Page 1 of Little Bird

1

Bane

It’sgood to be fucking king.

King of pussy.

King of coke.

Lord and ruler of the finest goddamn gentleman’s club in the whole of California.

From my vantage in the upstairs office, I looked down upon my dominion, feeling all fuckingLion King.

Everything the light touches…

Fuck, James Earl Jones was the man.

I’d worked fucking hard for all of this, firstly by graduating business school while working my ass off with drug baron, Marco Mancini. I’d lined my pockets with his cash before finally disposing of him.

Hey, a guy like me can’t have fucking competition, right?

The bastard had to have seen it coming. He’d groomed me since I was a thirteen-year-old pickpocket on the streets of Venice Beach. First, he had me acting like a gopher before I’d begged him for more. I’d literallybeggedhim to sell coke, and the sick fuck had given me exactly what I’d wanted—the keys to the damn castle.

Long live the new king.

I drained the last of my drink, my gaze bouncing around the converted warehouse. The place had been stripped and refitted, doing away with all that industrial chic shit and adding a touch of class.

The Dollhouse was my pride and joy.

Fifty thousand square feet of pussy, kink, and debauchery.

So much pussy.

“Hey, daddy,” someone said behind me. I glanced over my shoulder at Kandy, with a ‘K,’ naturally. Her real name was Cecile, and she was a law student trying to pay her way through college. I made it a point to learn everything I could about my employees because I never knew when that shit could be of use to me. For example, Kandy with a ‘K’ had a long-term boyfriend who was cheating on her, although fuck knew why. Kandy was smoking hot, and if I didn’t have the rule of not fucking the dancers, you can bet your ass I’d have her bent over my desk right now.

Readjusting my dick, I turned around to look at her. Dressed in black lingerie that covered just enough to get men to dig into their pockets for Benjamins and fuck-me heels that made her athletic calves look killer, she stood there holding a glass of amber liquid.

I folded my arms over my chest. “What’s up, baby?”

“I thought you might need a top-up,” she replied in a smoky voice, gesturing to my now empty glass on the sideboard in front of the window. I crooked my finger at her, and she came fucking running. As she handed me the whisky, she asked in a purr, “Anything else I can do for you?” Her hand found my semi-hard dick, and she started to rub. I even let her for a minute. I mean, I didn’t touch the drugs I sold, but blowjobs were something else. Being surrounded by beautiful fucking women with their barely-there lingerie-clad bodies did something to man’s self-control. And by did something, I meant it strained it to fucking shit.

I watched her intensely as she stroked me, but I wouldn’t let her do much more than that. I might have been a criminal, but I still had standards.

Don’t let pussy distract you.

Don’t snort the product.

Call your sister weekly.

See? Easy.

“You like that, daddy?”

“Don’t call me that,” I replied. “I’m not your fucking daddy. You’re not on right now.”

Kandy pouted but didn’t stop rubbing my dick. With a wicked smile I’d seen her use on so many clients, she began undoing the zipper on my black slacks, but I grabbed her wrist to stop her.

Shaking my head, I pulled her hand away. “You know the rules, baby,” I said the words softly, but I wanted to scream them. For years, my Dolls have been trying to get a piece of me. It had gotten to the point where I was now the ultimate challenge. Who could fuck Bane Rivera and survive?

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