Big Bad Bouncer (Misters of Manhattan Book 2) Read online

  Big Bad Bouncer

  Misters of Manhattan - Book Two

  Lana Lachlan

  Published by Blushing Books

  An Imprint of

  ABCD Graphics and Design, Inc.

  A Virginia Corporation

  977 Seminole Trail #233

  Charlottesville, VA 22901

  ©2020

  All rights reserved.

  No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The trademark Blushing Books is pending in the US Patent and Trademark Office.

  Lana Lachlan

  Big Bad Bouncer

  EBook ISBN: 978-1-64563-245-0

  v3

  Cover Art by ABCD Graphics & Design

  This book contains fantasy themes appropriate for mature readers only. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as Blushing Books' or the author's advocating any non-consensual sexual activity.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Lana Lachlan

  Blushing Books

  Blushing Books Newsletter

  Chapter 1

  The man on door security checked his watch for the third time in as many minutes. 3:46 a.m. Fourteen minutes until the club closed and he could call it a night. Over the past six hours, he’d evicted half a dozen drunks, been spat on, had some bozo throw up on his shoes and now two loaded women were offering to test the mattress in his apartment. In other words, just another Saturday night for the Fortune Club’s muscle.

  One of the women tried to climb his six three, two forty-pound frame. “Hey big guy, what about a three-way at your place?”

  Rule One of the bouncer’s handbook: Don’t take the clientele home.

  Politely he eased her back, managed a stiff smile. “No thank you, ma’am.”

  She pressed in again. “Aw, c’mon.”

  A persistent one. “You need to go home and sleep it off.”

  Fingers hooked his belt. “Only if you come with.”

  Rule Two: Don’t fuck them, period.

  “I don’t think so, ma’am.”

  The fingers inched into more intimate territory. “We’ll show you a good time.”

  He extracted her hand, impressed with her determination. If she and her friend weren’t patrons, he might’ve been tempted to take the edge off with two leggy blondes well seasoned in the decadences of the one-night stand.

  “Enjoy the rest of your evening, ma’am.”

  Before she could set up an objection, he navigated her to one of the waiting cabs, opened the back door and seamlessly funneled her inside while deftly avoiding her grab for his belt again. Some people couldn’t take a hint if it bit them on the ass.

  “Driver, take this young lady and her friend home.”

  The cabbie grinned. “Right.”

  The friend climbed in, giggling. Tomorrow they’d be nursing outsized hangovers and a week from now, they’d be doing it all over again, if not at the Fortune, then some other joint. The club might be on Sixth Avenue but in his experience, four in the morning turned them all into joints. Or maybe that was his sleep-deprived, to-hell-with-this-shit brain talking.

  Retaking his position at the door, he rolled his tight shoulders, wishing he could loosen his tie and undo the top button of his white business shirt. His shirt had to be kept closed to hide his lower neck tattoos as inked bouncers didn’t go down well in this part of town.

  Fuck this job.

  Another check of his watch. Eight minutes to go.

  Poking his head through the club’s entrance, he saw the place was down to the stragglers. They trickled out in small groups, milling around on the sidewalk, unwilling to call it a night. He could hear a group arguing about which bar to hit next and another in a heated exchange over who had started out as the designated driver. Both groups set off down the street, still quarrelling.

  Four young women emerged and walked off in the same direction, high heels clicking on the sidewalk. A minute later, one of the city’s busiest paparazzi wandered out, lit a cigarette and headed for his vehicle parked across the street.

  Thank Christ, that was the last of them.

  Taking his hip flask from the inside pocket of his jacket, he swigged a nip of Scotch. Nothing tasted better after a long night standing guard over well-oiled humanity out on the town. He felt more tired than usual tonight. This job wearied a man. It’d be bed for the next eight hours.

  Rehousing the flask, he was about to step inside and lock the front door when he had to wait for a group exiting the club. Three men and a woman headed for a limo that had rolled up, engine running, rear passenger door open. Wall Street types in suits. At first glance, they didn’t seem out of the ordinary but taking a closer look, something was off. One guy had his arm around the woman’s waist to support her weight while the other two men walked either side, casual-like but watching her, as though sizing up a lucky catch. She had her head down, eyes half-closed, mouth slack.

  Immediately, he knew. Roofied and about to become the gentlemen’s pleasure in the back of the limo.

  He blocked the group’s path to the car. “Ma’am, are you okay?”

  One of the men—a big guy who apparently liked the odds of taking him down—got in his face. “Get lost.”

  “Sir, step aside.”

  “I said get lost.”

  This tool thought working a punching bag at a fitness gym made him pro material. He’d dealt with dozens of pricks like this although decking a Wall Streeter outside an exclusive Manhattan nightclub wouldn’t be good for business or a bouncer’s career.

  Fuck it.

  He jabbed the guy in the gut hard enough to send him reeling back to hit the sidewalk. While he lay curled up clutching his abdomen, the second man came forward, fists up, so he got the same treatment, only twice as hard. He shouldn’t have done that. Yeah, but it felt good.

  While they lay writhing and groaning on the sidewalk, the man holding the woman’s waist tossed her purse in the front seat of the car. “She’s my wife, you moron. I’m taking her home.”

  A glance at the woman’s ring finger said otherwise. “Like hell she’s your wife. Let her go.”

  “Christ, Sutton, I didn’t sign up for trouble. Leave her.”

  Until this point, he hadn’t noticed the limo’s driver gesturing to his companions to get in the car. Sutton, unwilling to give up his prize, held on. “Get the manager now so I can clear this up.”

  And by then he’d have her in the car and into the night. He put himself closer. “You leave, she stays.”

  “She’s drunk, that’s all.”

  “Get going before I call the cops on you for spiking a woman’s drink.”

  “Screw you.”

  Sutton shoved the woman so hard, she hit the limo’s front passenger door, slid down and landed flat on her ass in the gutter. He curled his fist to deliver a handy right hook but hearing the scrape of shoes behind him, decided against the fight. Littering the sidewalk with club patrons would mean early retirement from his short career.

  He settled for something less violent. “I suggest you listen to your driver and get the fuck out of here.”

  All three stood glaring at him, obviously weighing up whether to take him on, then abandoned the idea when the driver revved the engine.

  “You’ll pay for
this,” Sutton snarled when safely inside and out of reach.

  Yeah, yeah. He’d heard it all before. They left on a squeal of tires, probably worried about ending their night in a police cell although there was no proof they were involved in drugging the woman. Regardless, he made a mental note of the vehicle’s license plate number.

  The woman hadn’t moved from the gutter. Squatting down, he checked her. Semi-conscious and apart from a bruised arm, she seemed fine. Picking her up, she slumped against him, the top of her head making a comfortable home under his chin. She smelled expensive.

  Easing her back, he raised her face. “Can you hear me, ma’am?”

  Her eyes opened and he caught a flash of emerald before they shuttered again. The drug mimicked alcohol intoxication so she’d be drowsy for several hours then wake up with a blazing headache and no memory of what happened. But now he had a problem of what to do with her as the club had a strict rule about not allowing customers to remain after hours. Moreover, she needed to be watched until the drug wore off. He’d have to take her to his place.

  Texting the bar manager to do the lock up, he set off along Sixth Avenue with the woman tucked under his arm, the tips of her shoes scraping along the ground, her head slumped against his chest. He lived two blocks away and at the final hundred yards, he carried her in his arms the rest of the way, cursing as he tripped on the unlit concrete steps to the side entrance of his building. He owned seven stories of dilapidated 1920’s bricks and mortar, rented out to a mishmash of small businesses that could barely afford to stay open let alone pay him enough rent to install better lighting.

  He carried her into the creaking iron-caged elevator and when it ground to a shuddering halt at the top floor, propped her against the wall while he slid back the heavy steel door to his loft. He never locked the place as no one came up here and if they did, they’d get a nasty surprise in the form of his guard dog, Axel.

  The German shepherd came to greet him, tail wagging and grinning as dogs do for their masters.

  “Stay.”

  Axel sat, then lay down resting his nose on his paws.

  “Good boy.”

  Carrying the woman across the expanse of concrete floor, he deposited her on his unmade bed. If he’d known he was having company, he’d have changed the sheets, although six weeks between changes didn’t seem so bad on the slob scale. The last woman who’d been here, he’d paid for and she hadn’t objected although as he remembered it, he’d fucked her over the table. Since his release from prison six months ago, he’d opted for a business approach to his sex. He liked the convenience of working girls, respected them and enjoyed their company, including their talk. He didn’t give a rat’s behind how they or anyone else earned their living. Besides, he wasn’t exactly pretty. Bulked up, military grade buzz cut, heavily inked and carrying a few battle scars. Any woman who’d service him deserved his respect.

  But this woman didn’t look like any woman he’d ever had in his bed, or his life for that matter. One hundred percent class and the kind who’d always be out of bounds to someone like him.

  “You’ll be fine in a few hours, ma’am.”

  She stirred although he doubted she’d heard what he said. Looking down at her slender form, she reminded him of a sleeping beauty—like in the fairytale that he’d seen on the TV as a kid. He wasn’t good with ages but she looked mid-twenties, perhaps a year or so younger. Delicately made, medium height and legs for days. Her long dark hair lay in a fan around her pale face, her full lips parted as she breathed steadily. Pink lipstick and nail polish and a silky white dress completed the virginal image although her moving around had pushed the bottom up and he could see a triangle of white thong—the material so thin, her landing strip showed.

  Eyes up pervert.

  She moved again, sliding a leg wide over the sheets. Heck, he had to look. The thong had stretched between her pussy lips so there was nothing left to the imagination of what she’d look like without it. His cock stirred. A normal male response, he reasoned. Nothing that jacking off in the shower wouldn’t fix.

  Grabbing a blanket, he tried to cover her but she sat up in her sleep and started tearing at her dress as though it was in the way. He helped her out—stripping her down to thong and bra before arranging her back on the bed where she stretched out and flopped her arms wide. A good rack plumped up over a half bra. Beautiful but he shouldn’t be looking.

  Quickly covering her with the blanket, he fed Axel and took his shower. Ten minutes later and she hadn’t moved so he grabbed a beer and sat in an armchair to take in the early morning view of Manhattan. He’d inherited the building from his great uncle—a recluse who’d lived here for over fifty years and hadn’t married or kept in contact with family. He’d never met the guy so it had come as a surprise to be the beneficiary of a Sixth Avenue building. Now this was home, complete with the old boy’s ancient furniture, bad plumbing, rusty beams and peeling paint. The only good thing was the old bookcase crammed with books that he’d been reading in his spare time. The rentals covered the high property taxes and maintenance requirements but everything else came from his jobs. Neither paid much but at least he’d managed to make ends meet without having to sell his prime piece of real estate.

  He glanced at the girl. She could wake at any time and when she did, she’d get the shock of her life coming face to face with him. She wouldn’t be too impressed with his home either. This woman would have all the comforts money could buy. In that fancy dress, she must have been on a date and somehow ended up by herself. She needed a few lessons in self-care, starting with never leaving a drink unattended.

  He heard her moan. On a light tread, he approached the bed, hoping like hell the sleeping beauty wouldn’t scream her head off at the sight of him bearing down on her. Her eyes were open, fixed on the ceiling and when they shifted to him, they widened in fright. Damn, he should have put on a t-shirt to cover the chest ink. In the dim light, a big bastard like him had to look like her worst nightmare come to life.

  “It’s okay,” he soothed. “You’ve been out of it for a few hours but you’ll be fine.”

  She cowered into the pillows as though he might jump her. “Wh-where am I?”

  Apart from a slight slur to her voice, she seemed okay. “In my loft, ma’am.”

  Pushing the blanket back, she stared at her underwear and then at him. “What did you do to me?”

  “I haven’t touched you. I’m door security at the Fortune Club. You were roofied by three men who tried to get you in a limo but you won’t remember any of it. I brought you here to sleep it off.”

  Obviously she didn’t believe him as her hand shot between her legs. He watched her fingers moving around under the thong. Christ, what a time to wish his were doing that.

  “Ma’am, as I said, I haven’t touched you.”

  Her gaze went over his tats and he saw the contempt. “If I hadn’t woken up, you would have, you dirtbag.”

  The assumption that only tattooed dirtbags took advantage pissed him off more than it should. But being the conscientious dirtbag that he was, he explained the realities of roofying. “Dirtbags come in all shapes and sizes, ma’am. You would’ve been gangbanged six ways from Sunday if I hadn’t stepped in.” He laid her dress on the bed. “I’ll call you a cab.”

  She looked at him coldly. “First, I want an apology.”

  That floored him. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. What’s more I should have you arrested.”

  Every night he got that threat outside the club and he didn’t like it, not from some drunk on the sidewalk and definitely not from some ungrateful snippet in his loft. The drug often made people aggressive, which apparently included sleeping beauties.

  He shrugged. “As you wish. Now if you’ll get out of my bed, I can get some shuteye.” He grinned to crack her icy exterior. “Unless you’d care to join me.”

  She clutched the dress to her breasts. “Not with a big ugly Neanderthal like you.”


  Ouch. But in her defense, he’d asked for that. “Fair enough but this Neanderthal needs his sleep so if you’ll get dressed, Ms.?”

  “Mind your own business. Anyway, who are you?”

  “The name’s Gage.”

  She glanced around as though there were rats in the walls. “And where is this God-awful place?”

  “Two blocks from the club.”

  With a glare at him, she slid off the bed swaying when she tried to walk. He caught her, supporting her weight but she twisted from his hold and fell flat on her back against the mattress. When she rolled over to wriggle upright again, his eyeballs latched onto a set of perky buttocks, neatly divided by thong floss. His mind fell straight to the gutter and as if she knew, she slapped her hands on her butt like he intended to stake a claim.

  “Stay away from me.”

  He held up his own hands in mock surrender. “Look, I’m not going to touch you so take it easy. Put your clothes on while I call the cab.”

  She began rummaging around in the sheets, affording him another eyeful of ass and legs. The snippet was starting to be a problem on another level. From the moment he’d laid her out, his briefs had fitted a shade tighter.

  “What did you do with my purse?”

  Her complaining voice pierced his thoughts.

  “Ma’am, the dirtbags took your purse,” he explained, doing his best to maintain some basic politeness. “I’ve got the vehicle’s plate number if you want to report it.”

  That just made her madder. “You’re lying. I know you have my purse.”

  Yep, this woman could wear a man down and then some. “It’s not here but I’ll give you cab money to get home.”

  “I’m not a whore, asshole.”