I clench my teeth, only barely holding back what I really want to say to this fucker. I’m not your fucking son. “Charm has nothing to do with it. Her cunt will fall on anything.”
He hums. “Anything except you.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, old man,” I bite out, fed up. Every night it’s the same shit—Gene trying to provoke me, always pushing and prodding. I tolerate a lot of shit from this guy and his flunkies, but after seeing Georgia here tonight, I don’t have the patience for it. “For the record, I don’t need some balding Northridge failure to teach me how to pull tail. No one negs anymore. Negging’s for middle-schoolers who spend too much time on X-Box Live and old fucks who still think hitting on their servers is anything more than a complete waste of time.” I give Tara a meaningful look.
Gene stares at me, lips flattening into a tense line.
Well, so much for holding back.
“Fine.” He sets down his drink, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table. From the dark gleam in his eye, I’m already dreading what’s about to come out of his mouth. “Why don’t we make a wager, then?”
I wave to Tara for a refill, sensing from the way my pulse quickens that I’m going to need it. “A wager on what?”
“Whether or not you can fuck that feisty redhead, of course.” He smirks at Tara when she stops to take my glass, sliding me another.
“Fuck no,” I say instantly, head shaking. “I start my community service tomorrow, and my PO has been so far up my ass, he can probably smell my breath. The last thing I need is my Ghost of Bad Fucks Past running to the sheriff again.”
Gene leans back, thumb tapping the table as he watches me. “If you win, I’ll cut your debt in half.”
I freeze, drink halfway to my mouth, before slowly putting it down. “You can’t be serious.” Fuck. That’s fifty grand off my debt.
“Oh, I can be very serious,” he insists, and I don’t need that cruel slant of a smile to know it.
My eyes narrow suspiciously. “Why do you suddenly care where I put my dick?”
“I don’t. I just know you can’t do it.” He shrugs, looking at me pensively. “You know what your problem is, Wilcox?”
“My problem?” I casually take a crack. “Probably the two years’ probation for a variety of bullshit charges. Although,” I add, rubbing my chin, “the fact that I owe a Northridge loan shark a hundred grand, and he’s holding my business hostage until I’ve paid off my balance isn’t exactly helping matters.”
He laughs, low and mocking. “Those aren’t your problems, sonny. Those are symptoms of a problem.” He looks down at the dance floor, watching the mass of people below. “My Northridge boys always used to say you were a sociopath. Matter of fact, that’s why I took a chance on you. Something like that could be useful in a pinch. But I know what you really are, Wilcox.” He meets my gaze, eyes hard. “You’re a spoiled little brat who doesn’t know anything about people. You don’t know what it’s like to feel responsible for somebody, because no one would let you close enough to find out. You don’t know what it’s like to feel guilt or regret, because there’s nothing you care about more than yourself. You’re not a sociopath. Sociopaths are useful. Sociopaths are smart. But you, you’re just...” He tilts his head, searching my eyes. “Well, you’re just a sad, overrated snob. Imagine my disappointment.”
I roll my eyes, wishing I could shut this motherfucker up, just once. “Is there a point buried somewhere under all that self-indulgent navel gazing? Because I actually have shit to do tonight.” Like pack.
He gives me a sharp smile. “Get the girl to fuck you and I’ll reduce your debt by half. I’ll even waive the interest—every cent.”
I don’t even need to think about it, thrusting my open palm at him. “Done.”
Big Gene looks at my hand before taking it. “Oh, Wilcox. That, right there?” he says, giving our linked fists a single bob. “That’s your problem. You never even asked me what I’d get if you lose. Got those big, dumb, blue eyes of yours so fixed on the prize that it makes you stupid.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m not going to lose.” I take a sip from my drink, shrugging. “And I already know what you want, but if you want to do the whole dramatic reveal shtick, then be my guest.”
“Should have asked that before shaking on it,” Gene says, looking far too comfortable for my liking. Regardless, he raises his glass, sweeping it in a gesture toward the room. “If I win, I get you the fuck out of here.”
The club.
Of-fucking-course.
“I don’t know why you want it so bad,” I say, rolling my eyes. “There’s no way this place out-earns your hustle.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Gene says, settling in. “In case you haven’t noticed—being one of them and all—my clientele isn’t exactly of the paying-shit-back persuasion.” He sniffs, eyes taking in the space. “I could do with something legit for a while. Something dependable.”
I throw back the last of my drink, muttering, “You taking half of my nightly profits seems pretty fucking dependable to me.”
“Aw.” He puts a hand to his chest, giving a mocking frown. “That was downright sulky. You’re losing your touch.” He stands up, leafing through a wallet for two twenties. He tosses them on the table, glancing over his shoulder before leaning down. He keeps his voice low, but I can still hear the gloat in it. “And by the way, I’ve been fucking that sweet little thing over there for the past month. A full head of hair isn’t everything, young man. You just remember that.” He punctuates this with a soft whack to the side of my head.
My fiery glare follows him across the lounge and down the stairs.
Gene, just like everyone else, underestimates me, and that’s the way I like it. He thinks I don’t know anything about people, but he’s wrong. I know Gene’s got this real hard-on for honor among thieves. He takes his losses. And that’s exactly what he’s about to get, because I know Georgia fucking Haynes even better.
3
Georgia
* * *
I get myself off in my car first, parked in the darkest corner of Preston’s parking lot. It’s fast and full of thoughts that I try to scrub from my brain the instant I step out into the night air. I get myself off again once I’m back in my room, standing under the spray of my shower. Again, after getting into bed. I wake up at three in the morning to do it again, and when my alarm goes off, my hand is already tucking itself into my panties, frantically trying to calm the low thrum still building in the pit of my belly.
It’s not the masturbation that bothers me.
At least, not today.
Sometimes it does, though. I can go for whole stretches of time where I’m fine getting off once, maybe twice a day—something normal for a teenager. But on other days—on really bad days—I have to binge on the swell and climax for hours, needing to get off again and again. Sometimes, on bad days like those, I’ll even hide under my covers, still breathless from the orgasm, crying into my pillow because it’s still not enough.