Bradley's Whistle (P.ornstars of Romance #2) Page 8

  “Did you know he had children?”

  I watched as Wiska’s broken, rainbow casted hand drew back to punch the asshole who’s camera began clicking away in front of her. I grabbed one of the men by the scruff of his neck and pulled him aside. The way he fell to his knees made me feel about ten fucking feet tall. I had never once been in a fight, so I didn’t have a clue what to do, but putting one of the men on his ass was definitely satisfying to my ego. I grabbed Wiska’s arm just as she swung it, and when the sharp sting of her hand slapped my face, I paused.

  “Oh shit, Bradley, I’m so sorry,” she began, her eyes full of unshed tears.

  “Don’t worry about it, pussycat. Let’s go inside.” Suddenly, Aedan was there clearing the way, pulling the photographers back as I escorted Wiska into the building. “Thank you, Aedan.”

  “Not a problem, boss,” he replied with a cheery smile. Turning back to the reporters, he growled, “Now, back the fuck up before I shove the damn camera someplace dark and warm.”

  “Sir,” said Floyd from the elevators.

  We stepped in and Wiska remained quiet and stiff at my side.

  “Everything alright, Miss Wiska?” Floyd asked in a concerned tone.

  “Not really, but thank you for asking,” she whispered.

  I ushered her into the apartment, and Casey and Lionel looked our way from the couch. When they noticed the look on Wiska’s face, they both jumped up, but I raised a hand for them to stay back.

  “Wiska and I are going to have a little talk.”

  I gently took her arm and led her down the hallway.

  CHAPTER 8

  Wiska

  What a clusterfuck. The rain had finally cleared, and I thought I would jog off my cabin fever, but the curse of my own damn bad luck followed me. The moment I rounded the corner onto the street Bradley’s apartment was on, four paparazzi had jumped in front of me. I had already narrowly escaped an assault charge on a pap in New York, and thanks to my renegade temper, I nearly found myself back in the same predicament. Fortunately, or unfortunately, Bradley had shown up in the nick of time. The way he had shoved the men aside and tried to shelter my entrance into the building made me a little warm and fuzzy. The scowl he currently wore as he dragged me through his apartment, not so much.

  I thought of the sticky note stuffed in my bra top and hoped it wasn’t peeking out the top. We had been leaving notes for each other for the last few weeks. Frivolous things like, TXT me if you need anything, the keys are in the dish, and I’ll be home late, don’t wait up had morphed into more sexual content, like Your ass looks lonely without my hands on it, and The only reason I’d kick you out of bed would be to fuck you on the floor. Oh, yeah, that one had helped Thor rock my world a few days ago.

  I’d barely seen Bradley over the past few weeks; he was constantly working, gone before we got up and home long after we were in bed. The notes felt safe because they didn’t come with a face, but now that I had a face in front of me, I felt more than a little awkward. The latest note was currently tucked in my sports bra and read:

  It wasn’t romantic—it was erotic and hot—and my heart had flipped like a lovesick schoolgirl. I wished I had the tact and grace to be unaffected by his words, to make him grovel and beg until I finally gave him a reprieve. The truth was my vay-jay had a bad crush on this man, and I was beginning to think that, just maybe, a little more than my vay-jay was in lust for this man. And, to top it off, I wore the damn black lacy thong. I also kept the note. It was the first one he had left me signed Bradley, rather than Emerson, and for some reason that meant something to me. Now, it was soggy and causing my skin to itch. Bradley turned into his bedroom and slammed the door shut behind us.

  “Sit,” he ordered, pointing to the bed.

  “Woof,” I muttered as I grudgingly obeyed.

  I had to climb onto the bed since it was huge, like a massive ship on the ocean huge. Bradley paced across the room a few times before coming to a standstill in front of me. His hands were on his hips, his suit jacket unbuttoned, tie loosened. His hair was ruffled into a delicious mess from the wind. He looked entirely too edible. I sighed and crossed my legs, a gentle reminder that sex was currently off the menu.

  “I take you in, offer you some place to stay, I don’t ask questions, and I don’t pry; I just give you what you need. But right now, Wiska, I want some answers. I deserve to know what the fuck is going on with you.”

  I had every intention of using some of that sarcasm I enjoyed so much, along with a good ol’-fashioned flip-off to boot, but before the words could escape my mouth and my finger could poise to flip, I realized he was right. He may not have been a willing host, but he had allowed us to take over his home for almost a month now, and he hadn’t asked questions. Plus, he had paid for my medical expenses. I owed him the truth, at the very least.

  “There’s not a lot to it. I dated a married man. The world found out. I’m a home-wrecker.” The words were a lie and tasted bitter on my tongue, but that was pretty much the short and sweet version of what had happened.

  “Explain,” he demanded, watching me with an expression that clearly said he didn’t believe me.

  “Fine,” I breathed out in annoyance. “I had no idea who Kasper Karish was, I just knew he was famous—I still don’t really know what for. He was handsome, and he liked to flirt with me which was sweet. The attention he gave me wasn’t because I was a porn star, and I liked that. He seemed to like me for who I was. He liked to talk to me about life, he was great in bed, and he liked to buy me pretty things, which was nice, but not necessary. I didn’t realize it was payment for performing on my back, though.”

  “What does that mean?” Bradley spat out.

  “He was married, and I had no idea. His wife and family live in Spain. He travels back and forth between America and his family. I was his drink of choice, on tap whenever he visited New York.” I gazed up with pleading eyes. “I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have been with him if I knew. I’m not into being anyone’s mistress.” Bradley gave a slow nod. “Anyway, our relationship,” I snorted, “if you could call it that, was leaked to the media. Everything went crazy, my face was everywhere, and I was portrayed as the wicked witch of New York who was only after Kasper because I wanted dibs on his fortune.” My imploring eyes found his again. “I don’t need a sugar daddy. I pay my own way. His money meant nothing to me.” I glanced down at my fingers that were linked together in a tight grip in my lap. “I liked him, and I thought he liked me.”

  “What did he say to you? Did he explain himself?”

  A tear slipped free, dang it! I’d spilled enough tears for that dick-wad. I angrily brushed it away. “I haven’t heard from him since the morning I left his hotel room three months ago, after our regular midweek fling. He did an interview with his family for a magazine about a month back, a full two page spread. He played the misled and deceived husband to perfection; he claimed that I had relentlessly perused him. He went as far as to say I knew he was married and that I didn’t care, that nothing would have stopped me from having him. That’s the word according to Kasper.” My tears quickly dried, and in place was the anger that had been left burning inside me. “I’ve made it to the front cover of every cheesy magazine America has to offer. Kasper was made to look like a wronged hero, and I was made to look like a two-bit hooker. My parents haven’t spoken to me since it happened, I had to take a leave of absence from my job, and I had to leave my own damn country, all because Kasper Karish wanted a bit on the side.” I was standing now, my fists clenched in a fit of rage.

  Bradley stood eerily still; he could have been misconstrued for calm, but the anger burning in his beautiful eyes gave his fury away.

  “I have people who can fix this for you, Wiska. Just give me the word and I’ll make it go away.” Huh? “Just tell me you want it fixed, and I’ll make sure it’s done.”

  “How?” I balked.

  “I know people.”

  I rolled my eyes. Vague much? “S
o Andi said, but that’s not good enough for me. What kind of people?”

  “The dangerous kind.”

  “What, are you some kind of undercover Navy SEAL or something?” That drew a smile from him.

  “Not even close. The only person I’ve ever hit is Decker, and it hurt so I obviously did it wrong. I’m also not fond of swimming.”

  I leaned against the bed behind me, my anger syphoning away as I wondered what kind of people Bradley knew. Who was this man who made me want to drop my panties like a shameless hussy?

  “No, I need more than that. I hate Kasper, but I’m not about to have him offed or something. He has children!”

  “Offed?” Bradley burst out laughing.

  “Well, that’s what you’re insinuating, right?”

  “Not exactly,” he said uncomfortably as he rubbed the back of his neck.

  “What do you do?” I hated secrets, since Kasper even more so.

  Bradley cast me a nervous glance. “It’s better if you don’t know.”

  “How very mysterious, and totally hot.”

  Bradley’s anxious frown turned into a smug smile, which had me clenching my thighs together like a horny woman ready to climb the nearest available man, or silicone vibrator. “You should probably go say hi to Casey and Lionel. Let them know I’m not screwing that spectacular little body of yours into my mattress.”

  My mouth fell open, and I found all the sound that had been spilling from my lips moments ago simply gone.

  “Wow, every girl has a limit, push her just right and her voice will disappear. Who would have thought your limit would be threatening you with sex.”

  “It’s not exactly a threat,” I whispered, my breathy voice barely recognizable.

  Holy hell, I wasn’t that girl, the girl who was forward when it came to men and sex, unless it was in front of a camera with a director to call action . . . AND MY VAGINA WAS ON SABBATICAL!

  Bradley took the few steps between us until he was standing so close I could feel the heat from his body. “Dammit, pussycat, I can’t get you out of my head. I’m like a walking fucking hard-on,” he murmured. Oh, damn that was hot. Whisker biscuit, behave! “It would be so easy to turn you around, press you into this bed, and fuck you until my name is the only one you remember. Kasper would be nothing more than a speck of dust in the wind, and the only man you’d remember between these thighs would be me.” Hmmmm, maybe my vagina vacation could wait. “Are you wearing the black thong?”

  I nodded and parted. There was no sign of intelligent life left in this vessel.

  Bradley grinned and leaned forward, his nose feathering across my cheek. “I want to strip you down to those pretty lace panties, pull them aside, and fuck you out of my system.”

  And my throbbing lady bits paused. His frank admission kinda pissed me off. I gave his chest a subtle shove, and he stepped away. I walked towards the door, my head held high, with a sexy swing in my hips.

  “What makes you think it would be so easy to get me out of your system?” I asked, the ire in my tone clear. “You’ve got Davina to help with your itch. If you think just because I work in the adult film industry that I’m going to drop to my knees for you, you’re wrong. I’m not that kind of girl.”

  I left his room before I ruined my cast by smacking it over his head. I couldn’t remember a man ever getting under my skin the way Bradley did. He infuriated me one moment then stole my breath and sanity the next. If he hadn’t opened his mouth to let those asshole words out moments ago, he could have very well ruined me for all other men. Back to lady abstinence for me. As for the itchy, soggy note in my bra . . . well, I’d keep it, because I was sentimental like that.

  *

  “Get dressed, we’re going out.”

  I sat up from the couch and peered over the back. Moments ago, Bradley had stormed in from work and stomped right by me and into his bedroom. It was his usual MO, and it made living out of a suitcase, which was tucked away in the corner of said room, awkward.

  “Pardon?” I asked, putting my cell phone to one side.

  Bradley shifted from one foot to the other. He looked nervous. But that couldn’t be right because he was never nervous. Arrogant, check; confident, check; sarcastic, check. Bradley didn’t do timid and skittish.

  “It’s a casual place. You can wear jeans, but bring a jacket since it’s cool out tonight.”

  I just stared at him and wondered where the Moody Bradley Emerson had gone and who this anxious imposter was. His brow suddenly furrowed, and he scowled. Oh, there he was, just waiting to lure me into a state of confusion before pouncing with his usual, far too sexy grimace.

  “Casey and Lionel are having a date night or something, and I’m taking you out for dinner, so hurry up!” And with that he turned and stalked off to his bedroom, slamming the door in his wake.

  How very romantic . . . NOT. And the closed door to his bedroom was going to make getting dressed difficult. Luckily, I had stashed a few clothes in Lionel and Casey’s room weeks ago, when I realized we had reached an awkward and uncomfortable stalemate.

  I found a clean pair of skinny jeans and a black off the shoulder top with a zombie burlesque dancer on the front. I slipped on a pair of black heels with little skulls down the heel seam, gave my face a puff of powder, my blonde lashes a coat of dark brown mascara, and applied my favorite MAC lipstick shade, Girl About Town. I was able to use the fingers on my right hand that peeked out the end of my cast rather efficiently; otherwise, things would have looked a little more Heath Ledger as the Joker, rather than the clean, bright look I was aiming for. Smacking my bright pink lips together, I stuffed the lipstick and my cell phone into a small shoulder bag and strolled into the kitchen.

  Bradley’s door was still closed, so I poured myself a glass of water and waited . . . and waited and waited. Finally, when the door to his room swung open and a devilishly handsome Bradley stepped out, I decided the waiting was worth it. Wearing a pair of soft denim jeans and a button-down navy shirt rolled to his elbows, he was beyond gorgeous. His dirty blond hair was still wet from the shower, and he had shaved away the stubble, which I had fantasied about leaving beard burn between my thighs more than once.

  I sighed. I was the worst born again virgin in history.

  “Ummm, sorry,” he said rather sheepishly as he finger combed his hair. “I forgot your clothes are in my room. Do you need anything out of there? You should have just come in.”

  “And risk seeing you in all your naked glory . . .” I tapped my finger against my lower lip as my eyes ran up and down his body. “I’m totally just coming in next time.”

  Bradley grinned. “You look good, too, pussycat. Are you ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be.”

  I followed him out of the apartment, down the elevator, and into the basement parking garage. He drove with a quiet confidence that I found strangely erotic. Was there anything this man could do that didn’t turn me into a quivering mess of hormones? The memory of his not so sweet words, assuming that he could “fuck” his need for me away, yeah, there was that, and my lust dimmed under that memory.

  We drove in silence—I took in the grey brick landscape, and Bradley drove like a Formula One pro. He soon pulled into a vacant parking space in front of a quaint restaurant on a narrow street. I peered through the windows of the establishment but couldn’t see much. I startled when my door suddenly popped open, Bradley standing before me. He held out a hand, and I chuckled.

  “What did you do?” He gave me a quizzical look as he shut the car door. “Men only behave like this when they’ve done something wrong. So, what did you do? Did you accidentally wash my colors with my whites?”

  Bradley had surprised the hell out of me when I came home the day before to discover my laundry done and neatly folded on top of my suitcase. The thought of him sorting through my bras and panties made me blush for half a second before an illicit grin worked its way to my face. I hoped he had a severe case of blue-balls after the sight of my V
ictoria’s Secret matching sets. This man who thought he could work me out of his system with just one night between the sheets. Not possible. I got under people’s skin like a lovable parasite. Besides, if he tasted me, he’d be hooked, and I didn’t need that complication. I could certainly fantasize about it, though, repeatedly.

  “What do you mean colors with whites?”

  I gasped. “Bradley, you can’t wash colors with whites. It will ruin the whites.”

  “Oh,” he looked guilty as hell, “then I guess I’m buying you dinner because I might have ruined your whites.”

  We stared at each other, Bradley almost expecting me to smack him over the head. Instead, I burst out laughing, and soon enough, he was smiling right along with me.

  “You’re not angry?”

  “Lord no, the fact you washed my clothes gives you free reign to ruin everything I own for a few months, at the very least.”

  Bradley’s smile fell. “Well, you won’t be here that long, so you have nothing to fear.”

  Now my smile dimmed, too. The thought of going home was clouded with mixed emotions. I missed my apartment, my friends, and my family, even though they weren’t speaking to me, but strangely enough, I enjoyed being around Bradley, even if he was sullen and brooding most the time.

  Dating the painfully secretive Kasper Karish proved I was a glutton for punishment. Bradley Emerson was no exception. I was also enjoying the small amount of privacy the UK had offered that the US had been unable to. I hadn’t had another run-in with the paparazzi since the day Bradley had stepped in to rescue me. Oh, I had seen them and they had snapped a few photos from afar, but I didn’t leave the apartment without Lionel or Casey, so the cameras stayed back, and they were quickly becoming bored with my infrequent comings and goings. Facing the whiplash of gossip that surely awaited me back home made me feel anxious.

  Bradley pushed open the door to the restaurant. “I didn’t screw up your clothes . . . I think. I just like to treat women as they should be treated. My woman is always well fed and treated like a lady. A woman is the reflection of the man who stands behind her,” Bradley murmured, and I raised a brow.