My belly roiled with heat, with attraction.
Turns out Seven St. John was dangerous in more ways than merely as a boxer.
2
Talking to him was way too easy. He liked nineties action movies, and claimed to be a homebody for the most part. He was also surprisingly well-read, considering he didn’t finish high school.
The bar in question was in fact a dive on what seemed more like an alley than a street, the kind of place you had to know about in order to know about. It wasn’t seedy, though. Just dark and old, with the kind of decor that’s dated but timeless, mainly because they’ll never update it. They didn’t sell wine, so I joined Seven in drinking Titos and soda. There was a booth in the back corner, lit by a handful of tea lights. We sat on the same side, facing the interior of the bar, sipping and talking.
The bartender did indeed know Seven on a first-name basis, and kept the drinks coming.
Which, in retrospect, was possible unwise for me.
He was on the inside, a big hard warm bulk of man, his broad arm a cushion at my side, and his smile was ready and ever-present, his eyes always on mine, sometimes sliding down to my cleavage for a moment, or my legs. He wasn’t staring, but wasn’t hiding the fact that he was checking me out.
I didn’t mind. I was copping glances at his huge anvil-hard chest where his shirt was unbuttoned, at the way his fly bulged around something pretty substantial. At his hands, the thick trunks of his thighs in his jeans, which he wore just tight enough—not baggy, nor hipster-tight leggings, just…tight enough to show off his massive thighs.
His voice and his scent lapped over me.
The vodka was sly, subtle. Sneaking up on me. Fueling dirty thoughts that popped up now and then. Igniting desires inside me.
Listen, I was no nun. Not by a long shot. But the past couple months had been busy as hell at work, and I’d been having trouble finding anyone suitable for…playtime. No one on any of my social media or apps appealed. None of the guys I met in the bar appealed.
So I’d been on an involuntary hiatus, and now, in Seven’s presence, I felt that lack.
That need.
I’d never met anyone like Seven. And I didn’t mean simply because he was the only famous person I’d ever met, on a personal level. I’d represented a middling-famous actor selling a home in the Hills, but after the initial meet-and-hire, most of my contact had been with his assistant. A few recognitions of celebrities, since this is LA, after all. But nothing real, nothing personal, not like this.
No, my attraction to Seven was physical.
Deeply, intensely, wildly physical.
I didn’t go for guys like him. I went for staid, buttoned-up types. Three-piece suits and shiny shoes, with an MBA and a stock portfolio.
Seven was the literal polar opposite, and something about him just…touched off weird, powerful little explosions inside me.
At some point, after who knew how many drinks and hours, Seven consulted his watch. “It’s after one in the morning.”
I fumbled my phone out of my purse and verified his statement. “Holy shit. I have a showing at nine thirty tomorrow.”
“I’ve got filming myself.” He gazed down at me. “Drive you home?”
“Sure.” I shouldn’t. Really, really, I knew I shouldn’t. But I wanted him to drive me home.
He pulled a phone out of his back pocket, made a call. “Bruce, hey. Yeah, it’s Seven. I’m at Shank’s. Can you deliver my car to me? Cool…I mean, do you trust him with that car? If you do, then sure. Give him a shot. But Bruce, you know Freddy’ll have your ass for a lampshade if that kid fucks up my Venom. Warn him, okay? It’s a goddamn rocket ship. One wrong touch of the accelerator and you’re in a fuckin’ flat spin…Okay, but it’s your ass if he fucks it up. Okay. Give your kid a shot.”
I listened, amused. “Perk of fame, huh?”
“Perk of having worked out with Fredrick Lyons since he was a pimply dork with an Oedipus complex.”
I snorted. “An Oedipus complex?”
He laughed. “Not literally. His dad married a woman more than twenty years his junior when Freddy was fifteen. His new stepmother was twenty-four, and a fuckin’ smokeshow. All of Freddy’s friends had the hots for her, me included, and Freddy too. I mean, it was impossible not to. The woman hated clothes. That’s the only thing we could figure out, then, since she walked around all but naked pretty much all the time, and sometimes actually naked, and usually for no immediately apparent reason. Like, not even at the pool. Just in the kitchen eating, or in the den reading a magazine. Poor fuckin’ Freddy, man. The kid was hopelessly in lust with her, and couldn’t do a damn thing about it, just like the rest of us poor saps. But let me tell you, Freddy’s house was the place to be, while his dad was married to Candi.”
“Her name was actually Candy?”
“Candi, with an I,” he clarified, laughing. “And yes. I mean, as far as anyone knew.”
“And it didn’t last, between Fredrick’s dad and Candi-with-an-I?”
He snorted. “Nah. Lasted four years or so, but then she got a better offer from someone with more money or something. I’m assuming it was about money. The dude she hooked up with had a Maybach and a driver, whereas Freddy’s dad only had a Bentley he drove himself. Seems like Candi-with-an-I was upgrading sugar daddies. But far be it from me to judge. I slept many a night on that man’s couch, and ate a whole shitload of his food, so who he married and why is his business.”
“It’s weird I know this about Fredrick Lyons when I’ve never met him. I mean, everyone who knows good restaurants in LA knows Fredrick Lyons. He’s one of the big up-and-coming restaurateurs.”
Seven laughed. “He’d be thrilled to know that. He’s a foodie, my guy Freddy. It’s all about the food. He’s just gotten fancy about it, after inheriting his dad’s money.”
His phone lit up in his hand, a text coming through. “Car’s here. You ready?”
“Are you nervous about the car?”
He shrugged. “It’s my baby, so a little, but Bruce is picky about who he hires, and he wouldn’t let just anyone drive my Venom, even to park it or bring it around front. I’m sure this kid is someone he’s grooming.”
Once again, Seven paid with an exorbitant pile of cash, and then led me through the bar by the hand. His black-and-yellow mean machine hypercar was waiting outside the door, and as Seven exited the building, a short, stocky Hispanic kid no more than twenty carefully slid open the driver’s door and stood, clearly shaking in his boots. Whether from the drive or because of Seven, it wasn’t clear.
“Not a scratch, Mr. St. John, I swear,” the kid said in clear, accented English. “I take the best care of your car.” He widened his eyes. “Very, very strong, the motor.”
Seven made a slow circuit of his car, assessing. Peeked into the cockpit, nodded. “Good job. Clean, no smells, and the odometer shows you came right here.”
“No joyrides, señor. Never. Mr. Bruce, he is very clear about this.”
Seven reached into his pocket again, pulled out his cash, counted some off, folded it, stowed the stash back in his pocket and handed what he’d counted to the young valet. So far, all the bills I’d seen Seven peel off had been hundreds, and he never asked for change, and always tipped to the point of absurdity. Judging by the way the kid’s eyes bugged out, I assumed Seven had just paid the kid several hundred dollars.