Taking my foot off the gas, I rounded the corner and drove into Heaven’s parking lot. Already, cars packed and surrounded the nightclub.
My buddy, Tyson sat in the passenger seat. A year ago, we’d met at the gym and started hanging out.
He had dark brown skin and a bald head. I was the complete opposite with a tapered cut and always tanned skin due to running on the beach every morning.
We both loved the gym, meeting up together daily.
I needed the muscles. When I fucked, I loved to pick women up and slam my cock deep into them. With that fetish, I needed strong arms because only God knew when I would put them down.
Race wasn’t something we discussed, but I knew Tyson battled with it each day. Every time I let Tyson drive my Bugatti, he was stopped by the cops and I had to show up to the scene and explain that he hadn’t stolen it.
My other buddy, Karan drove in his car behind us.
Tyson clapped his hands and rubbed them together just like an evil wizard would. “The club looks packed tonight. Check out these cars and these women. Damn!”
“It’s going to be a good night.” I drove us to the front, climbed out, and gave the keys to the valet.
A gorgeous redhead swayed by, winked at me, and then turned to my car, gaping at the beautiful machine for several seconds. A low feminine growl left her lips. She gazed back and blew me an inviting kiss.
I don’t think so, sweetheart.
Since coming into money, I had to watch out for gold-diggers. While some guys used their bank accounts to get laid, I wanted women to get in my bed due to my cock and smile. I didn’t flash and show off.
My fat wallet stayed hidden.
I didn’t need someone in my car because it was the new edition Aston Martin One-77 with the Kingmaker coloring—scarlet red and midnight black lathered in flecks of gold. It was the car used in the first three Kingmaker movies. And anytime I drove it, women damn near slung panties at me during red lights.
Tyson jumped out on the other side, whistling at my car. “She’s so damn beautiful. I could fuck your car all night.”
I frowned. “Stay away from Scarlett. She has standards.”
“Not if she lets you drive her.”
My frown broke into a grin. “Good point.”
The valet hopped in Scarlett and drove her away.
Karan drove up to our side. He had a Ferrari that turned many heads. He called it Beast because it looked like a Bengal tiger—all violent yellow with black stripes and a white belly. Most of his family was from Bengal—around the eastern part of India.
Karan Kapoor—KK to his best friends. Every time we were on a beach or at some island resort pool and Karan rose out of the water, women swooned and thought he was some famous actor called Hrithik Roshan—The Greek God of Bollywood.
Karan jumped out of the Beast and handed his keys over to a different valet. “Damn, Logan. You drove here like an old lady.”
“I had to drive slow.” I shrugged. “I didn’t think you would be able to keep up with that trash heap you call a car.”
“The Beast would eat up Scarlett any day.”
“Keep dreaming, KK, just keep on dreaming.”
A full moon hovered in the sky. The cool night air brushed against my skin. Even though I hated nighttime—the all-consuming darkness—at least the stars glowed bright.
“Hey fellas.” A group of women giggled at us as they waved.
I waved back and watched them enter the club. “I’m glad you guys dragged me here. I needed a break.”
“I’m glad your sisters let us take you.” Tyson wiped imaginary sweat from his head. “Jesus. Your sisters are hot, but they’re ball breakers.”
“They think they’re protecting me.”
Karan mimicked the twins. “Don’t have Logan out all night, or we will find you, and we will kill you...slowly.”
I laughed. “They like to think they can put me on a curfew.”
I’d just hit thirty. Most of my sisters were different levels of twenty. Back when we were kids, Celia had always lost her shoe, puzzle pieces, and toys. Always breaking something. Always whining for me to fix it. Now, she was divorced and heart-broken. I’d never even met the jerk off husband. She’d married some loser one weekend in Las Vegas and ended it the next month.
At twenty-seven, the twins Reece and Rina—my dutiful princesses—both were finishing medical school, stayed in our building, and never partied. They planned on heading onto residency with the local hospital just around the block from our building. They gave me no trouble, but I still worried that they didn’t take enough time off.
Then there was Patricia, the most argumentative being I’d ever met at twenty-five. We’d decided to open a bookstore and coffee shop together. It would happen soon, if we could just stop arguing over every fucking detail.