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See, I got this hierarchy, and if blondes knew about it, they’d probably stop lining up at my bed. The lighter the blonde, the more perfect the roots, the less tempting they are to keep around. No woman over twenty-five is still platinum to the roots. Just ain’t happening if the babe ain’t Fae. The kind of woman that dyes her hair platinum is on the prowl for exactly what—and all—I’m willing to give: a fuck.
The darker the hair, the more complicated the deal. If she’s not obsessively maintaining her roots, her nails, her clothes, she expects things like discussions, dates, disclosures. Bloody hell, she wants respect. Which I’m all about giving. I respect them the entire time they’re sharing my bed and I treat them great when they’re not, flirting them up, telling them how beautiful they are, while pointing them at the next man to help them get over me. I even get food for their kids, medicine and shit, ’cause times are tough. But if one of them starts to get clingy, I suddenly got a whole lot of work to do. Like, in another country.
By the time you work your way down the hierarchy to a brunette, you got yourself a woman who knows who she is, likes it enough that she ain’t gonna change, and is probably gonna try to change you, if push comes to shove.
Pushy, that’s what brunettes are. Even the dainty, fragile-looking ones.
Big-boobed blondes are all about the fun, the sparkle, the bling, the heat, the moment. I love ’em. I’m bugfuck crazy about ’em. They keep my life simple and sweet. They don’t inspire any of the feelings that made me the Bonecrusher.
“It’s not what Ryodan does,” Jo says slowly. “It’s more what he is.” Her eyes take on a serious sheen. “He’s like, unbelievably brilliant, ten steps ahead of everyone else all the time.”
Bullshit. He’s not that smart. I beat him at Triad. Once. About ten thousand years ago.
“I used to think he didn’t care about anything or anyone, but he does. Just not me. His passion runs deep. That’s why he’s always so controlled.”
Give me a motherfucking break. He’s controlled because he’s a control freak, plain and simple. Damn near every time he moves us, he ends up running the empire: king, dictator, or rutting pagan god.
“I think he’s the glue that holds you guys together. You’re his family and he’d do anything to preserve it.”
Okay, so she’s right about that. We had some dark times. Without the boss, I’m not sure where we’d all be. Scattered across the globe, if not galaxies. Living alone. Living hard. But he forced us to stay together. And we’re glad he did. Well, most of us are.
“I see how he feels about his world and I want to be one of the parts he prizes. I want to be worth fighting for. Worth the same kind of effort he puts into the things that matter to him. Like Dani.”
I don’t tell her no human matters to the boss like Dani. “What the fuck does any of this have to do with sex? You aren’t talking about hotness, babe. You’re talking about wanting the man that doesn’t want you as much as you want him, and probably only for that reason. Boss is no fucking prize.” Chicks. Christ. They just don’t get it sometimes.
“Ryodan’s—” She breaks off and shakes her head sharply and I see the moment she decides to lighten it the fuck up—thank you!—but then she goes and screws things up by saying with a soft laugh, “Well, for one thing he’s not blond.”
I glare at her suspiciously and shove a hand through my blond hair. I refuse to believe a woman—any woman—practices my hierarchy in reverse. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
“Blond guys are hot and sexy and … well, fun and all that, but for some reason I usually avoid them. It’s the dark-haired guys that get me. I don’t know, I take them more seriously. They come off as more …” She sighs dreamily. “… dangerous. Ryodan is definitely more dangerous than you. I mean, really, what do you do? You screw blondes and act like a caveman. But back to what I really want to know: can you read minds and could you help me organize my thoughts? And if so, what do you want in exchange?”
“Ryodan,” I manage to say without snarling. Well, okay, so maybe I snarl a little. “You think he’s more dangerous.” She not only just insulted my dick and what I do with it, she’s now moved on to insulting my fucking existence.
“I don’t want to talk about him. I came here to forget him. Can we just not talk about him?”
“You’re the one who brought him up.”
