Made: A Bad Boy Romance (Bad Boy Games) Read online

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  Also by Allegra Ryan

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  MADE: A Bad Boy Romance

  The Bad Boy Games: there’s nothing they won’t do, no line they won’t cross.

  BROOKE

  When it comes to bad boys, I’m smart enough to look and not touch. When it comes to Nathan, all I want to do is touch. . .

  To get my little sister out of trouble, I have to play the game, his twisted game. The worst part? I love it. I didn’t intend for things to work out this way. I knew I was in over my head, but some part of me believed in him, that he really would help us.

  This whole crazy thing began with a pair of red shoes and a contract. Now he thinks I belong to him. The scary part? He might be right.

  NATHAN

  Brooke thinks she’s playing to save her sister. The truth? She’s just another pawn running out of time. . .

  So what? Her illusions aren’t my issue. She also thinks I’m using her for my own dirty reasons, that I’m just another player. She might be right, but what I want is to move up in the organization and take my rightful seat at the table. I’m smart enough to realize that dream’s likely never going to come true.

  Still, the job has its perks, and one of them is that sweet redhead. I’m going to get my fill while I can—because the one thing the bosses can’t take away from me—I play for keeps.

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  NATHAN

  For a guy like me who ushers people from this world to the next, there’s almost nothing that’s off-limits.

  Women whenever I want? Check. Maybe a couple of interchangeable babes? Check and check, all night long or until I swat them on the ass and send them packing, whichever comes first. Money? Don’t ask. I’ve got more socked away in discreet corners of the world than I know what to do with. I’m not exactly what they call a fancy guy; my needs are more basic. Drugs? Forget about it. In my line of work, I need all my wits about me, or I’ll find myself real dead, real fast. When I need to take the edge off—and I’ll admit, it happens from time to time—I pour one, and only one, shot from my private stash of Pappy Van Winkle’s and call it a night.

  So when I actually think about it (‘cause what the fuck else do I get to do lately but think?) my life isn’t defined by a lack of limits; it’s really all about discipline: staying in shape; planning each hit down to the second; making damn sure each contract is handled with care and precision. I’m all about never allowing clueless cops to catch a hint I even breathed in the vicinity of their precious crime scenes.

  It’s not just a job; it’s who I am. And that’s the problem: it’s who I used to be—a skilled craftsman in a profession that, on occasion, requires a few deadly talents I happen to possess. What can I say? It’s a living.

  It was a living.

  A month ago, the boss ordered me off the road and dropped me inside the organization like he’d done me this huge favor—a promotion he called it. I call it being bored out of my fucking skull.

  Safeguarding VIPs? There’s no skill required unless you count making sure they don’t slip and fall while hobbling off their private jets. There’s no edge, no excitement—unless you count making the dreams of seventy-year-old billionaires come true.

  Not.

  Now I get to stand around a club called Dominion. Classy place, if you’re into that sort of thing. Two or three times a night I have to spring into action. Not the old kind of action, mind you, the new job makes me into a cross between a butler and a bouncer.

  It’d be fucking embarrassing if I worked for any other organization than Harley & Sweet. They only sound like a straight-laced accounting firm. The truth is a lot more twisty and profitable. Their roots go straight back to the original families of the East Coast mafia. The boring-as-fuck corporate name is just the new coat of paint for the twenty-first century.

  Don’t get me wrong; there are perks to the new job. Dominion is one of the hottest clubs in the city and filled with enough eye candy to satisfy any male. So I get to look all I want. The problem is that while I’m on the clock, I can’t touch. That fact added to the endless boredom is turning me into a sexual time bomb.

  No matter how blue my balls get, I can’t forget one thing: my boss, Tucker Voss, isn’t the kind of guy anyone with half a brain would cross. I should know—I’ve put down a few of the idiots who tried. Think of it as natural selection in action.

  So yeah, the mandate to follow too many damned rules is a hard truth I never questioned before. Since coming back to the city, I’ve been putting up with so much crap it kind of makes my head want to explode. What the fuck kind of life is that? Sure, I’m not on the road any longer and, truth be told, when Tucker called me home, I’d been feeling the urge to settle down for a while and figured this was my chance.

  Still, I miss the old days. Hell, wet work might be a crime or even a sin to some, but to me, it was the thing I did best in all the world. I hate having to jump when Tucker says jump. If someone’d told me six weeks ago when I was kicking back in Rio that I’d soon be freezing in New York City, I’d have laughed my ass off.

  Tonight, I’m not laughing.

  A new game cycle is starting. You see, that’s what Harley & Sweet does, among other things. They entertain and gratify the desires of the rich and not just the merely wealthy. H&S caters to ultra-high net worth individuals. They make things happen.

  Anything.

  Literally.

  For a price.

  For added flair, they turn the twisted desires of the ultra rich into games. Sometimes other clients bet on the outcome. Everybody wins—except the pawns, of course—but that’s life.

  Want somebody out of the way? No problem. Permanently gone? Again, no problem. H&S is nothing if not full service.

  Want to fuck a woman who won’t say yes and doesn’t give a shit how much money you’ve got in the bank? Harley & Sweet delivers. She’ll be spreading her legs for a wrinkled dick before midnight and smiling like a fool the whole time. Want to play games with girls and have them disappear later so word doesn’t get out to the shareholders what a twisted freak you are? No problem.

  There’s nothing they won’t do; no line they won’t cross. Every pleasure provided; the nastiest of messes cleaned up; world-class discretion at no extra charge. Don’t get me wrong. I have no issue with the nature of the services they provide. It’s not my place to judge. I do what I have to do to survive, no more, no less.

  What’s driving me up a fucking wall since the boss brought me in from the cold is the endless, mindless monotony. Instead of flying to a hundred different cities a year, I spend every night in the same place, doing the same thing. When I can’t take it anymore, and I’m about ready to go in the back
room and jam a nine-millimeter under my chin to put myself out of my misery, my work phone goes off.

  Oh yay, what now? Probably the arrival of a new pawn.

  I pull the phone out of my pocket and scan the screen, studying the app that identifies my target—another female to deliver into the arms of a rich geezer.

  FML.

  I look up across the crowded nightclub, ignoring the thump of music, the intoxicating scent of perfume drifting up from a succulent set of tits until I find a woman wearing a certain pair of red shoes that were delivered to her place earlier today. There’s a tracker embedded in the heel that’s lighting up the app on my phone.

  She’s a brunette with smooth, light brown skin, and a rack that won’t quit. Streaks of scarlet thread through her dark hair. Her shimmery silver dress leaves little to the imagination, which was a smart wardrobe choice on her part. Right now, Tucker has seated the player in front of a security monitor displaying shots of the club floor from every angle, giving the high-roller a chance to decide if he wants the woman or not. Because my phone went off, that means he said yes. Now it’s up to the woman to agree. Or not. As if any of them ever back out. If she’s wearing the red shoes, she’s already signed a contract that guarantees her a lot of money for going through with it.

  If she survives the game.

  Sometimes the ultra rich aren’t satisfied with ordinary debauchery. They need the hits of adrenalin that come from ingenious, dirty games like ordinary people need air and water.

  This afternoon I had to drive out to JFK (like a fucking chauffeur) and pick up a geezer named Etienne de Hainault, who’d flown in from Paris. He’s got about three hairs on his head, a mouth full of yellowed teeth and can’t walk without being propped up by a cane carved from illegal ivory. He’s also only a second or third-tier client since he’s schlepping via limo instead of sailing into the city by helicopter like the first tier clients.

  My guess? The brunette is the pawn in the French dude’s game—whatever that turns out to be. We were on the expressway when I overheard de Hainault talking on the phone to Tucker Voss. The conversation revolved around the length of periods, how scoring will be calculated, time limits, and so on. Games are one way H&S has taken plain old prostitution into the twenty-first century and given it a new twist.

  If I’m any judge of character—and taking people out for a living makes you a pretty good one—the brunette is fucked and not in the way she wants. The games favored by the ultra rich usually don’t turn out well for anyone with a net worth south of a few million; if she’s wearing the red shoes, she’s a pawn because she can be bought. I don’t hold that against the pawns because I’m no different. I’m not stupid enough to think I can’t be bought.

  Still, the pawns are not my issue. My job is to hand the woman the phone so she can accept or decline the offer. Period. It’s her last chance to back out.

  From the way this sweet morsel studies the phone after I hand it to her, I’m thinking she’s going to turn around and leave. She looks too young to drink, let alone sign on the dotted line a contract she likely didn’t read or understand. De Hainault must have a kink for girls gone wild.

  “The red button or the blue button—I have to push one of them—isn’t that right?” She blinks up at me with her doe eyes.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “What if I want to think about it for a while?” She swings the phone back and forth between two manicured fingers decorated with sparkly stars.

  “That is an option, ma’am.”

  She sidles closer to me, close enough that her tits brush against my chest. “What do you think I should do?”

  Silence.

  I make the mistake of glancing down as she slips the phone into her impressive cleavage. Only a few millimeters of dress keep her tits from popping free. I can’t help myself; my tongue slides over my bottom lip. Her hips ripple in a micro-shimmy and our thighs make contact.

  We’re starting to attract attention, and I need to get her off the floor.

  “C’moooooon, baby, tell me what you want me to do.”

  “It’s not my decision, ma’am. I’m here to be of assistance no matter what you decide.” The fact that such pencil dick words know how to trip off my tongue feels like I’m committing a crime against who I used to be.

  My cock, however, suffers no doubt about its place in the world and jumps to attention. Nevertheless, it’s against house rules for employees to attempt to influence the red shoe girls in any way. So I stand there with my fingers laced behind my back, waiting for her to push one damn button or the other.

  “Waiting too long is also a decision. It might be interpreted that you’re declining the offer. Is that what you want?” I pause, studying her more carefully. No way is this babe over twenty-one. “Are you sure you want to be here?”

  She frowns, and her full pink lips form a pout. “If anyone thinks I’m too young, they’re just dumb.” She sidles closer and her hand slides between us, fumbles for the bulge in my trousers. My cock twitches at her touch, which is surprisingly bold and strong if not exactly experienced. I give her points for enthusiasm.

  “See?” Her sweet, alcohol-scented breath gusts under my nose. “I know what I want. Who needs a dumb phone? This whole thing is too complicated. I don’t like complications. I like you.”

  Then why did you sign the fucking contract?

  While my brain is telling me to back the fuck away, she rubs me and my cock swells. I know damn well what I should do. I should walk away from her and list all the rules and terms she’s ignoring, but that would put me in the shit with Tucker. The red shoe girls don’t end up here by chance; this little brunette was likely chosen and lured here based on a list of qualities the French dude desired. My stomach clenches at the thought of that fucker putting his hands on the girl. No time for me to turn into a white hat. For all I know, de Hainault is still in the control room watching this scenario play out in HD. If he’s getting off on the show, I figure I’m safe as long as I don’t touch the brunette.

  “What if I want you?” she croons. “Tell me your name.”

  “I’m not your date, ma’am.”

  “I don’t care. You need to fuck me.”

  “That’s not to happen, ma’am.”

  Her fingers tighten on my cock. My blood roars in my head. It’s all I can do not to groan.

  She giggles and increases her attentions, rubbing and stroking me. This situation isn’t going anywhere that’s healthy for me. Or for her.

  “This is your last chance, ma’am. Please step away, use the phone, and make your choice.” I wait, praying a few cells in that brain of hers are firing.

  She leans in, never stopping the motion of her business hand, and whispers against my neck. “I’ll do anything they say as long as you fuck me, right here and right now. In front of God and everyone. I want you to be my first. What do you think of that, big boy?”

  Her first. . . and big boy? Seriously? A strangled sort of sound escapes my mouth.

  More giggles erupt from the brunette. “What can I say? The idea of being watched turns me on.” It’s like she’s watched too many porn movies.

  I take a deep breath and drag my mind up and away from my swollen, aching cock. The brunette is a pretty thing who’s slightly drunk (judging by the way she’s swaying in her stilettos) and hasn’t got the first clue what she’s about to become involved in.

  The thing is, technically speaking; I could take her out of here right now—if the VIP had turned her down. When clients refuse a girl, the security guys get first dibs on the rejects. We call it picking up the ticket. Nice employee benefit. We get off; the girl gets her money, and H&S never has to list a failure in their books, which is exactly how they view a VIP rejection of a girl.

  Since I can’t remember the last time I picked up a ticket, the idea seems better and better with each passing minute. My cock and my lizard brain take over, forgetting she wasn’t rejected and telling me I could do it.

  I
could take her here and now and hope the French dude is kinky enough to believe I was warming her up for him. My cock likes this option. A lot. It’d be an asshole move, but it would save the girl from whatever devious fuckery de Hainault has planned. Then again, de Hainault might take offense and kick up a fuss, which could be dangerous. I’m no knight and wouldn’t know what to do with shining armor if someone stole a set from a museum and delivered it to my house.

  “It’ll be so good between us, baby,” she whispers. “I know it, deep down.”

  “You want my cock deep inside you right now?”

  “Oh yes, oh god, I want you so bad.” Her voice is breathy and so fake I have to choke back a laugh. The fact that she sounds like a lame porn star helps clear the sexual fog from my brain.

  I make sure my head is tilted, so the security camera catches my face as I speak. I don’t want there to be any doubt in Tucker’s mind about what I’m doing. “Then you’ll need to come with me.” Touching as little of her skin as possible, I extract the phone from her cleavage and hold it up for her. “But first, please make your choice.”

  “You’re not going to fuck me until I do this?”

  I nod, not looking at her and instead scanning the club floor. I’m late delivering the girl. My boss might have lost patience already. If that’s the case, he’ll send one of the other guys, Seth or Hunter or Marco, out to see what’s causing the delay.

  Relief floods me when I don’t spot any of them, but my gaze lands on a tall redhead framed by the entry doors on the other side of the club. She’s mostly in silhouette with the overhead lights turning her gorgeous hair into an auburn halo. Even though I’ve recently had a luscious pair of tits grazing my chest and a hand working my cock, I’m instantly all over that redhead in my mind. Probably a defense mechanism from the remote-but-sane part of my brain that knows fucking the brunette will get my ass kicked. For my sanity, I look down long enough to confirm that the redhead is not wearing a pair of the infamous red shoes, thank Jesus. Now she is a piece I could get into, one that doesn’t come with more trouble than any man needs. Time spreads out, and I’m thinking this redhead is an angel come to save me from myself.