

  Most people would make the mistake of thinking it’s because she’s a shallow, entitled brat who wouldn’t know how to be grateful if Gandhi himself where giving lessons is gratitude. They’d be wrong though. Briana isn’t entitled, though she’d have every right to be.

  She’s smart.

  She feels the strings, even if she can’t see them.

  Fuck.

  I pull out my cell phone.

  Me: Get your ass to

  Level 2. Now.

  Bri: Who is this?

  Gritting my teeth, I reply.

  Me: You know damn

  well who it is, sugar.

  Level 2. Now.

  Bri: Why?

  Because I fucking said so, goddamned it.

  Me: Because this isn’t

  a place for a girl like you

  and Kyle would never

  forgive me if I let

  something happen to

  you. Level 2.

  Now, please.

  That’s it. Use your baby brother as an excuse. It’s not you who’s being over-protective and unreasonable. It’s Kyle’s fault. Not yours.

  When she doesn’t answer me, I think I’m going to have to go downstairs and throw her ass over my shoulder to get her there myself but then my phone buzzes in my hand.

  Bri: Fine. But I’d like

  to talk to you.

  Face to face.

  Double fuck.

  Me: Okay. Let me take

  Care of a few things

  and then I’ll swing by

  your table.

  Bri: Fine.

  I have no intention of swinging by anything. I’m stalling her, and she knows it. She proves it by sending a final text.

  Bri: You have 30

  minutes before

  I start looking

  for you.

  I toss my phone onto my desk and rub a hand over my face. “Get a two-man detail on—”

  Ophelia holds her finger up, stopping me from finishing my request. Whatever she’s hearing in her headset has her frowning. Finally she speaks. “I’m with Mr. Carver right now. Stand by.” She looks at me, frowning slightly. “Kyle is at the door, demanding a private room on Level 3.”

  Triple fuck.

  Of course he is.

  Seven

  Briana

  2015

  Keaton and I talked for hours. About Claire and how hard it’s been for me to be away from her. About his brother, Kyle. How he pretty much raised him after their parents died in a car accident.

  It was after midnight before he finally checked his watch and stood. “It’s getting pretty late, sugar.” He said, stacking my basket of folded laundry over his. “Let’s get you home.”

  He walked me to my door and for the briefest of possible seconds, it felt like he was going to kiss me. Like we’d been on a date. Not just folding clean clothes while teased me about drinking cucumber water. A real date.

  Suddenly the tension between us was so thick, so hot, I felt my lungs swell in my chest. My tongue glues itself to the roof of my mouth. I’ve never been like this around a guy before. Never. Guys are easy. What they want has never been a mystery. The only question is whether I want to give it to them or not.

  God, his eyes are gorgeous. I didn’t notice them when I looked up from my pity party to find him standing over me, but I almost swallowed my tongue when he sat down next to me on the couch and offered me a beer. A deep, bright blue with just a hint of green that crinkle at the corners a bit when he smiles for real. I have a feeling those are rare. That he doesn’t give them to just anyone.

  Again, I have the feeling he knows exactly what I’m thinking. That it makes me common. Throws me in league with every other woman who’s ever looked at him. My roommates still aren’t home, and I have to practically bite tongue in half to keep myself from inviting him inside because I have a feeling he expects that too and if I do it, I’ll end up disappointing him somehow.

  Clearing his throat, he hands me my laundry basket as soon as I have my front door open. “You do your wash every Tuesday.” He says it like he’s confirming a state secret and I nod, cocking my hip a little to prop my basket on it while I work my keys out of the door.

  “I do,” I say, giving him a quick smile. “The crying fits I try to keep to a minimum.”

  He gives me a smile. A real smile and it nearly stops my heart. “Sweet dreams, sugar.”

  I shut the door between us but spy on him through the peephole. He doesn’t walk away until he hears me lock my door.

  That was a week ago and I haven’t talked to him since. I’ve seen him around, though. Checking his mail. Riding the elevator. Picking up a package from the front desk in the lobby. Day or night, he’s wearing sunglasses. A baseball cap tugged low over his face. Sometimes with a backpack slung over his shoulder. He doesn’t stop me or say hello, but I know he sees me. Knows I’m there. I can feel his eyes on me, watching me from behind dark lenses.

  “Maybe he’s a contract killer.”

  I look at Amelia and laugh. “What?”

  “Your boyfriend—Keats.” When I don’t do anything but look at her, she rolls her eyes and flips the page of the magazine she lifted from the lobby. “I mean, don’t you wonder what he does for a living?” She cocks her head and shrugs. “It must be pretty lucrative if can afford to live in a place like this without a roommate.”

  “He’s not a contract killer.” I say. As usual, it’s Tuesday afternoon and I’m by the pool, trying to get some sun and some peace and quiet and Amelia is underfoot. “And he’s not my boyfriend. He’s not even my type.” Saying it reminds me of what Keaton said to me in the elevator that night.

  No worries, sugar. You’re not my type.

  “Honey—you need to have your eyes checked because that man is everyone’s type.”

  “Well, not mine.” I shake my head, even though saying it makes me a big fat liar. “I like my men—”

  “Men? When have you ever dated a man?” Amelia laughs at me. “You date boys who let you lead them around by their dicks until you get tired of them and toss them aside.”

  “I do not.” Another lie, and I know it, so I give her a hard smack on her ass. “Just because I’m into clean-cut gentlemen instead of tattooed meatheads doesn’t mean I—”

  “Owww.” She swats back at me with her magazine and sits up. “Yes you do. I’d like to be a fly on the wall if a man like 8J ever got his hands on you. You’d probably explode.”

  “You’re a horrible person.” That’s my big comeback because everything coming out of Amelia’s mouth is the truth. She has an annoying habit of being right and right now, I hate her for it. “Can we stop talking about our neighbor?”

  “As soon as you admit you like him.” Amelia lies back on the large, circular chaise we’re camped out on and slips on her sunglasses.

  I feel a twinge of guilt. “I thought you liked him,” I say, turning my head so I can look at her.

  “Oh, no, honey, I like looking at him.” Amelia hooks a finger around the bridge of her shades and pulls them down her nose just enough to show me her wide hazel eyes. “Besides, the way the two of you have been eye-balling each other all week.” She shakes her head at me and pushes her glasses back into place. “I’m not getting in the middle of that. No way.”

  I do like him. Keaton might look the part but he’s nothing like I expected him to be. Nothing like his first impression implied. Yes, he’s cocky and can be a raging asshole when he wants to be, but he’s also a gentleman. And sweet. Not that I’d ever say any
of that out loud. “He’s… okay.” I give her a non-committal shrug and she laughs. “What? He is.”

  “Okay? The hot as fuck, tattooed assassin in 8J is okay.” She gives me a wide grin. “And totally your boyfriend.”

  “I hate you.” I sigh and roll over, facing away from her so she can’t see me smile.

  Eight

  Keaton

  I bought laundry soap.

  Standing in the middle of the laundry aisle, facing down a wall of brightly colored boxes and bottles made me wish I paid closer attention to my mom while I had her here. What kind of laundry soap she used. How she managed to get the grass stains out of my football uniforms. Asked her what she put in her sweet tea to make it taste so good.

  Tell her I’m sorry for being such a selfish dick when she was alive.

  In the end, I grab a random box off the shelf and toss it in my basket because I’m twenty-seven fucking years old and doing adult shit shouldn’t be so goddamned hard.

  I’ve seen Briana around. Coming home from class. Leaving for a night out with friends. On her way up to the pool. She smiles, and I smile back but that’s it. I don’t approach her. I don’t talk to her. Not because I don’t want to but because I have no intention of getting involved with her. Anything more than a neighborly wave would give her the wrong impression.

  When I met her by the pool that first time, I had her pegged all wrong. Fake smile. Fake tits.

  Fake everything in between.

  There’s nothing fake about Briana St. James.

  She’s sassy.

  Damn, that woman is as sassy as they come.

  And smart. A hell of a lot smarter than me and not afraid to let me know it.

  I enjoyed talking to her. Can’t remember the last time I had a conversation with a woman that didn’t involve rules.

  Cans and can’ts.

  Dos and don’ts.

  I didn’t realize how much I missed it until we were standing at her front door and she’s looking at me like she’s on the verge of inviting me in and I couldn’t let her do that.

  I couldn’t, because if she did, I’d have accepted, so fast her head would’ve spun clean off her shoulders.

  I couldn’t because I like her. Damnit, I like her and that means I have no fucking clue on what to do with her. I know what I want to do. What my instincts start screaming at me to do, every time I see her, but that’s a whole different animal I can’t let off its lead.

  So I decided that was that. I chalked it up to a late-night, laundry room chat with my new neighbor and resolved to let it end there.

  Next thing I know, it’s Tuesday afternoon and I’m standing in the laundry aisle, when I should be home, sleeping off another round of weekend shifts.

  It’s a box of soap, chief—not a box of condoms.

  Still, I look at it on my kitchen counter, just to make sure.

  “Are you an assassin?”

  The question comes out of nowhere and is asked is such a forthright manner that I nearly choke on my cucumber water. I’d been teasing her about drinking it all night until she finally informed me that I’m not allowed to make fun of her for things I’ve never tried. For the record, cucumber water is pretty damn good.

  “Am I a what?” I push it out around a watery cough, managing to get it out without drowning myself.

  “Assassin.” She takes my glass of water from my hand, frowning at me like I’m avoiding the question when what I’m actually doing is trying to figure out what the hell she’s talking about. “Amelia says you’re something and the more I think about it, the more I think she’s right. I hardly ever see you around during the day. I’ve never seen you leave for work or come home at a decent hour and I never see you on the weekends.” She reaches into my laundry basket and pulls out a shirt. “Every time I see you around you’re wearing a hat and sunglasses—even at night, and—”

  “And your mind automatically jumps to hitman?” I laugh. Can’t help it, even though her observations make me nervous. Tread too close to the truth. That I don’t want her to know what I do to make a living. “If you ask me, that says more about you than it does about me.”

  “Well, you’re something.” She looks up from the shirt she’s carefully folding in her lap and scowls when I laugh again. “Are we friends?”

  For some reason the question leeches my mouth dry, like I’ve got a mouthful of cotton.

  Are we friends?

  I’ve never had a female friend before but I’m pretty sure we’re not friends. Pretty sure if she were my friend, I wouldn’t be fighting the sudden urge to lay her out on this couch we’re sitting on and get between her legs.

  Don’t go there.

  Not with her.

  I give her a lopsided grin and avoid the question altogether. “Maybe I’m a vampire.”

  “Nope.” She shakes her head at me, a dark blonde brow arching over a smoky blue eye. “We met by the pool remember? You’re way too… tan to be a vampire.”

  Somehow, she manages to make tan sound like a dirty word and it goes straight to my cock.

  Shit.

  Okay…” I play along, hoping to distract myself. “Maybe I’m a drug dealer.”

  She pretends to consider it for a second before she shakes her head. “No. You’re not a drug dealer.”

  “A doctor?”

  She gives me a wry smile. “Still too tan.”

  “So, what am I then?”

  She sets my folded shirt aside and turns in her seat to look at me. We’ve been here for a while now. Long enough that she’s already talked to her sister and we’ve washed and dried our loads.

  “You tell me.”

  I could tell her.

  I should tell her.

  That would end things, right here and now. Put a stop to whatever the hell is happening between us. Because women like to look at me. Watch me. Want to touch me. They even want to fuck me, but once they find out how I earn my money, they don’t want to date me.

  Not the good ones anyway.

  That’s just the way it is.

  “I work nights,” I tell her, dragging my basket closer to reach in and fish out a pair of socks. “Weekend nights so I can have the rest of the week off.”

  “For what?” She reaches into my basket and fishes out one of my muscle shirts.

  “I’m taking some classes.” I say it to the pair of socks I’m folding together. I’ve never said it out loud before. Not to anyone who was alive, anyway. Not even Kyle. I told my mom, but that doesn’t really count because she’s dead.

  “Oh?” Her smile widens at the thought of us having something in common. “I’ve never seen you around campus. What’s your major?” I expect to hear skepticism. Like maybe she doesn’t believe me, but I don’t. All I hear is curiosity.

  “No major. Just a few business classes.” I give her a non-committal shrug. “Not even a full load.” The truth is, I am taking classes but not at the university like I’m letting her believe. I’m taking them at the community college across town.

  When I don’t elaborate like she seems to hope I will, she nods her head like a wise sage. “Well, that’s understandable…” pinching the shoulder seams of my shirt together she gives it a careful fold up the middle. “I imagine carrying a full class load would be pretty difficult, what with all the contract killing you have to do pay the bills.”

  I watch her fold my shirt in half again, running her and up the seam to smooth it out. When I don’t have a cocky answer waiting for her, she looks up.

  And I kiss her.

  Nine

  Briana

  2018

  I promised Keaton thirty minutes before I broke out of the VIP prison he’s stuck me in and went looking for him.

  It’s been over an hour.

  I check my phone, hoping for something from someone. A message from Keaton, telling me he’s on his way. A text from Claire, telling me that everything between her and Jax worked out.

  That my little sister finally got her happily ever a
fter.

  Yeah? What about your fairytale ending? When’s it going to be your turn to be happy?

  Now.

  I get to be happy now.

  No more settling.

  No more pretending.

  No more hiding.

  I’m going to do what I came here to do.

  I’m going to find Keaton.

  I’m going to get my life back.

  With or without him.

  I am happy.

  “Where’re you going?” Amelia says, following suit. Everyone else abandoned me for the dance-floor, having a good time. Amelia is the only one who stuck with me.

  “I’m going to find Keaton.” I look at her, cheeks so hot I’m sure they’re practically glowing from the heat. “I have some things I need to say.”

  “’Bout damn time.” She sighs, like it’s the sanest thing she’s heard me say in years. She’s never liked Kyle. She’s been unwaveringly Team Keaton from day one. “Okay.” She squares her shoulder and narrows her eyes like a soldier waiting for her marching orders. “What’s the plan? What do I do?”

  Step one is getting rid of the pair of babysitters Keaton set on me. Not that they're being obvious about it. They look like a pair of well-heeled businessmen, sitting at the table next to us—only they’re drinking water and they’re wearing earpieces like they’re Secret Service agents. Unless POTUS is getting down on the dancefloor, they’re here for me.

  Every once in a while, they flick a quick glance in my direction. Keaton sent them here to keep an eye on me. Probably to keep me from doing exactly what I’ve made up my mind to do. “I need you to create a distraction.”

  She gives me a wide-wide grin and tosses her dark wavy hair over her shoulder. “Distractions happen to be my specialty.”

  Ten

  Keaton

  Kyle has always been a bit of a problem. Even before our parents died, he was spoiled. Entitled. Our mother’s favorite. The son our father hung all his hopes on.

  The baby of the family.