Cockney:A Stepbrother Romance(12)

If you believe in them, you might say Danny Cole is a sort of guardian  angel. That is, if you also believe guardian angels drink like Irish  dock workers and fuck anything with a pair of tits that moves.



"Sorry, late night at Jolie, and-" I shoot the bouncer a withering look, "Had a bit of a problem with the list it seems."



Danny shakes his head, "Oy, well, get your ass in there son; you're  gonna love it in here." He turns and pats the bouncer on the shoulder.  "Easy there boy-o, he's with me," Danny says as he passes him a wad of  notes. He grabs the two girls he walked out with and drags them back  inside, jerking his head at me to follow.



"Yeah, boy-o," I say with the fakest smile I can come up with as I clap  the big bouncer on the shoulder too, "Down boy." His eyes narrow at me,  but he doesn't say shit as I follow Danny inside the club.



*****



It's fuckin mad inside; and that's even before Danny leads us through  the crowd back to the VIP area he's commandeered. The VIP area full of  champagne, booze, and fuckin' gorgeous girls just gaggling to hang out  with him.



Jesus, celebrité suits Danny well.



When we sit, we're instantly surrounded by girls with bedroom eyes;  girls who drape themselves over the two of us, girls who laugh at  everything Danny says, and girls who trace fingers over my arms with  stars in their eyes.



Kitchen groupies.



The fucked up thing is, this actually exists. With chefs being the new  celebrity rock stars they are these days, the rock-star lifestyle  naturally follows. Model-slash-hostesses and actress-slash-waitresses,  food bloggers, restaurant reviewers, or just star-fuckers who see your  name in the paper next to a picture of success and see it as their best  shot of touching greatness.



Okay, given, these girls are all here for Danny, but cool by association is never really a bad thing now is it?



I mean the man only has one dick.



"Oy, so how's it being the top-dog, Beckett?" Danny says, running a hand  through his silver-tipped hair as a young blonde thing on his lap tries  to kiss his neck. "Feel like murdering your whole staff yet?"



I laugh. "Naw, mate; it's-" I shrug, "It's exciting."



Danny grins, the lines around his eyes crinkling. He's one of those  pricks that just gets more handsome with age; one of those guys that  makes me hope I age more like my mother's side than my pudgy, balding  father's.



"So thats a yes on murdering the lot of them?" He says.



"Shit yes," I say, raising a glass of champagne to him as he laughs.



"Fun being at the top, eh?"



I snort, "We calling Jolie the top now?"



Danny rolls his eyes as the girl on his lap starts to suck on his  earlobe. "I can get you a job at fuckin Burger King if you like, boy-o.  You got a packed house over there every night at your father's place and  you've got a kitchen they sunk, what, like a million quid into?" He  snorts again before tossing back the rest of his champagne. "Don't be  one of those twenty-three year old jaded twats, Ollie."



I shrug, nodding at him as the girl next to me on the couches slides up  closer to me, as if her interest in me is directly tied to how much  attention I get from Danny.



It probably is, and I probably don't give a fuck.



"So, Marco giving you any shit over there?"



"Nah," I say, "I'm running it real proper."



Danny smirks past the girl in his lap, "Yeah I bet. Little hothead like  you trying to make everyone scared of him, right?" He shrugs, "It ain't  easy at the top mate. You're isolated up there."



"Tell me about it."



"Aw, now what's the matter, lad, run out of waitresses and hostesses to  fuck over there?" Danny grins at me while a second girl comes up behind  the first attached to his neck and starts kissing her neck. "C'mon mate,  what'd I teach you about fishing off the company pier?"



"Probably something like, ‘they've got the best fish'?"



Danny roars out a laugh before raising a hand to our personal cocktail waitress and gesturing for another bottle of bubbly.



Run out of waitresses and hostesses to fuck over there? Yeah, right.  Except I'm not sure how to tell a guy like Danny that it's the opposite.  How do you tell a perpetual bachelor like the man sitting next to me,  the man who taught me everything I know about getting pussy, and the man  with three girls now literally crawling all over him that it's actually  one girl that's got me twisted up in this vice I can't seem to break  out of? How the fuck do I even begin to explain that I'm actually  annoyed by the girl running her hands over my thighs because all I can  think about is Chloe and her outright denying me?



"Listen, Ollie; stick it out with Jolie," Danny says, looking me in the  eye. "I know working for your pops ain't ideal, but that's a good place  to earn your wings, mate." He sighs and then reaches over to clap me on  the shoulder, "Now buck up and cheer up, and go take this pretty young  thing-" he grins at the girl climbing into my lap, "into the bathroom or  something. You're making me nervous over there, lad."



He's right, really. The whole Chloe thing is fucking with my head in  ways my head never get's fucked with by a girl. I need to forget the  whole thing and just move on to things I know, like fucking models in  club bathrooms. The Chloe thing? Fuck that. That's a tree I need to stop  barking up anyways. Time to drink up and forget.



*****



A few drinks later, and that plan is just not fuckin' working; the whole  "getting Chloe out of my mind" bit. The girl on my lap is running her  hands over my chest, leaning into my neck as if to kiss me there even  though I keep absently pulling away every time she does. I'm just not  fucking feeling it; at all.



This girl is fake; in every sense of it. This girl is a shadow following  the light of the fame. She doesn't want me, she wants what I am. She  wants what I represent, and the idea of that has me gritting my teeth.



But I know what I need, regardless of her intentions. What I need is to  fuck Chloe Caulfield right out of my system. What I need is what I knew I  needed when I walked in here. I need to bury my cock balls deep in  something strange and something that'll hopefully scream loud enough to  get Chloe's name out of my head.



So when the girl who's name I honestly don't even know asks me if I  "want to get out of here", I say "fuck yeah," even if just on instinct.



And when we're in the cab, and she's all over me, I'm still trying to make myself get into it, even if I'm still not.



"Oy, c'mon baby, I want to feel you fuck me right here in the cab." A  girl this forward would normally have me hard a steel, but for some  reason it's sort of just turning me off this time. And I'm trying to  muster myself up to get into this and just do what I know I need to do  to get Chloe out of my damn system, when the girl starts to pull her  skirt up, flashing her panties at me in the back of the taxi. "C'mon,  fuck me chef," she says.



Fuck.



It's the words I was dying to hear from Chloe earlier. The words I'd  give a fucking leg to hear out of her mouth. But hearing it from this  girl's overly-made-up lips is just the final breaking point of the whole  night for me, and I'm just done.



"Oy, where do you live luv?"



She grins at me, like this is me finally saying yes to her invitation,  "Hackney," she says, batting her eyes and licking her lips.



"Fantastic." I knock on the driver's glass, "Oy, pull over here, mate."



She suddenly looks at me like I'm crazy. "Where are you going?"



"Sorry darling, gotta work in the morning." I pass a bundle of notes to the driver, "Make sure she's in first, yeah?"



"Are you fucking serious?" She's glaring at me now, as if me not wanting  to fuck her in the back of a taxi makes me some sort of reprehensible  asshole.



"Nice meeting you," I say, shutting the door behind me and knocking on the roof to signal the driver.



"Fag!" She screams out the window as the taxi pulls away into the night.



Classy ladies you hang out with, Danny, I grumble to myself, clenching my jaw.



I'm not far from home, so I walk, ignoring my raging case of blue balls  and still trying to figure out how to get Chloe fucking Caulfield out of  my Goddamn head.





I turn over for the fifteenth time, tangling myself up more in the  sheets as I glare at the clock on the bedside table. Wonderful, four  o'clock in the morning and I still can't find sleep.



And I know why I can't, even if I don't want to admit that to myself. I  don't - can't - admit to myself that the reason I can't get my brain to  turn off is the same reason I can't seem to get my libido to shut the  hell up either.         

     



 



This is withdrawal, that's all, I grumble to myself as I roll over and  stare up at the ceiling. I just need to stop thinking about that  asshole.