Wicked Surrender (Hollis Brothers Book 3) Read online

  Zeke swiftly grabbed his lotion, deodorant and suit then strode back to the bathroom where he was safe from her new career. He came back several minutes later fully dressed to find her winding down her phone-call.

  She said, “Of course. I send you my thong tomorrow.”

  What? His eyebrows shot up.

  Ignoring him, London paused for a moment to listen to the person on the other end of the phone before saying, “Dah, I promise. Do svidaniya, drogoimoy. Goodbye. I talk to you tomorrow. Kisses. Kisses. Mwah. Mwah.”

  As soon as she was done with her conversation, he asked the inevitable question, “Are you seriously going to send him your underwear.”

  “Yes.” London gave him a deadpan look. When his mouth dropped open in shock, she laughed. “Of course not. I’m going to buy something from the gift shop at the airport, spray it with some Kim Kardashian for Women and send it to him. He’ll never know the difference.”

  “Poor guy.” Zeke shook his head, fighting to hide his smile as he pinned his cufflinks to the sleeves of his shirt. He glanced at his watch to realize that it was way past breakfast. Turning a frown to London, he asked, “Shouldn’t you be heading to your room? Pick up to the airport is in an hour.”

  “I’m going -” She leaned back against the headboard and crossed her arms. “- As soon as you pay up.”

  “Sorry?” Zeke asked, distracted by the way his undershirt slipped slightly higher up her thighs to reveal more delicious skin.

  “My one thousand five hundred dollars.” London drew his attention back up to her face. She wiggled her fingers. “Pay up.”

  “How do I know that you didn’t black out before me?”

  “I have proof.” She lifted her phone and waved it.

  His eyes widened. “You have pictures of me drunk?”

  “Yes.” She grinned. “And video.”

  “You need delete those,” he said, unease rattling through him. He didn’t even want to imagine pictures of him drunk being publicized. The press would lose their collective minds.

  “My money first,” she countered.

  “I don’t have that kind of cash on me right now.”

  She chuckled. “That sounds like rich guy speak for ‘you’ll see your money never’.”

  “I won’t renege,” he protested. “I’ll pay you as soon as I get to an ATM. There’s even one in the lobby.”

  “Then I’ll delete your very, very, very juicy photos-” She scooted off the bed, stood up then headed for the closet. “- as soon as you bring me my money. And not a second sooner.” She drew her red belt from the hanger where her clothes were and cinched it around her waist, turning his undershirt into an instant dress. Clasping her tank-top and shorts to her chest, she threw him a wicked smile. “When you have my money come find me in my room. I’ll be waiting - with your photos.”

  With that she made for the door.

  Annoyance rippled through him as he watched her go, unable to believe that he, Zeke Landa-Hollis, was being blackmailed by this pint-sized harridan. He muttered under his breath, “And to think I was going to give her a job.”

  “What? What? What?” London spun around so fast, he was surprised she didn’t teeter on those heels. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing,” he returned stonily.

  “No, you said something about giving me a job.” Her mouth widened into a beaming smile. “You want to give me a job? How much are you paying?”

  “How much is it paying?” His voice rang with disbelief. “That’s your first question?”

  “Isn’t that everyone’s first question,” she retorted. “How much and what’s the job?”

  “You need to see a therapist.” He shook his head, his lips twitching in a reluctant smile. “The job is actually not just yours. It’s for your band.” He went ahead to explain what the job was. The moment he mentioned what pay they were offering, London’s jaw dropped.

  She stared at him goggle-eyed. “For all of us together, or for each of us?”

  “Each of you,” he responded, amused and delighted to have finally shocked her.

  Schooling her expression into one of nonchalance, London nodded. “That sounds fair.”

  But Zeke wasn’t fooled. He knew she was impressed. However, she quickly shot down his assumption that she was done surprising him by not immediately jumping on the offer. Instead she said in a business-like tone, “I’ll talk to the band and let you know what they think.”

  Loath to show his own surprise, he nodded curtly. “Please do. But make it sooner rather than later. We need to have a band by next week.”

  “Will do.” She turned on her heels again.

  As she left, he called out, “Since I just gave you a job, I don’t have to pay you for the pictures, right?”

  “Ha! Nice try, Zekey!” Her laughter ringing after her, she exited the room.

  CHAPTER 4

  New York. Two days later.

  “I think we should take it,” Saif Kalyan, the Xin Monster’s drummer advised when the band met up for their weekly practice. The slender, caramel-skinned, bearded man added, “It’s really good money. And we’ll only have to play from five to eleven, right?” He turned to London.

  “Yeah.” London nodded. “We’re free to do our own thing over the weekend.”

  “But we’re not lounge singers,” Maurice, their tall, muscular violinist, protested. He sported a blond military buzz-cut that clashed dramatically with his chocolate skin and had several tattoos snaking across his neck and arms. He grimaced, “Plus it’s so corny to be singing for white dudes.”

  “Hey, I’m white,” Enzo protested.

  “Sorry, dude. You know what I mean,” Maurice apologized and dapped Enzo.

  “Yeah, I’m with Maurice,” D’Angelo, Maurice’s cousin, piped in causing everyone in their little group of five to roll their eyes. He was always with Maurice.

  Frankly, D’Angelo wasn’t even supposed to be part of the Xin Monsters but they couldn’t get rid of him. He was Maurice’s lighter-skinned, stouter shadow - mimicking his dressing, talking and opinions. He followed Maurice everywhere. He’d attended so many of their practices that it’d seemed like a good idea to give him something to do. Luckily he could play the guitar like he was possessed by B.B. King.

  “Okay, so that’s two for and two against,” London said. Her heart sunk when she realized that that meant the deciding vote was Enzo’s. She’d known him long enough to know that he wasn’t above voting with Maurice and D’Angelo to spite her because of her rejecting him. Nevertheless, she schooled her features into a nonchalant expression and turned to him, “Are you in or out?”

  “Hmm.” Enzo paused, dragging out the tension for a long moment. He glanced at London in a way that made her already knotted insides tighten before finally announcing, “I’m in.”

  “Yesss.” Saif voiced London’s sigh of relief while Maurice and D’Angelo groaned. Enzo, on his part, grinned like a despotic king who’d just gotten his way.

  The group stayed an hour longer to finish practice before breaking for the day. As they were leaving the music studio, Enzo grabbed London’s elbow holding her back. God, she hoped this wasn’t another repeat of Trinidad.

  “What?” she snapped, snatching her arm back.

  He immediately let go of her arm as a sheepish expression crossed his face. “I actually wanted to talk to you about what happened on Saturday…” He paused expectantly, as if waiting for her to say something. She just stared at him. He heaved a sigh. “I hate when we fight.”

  “We didn’t fight,” London bit out. “I told you I didn’t want to be your girlfriend. You decided to be an asshole about it.”

  Staring down at his feet and running a hand over his midnight hair, he mumbled, “Look, I’m sorry. Okay?”

  She folded her arms over her chest. “That’s all you have to say for yourself?”

  “What do you want me to say?” He shrugged as he tucked his hands into his black jeans. “I was drunk.”

>   “That’s not a good excuse for getting violent with me.”

  His gaze shot upwards to clash with hers. “I wasn’t violent with you.”

  “Yes, you were. You grabbed me right here.” She pointed to her arm. “And you looked like you would’ve done worse if Zeke hadn’t interfered.”

  “No way,” he insisted, staring at her arm as if trying to see if there were any signs of his grabbing her. Of course there weren’t. Her skin was too dark. He said, “Are you sure you’re not just imagining this whole thing? Cause you were really drunk that night.”

  “Wow.” London turned on her heels and started for the door.

  “Wait. Wait. Wait.” Enzo’s palm closed over her elbow. “Don’t go. Don’t go.”

  She turned to face him again, anger coursing through her.

  “If you say I grabbed you, then I grabbed you,” he said, in a conciliatory tone. “And I’m very, very sorry. You know I would never hurt you deliberately. You’re my girl.”

  She just glowered at him.

  “Come on, forgive me,” he wheedled, the side of his lips twitching as he took a step closer to her. “I’m sorry.”

  Her response was another stony frown.

  “Looondon.” He widened his eyes as he rubbed her arms. “I’m sowwy.”

  Damn it! She could never resist those puppy-dog eyes. Kissing her teeth, she slapped his chest with the back of her hand. “Don’t do it again.”

  “I won’t.” Enzo smiled triumphantly before lifting her off her feet.

  “Put me down,” London yelped and slapped his arm. She hated when people did that - carried her around like she was a child.

  “Okay. Okay.” He laughed as he set her back on the floor. His eyes still dancing with amusement, he offered, “Let me take you for lunch. Make it up to you.”

  “Sorry,” she said as she straightened her jacket. “I’m meeting up with Shakira.”

  “Oh?” Enzo’s shoulders drooped as did his expression.

  “We can do lunch tomorrow,” London offered.

  “Fine.” He shrugged, before announcing petulantly, “I’m just gonna head out then. See ya.”

  London rolled her eyes as she watched him strut out of the room in a huff. Following behind at a slower pace, she extracted her phone from her purse and dialed.

  Shakira picked up on the second ring. “Are you done?”

  “Yeah,” London said. “We’re still meeting at 44 Club, right?”

  “Actually, I’m in Nathan’s office.”

  “Cool. I’ll be there in two.”

  As the director of Extreme Expressions, Nathan’s office occupied part of the building’s top floor. London took the elevator up. When the doors opened, she strolled towards his personal assistant’s desk.

  “Hi, London.” The slender sandy-haired man greeted her with a smile.

  “‘Sup, Kasey.” London returned the smile before narrowing her eyes as she gave Kasey a quick once-over. “Something is different about you. Have you lost some weight?”

  “Yes. Thank you for noticing.” Kasey snapped his fingers. “No one else has. Not even Benny.”

  “Nooo,” London gasped. “He must be blind.”

  She spent a couple of minutes getting updated on Kasey’s latest relationship problems (of which there were many) before Kasey finally let her make her escape into Nathan’s office. The moment she entered the spacious room, Talia, Nathan and Shakira’s almost two-year old terror, came barreling towards hers. “Dundun. Dundun.”

  “W’sup l’il mama,” London lifted the toddler into her arms and peppered kisses on her tiny face, earning herself several chortles.

  “I told you she’d stop crying as soon as London walked into the room,” Shakira announced to her husband. “Your daughter is a mess.”

  “How come she’s my daughter when she’s crying?” Nathan laughed, as he wound his arm around his wife’s shoulders.

  Marriage had been good to Shakira. She looked happy, fulfilled and, bonus, having a kid had made her thick. The woman now had hips. Imagine that. London wasn’t really surprised that Shakira was the first to get married. She was that type of woman - a good girl with an easygoing personality and had that fragile thingamajig that men seemed to love so much.

  London, on the other hand - well, she liked to think that she was an acquired taste. It was too bad that the only men who ‘acquired a taste’ for her were thugs, deadbeat dads, emos (case in point Enzo), underage boys who thought she was their age because of her size, sex freaks on the hotline, or undercover pedophiles who wanted to dress her up like a child (Yup, she’d dated one of those too).

  “Are you ready for lunch?” London asked when she finally emerged from her horseplay with Talia.

  “Yeah. Yeah.” Shakira started to stand, but Nathan stopped her with a hand on her thigh.

  He turned to London, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “So, Auntie Dundun, we heard a rumor about you?”

  “What rumor?” She stared at him expectantly.

  “Word on the street is that you were seen leaving Zeke’s room in Trinidad dressed in his undershirt.” He waggled his eyebrows.

  “Mm hmm,” Shakira agreed. “I heard it too.”

  Nathan turned surprised eyes to her. “From who?”

  “Misha,” his wife said.

  “Danny,” he informed her.

  “Me?” London widened her eyes and gave them her most innocent look. “You heard this from Danny and Misha? Tsk. Tsk. Tsk.” She shook her head. “You should really get better sources. Those two are the worst gossips. What would I be doing in your brother’s room? We hate each other!”

  “Is that so?” Nathan gave her a disbelieving look.

  “It is so,” London insisted firmly before turning to Shakira. “Lady, are you going to buy me lunch or what?”

  “Hmm.” Shakira snorted before saying to her husband, “I’ll pick Talia up when we’re done.”

  “Okay.” He bussed her lips. “Be safe.”

  Moments later, London and Shakira were in Shakira’s BMW backing out of the parking lot and heading towards the gate. As soon as they bypassed security and entered oncoming traffic, Shakira confronted London, “Okay, spill.”

  “Spill what?”

  “The details of how you ended up in Zeke’s room.”

  “I told you it was just a rumor,” London hedged.

  “And I know you were lying,” her best-friend countered. “Spill.”

  “Fine.” Acceding defeat, London briefed Shakira on the events of Saturday night and Sunday morning.

  “I can’t believe you got Zeke drunk then blackmailed him out of a grand five,” Shakira said between laughs. “Why didn’t you call me to see it?”

  “Don’t worry I still have the pictures and video. HD quality.”

  “I thought you told him you deleted them.”

  “I say a lot of things I don’t mean.” London grinned cheekily.

  “You’re awful.” Shakira chuckled. When her laughter died, she said more seriously, “Please tell me you’re not planning to spread them around, though. You know how sensitive he is about his image.”

  “Nah! They’re just for my personal entertainment,” London assured. “Besides, now that he and I are business partners, it wouldn’t be in good form.”

  Shakira’s eyebrows shot up. “Business partners?”

  Over lunch, London briefed Shakira on the details of her new job. Though her dream was to be a recording artist, she was really excited for this gig. Part of the reason was because this was an excellent networking opportunity. After all, Landa-Heron was one of the top hotels in New York haunted by celebrities and bigwigs alike. Who knew what singing there could lead to? Some record exec might see them while he was checking in or eating his dinner, get impressed, offer them a contract they couldn’t refuse, a world stage…

  Don’t get too starry eyed, London, the more pragmatic side of her warned as she took her leave of Shakira hours later. But she shook it off. Being realist
ic had never gotten her anywhere. If she was a realist, she would never have believed that she could escape her psychotic parents, get to New York, get off of the streets, ever perform in Extreme Expressions, or be invited to sing at Landa-Heron. Her whole life was fueled by big dreams and unrealistic expectations.

  It could happen.

  Besides that, she had other reasons to be excited about singing at Landa-Heron. Her new job meant that she’d be able to see a certain celebrity every day.

  A certain celebrity who she’d heard had his apartment on the top floor of Landa-Heron.

  A certain celebrity who she’d just recently conned out of a grand five.

  A certain celebrity who’d occupied her dreams and thoughts for the last two days.

  Every time she thought of how drunk he’d been and how deliciously disheveled he’d looked the morning after, she had to smile. Hopefully, her frenemy would turn up for one of her performances. And maybe she could con him into taking part in another drink-off. Lord, knows she needed new shoes.

  Drunk Zeke was fun.

  HIS LIFE SEEMED to be made up of business meetings and networking events, Zeke reflected as he sat through another business meeting on Wednesday afternoon. His eyes swept across the conference table taking in the solemn expressions of his senior management staff as they listened to Eric Jensen outline his proposals for the third quarter.

  “Ultimately, what are we trying to achieve?” Eric, Zeke’s snowy-haired second-in-command, asked. His question was for the whole table but it was directed at Zeke, because at this table his opinion mattered most. “We’re trying to get more bookings, more people into our hotels.”

  “True.” Zeke nodded.

  Once upon a time sitting at the head of a conference table like this with everyone looking to him for guidance and leadership would’ve been exciting and a major ego-boost for Zeke. These days it barely earned a blip on his radar. It was just something he did every day. Nothing special. Meetings like these and the social events he attended to bolster their family’s network were now a bland obligation - like the rest of his life.