Taming Mr. Walker: An Enemies to Lovers Age Gap Romance (The London Mister Series Book 1)

Charlie

I keep Mum and Danny at bay for an hour by hiding Cat and I among a group of investment bankers. We’re sampling the bar’s most exotic cocktails to the delight of our financial friends.

There is the ‘bacon-me-angry’ cocktail made with bacon fat-washed vodka, the ‘butternut-old-fashioned’ cocktail with spiced and sweetened butternut squash infused into Bourbon, and the plain nasty ‘bloody-tampon’ with whiskey, tequila, vodka, and cranberry juice for a splash of fake menstruation.

Nothing that should ever be in a drink, but that’s why they charge you double, and, hell, this is on Tristan’s tab. A girl must know when to keep her dignity versus when to freeload, and I certainly won’t be paying twenty-two pounds for butternut squash bourbon with my mother hovering in the background.

Tristan was right; he does have a lot of pervy friends. The bankers aren’t my cup of tea, but they serve the purpose of a confidence boost after Jen’s passive-aggressive roasting.

“You’ll sing, Charlie,” Mum announces as she approaches behind me. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”

I turn around to see her elbowing her way through the bankers. She’s red-faced from too many sherries. Now my own mother is cockblocking me.

Tristan saunters behind her, his eyes filled with mischief.

“What? No!” My mouth falls open. “This is not the time or the place for music from the old country. It’s Kensington, for God’s sake.”

“It’s tradition, sis.” Tristan grins. “I’ve made sure there’s a guitar here.”

“Tristan!” I wail. “Why would you do this to me? It’s not even a fucking funeral!”

“Language, Charlie!” Mum tuts. “Stop this nonsense. You have a beautiful voice. It’s the only reason I come to these shenanigans.”

My eyes narrow. “You come here for the free sherry, Mum. Tristan, please.” Looking at him pleadingly, I clasp my hands in prayer. “If you have any love for me, you’ll stop this car crash.”

He shrugs his shoulders as if it’s beyond his control. As if he had nothing to do with it except deliver the instrument to make it happen.

I whack him on the chest.

“Hey!” He rubs the attacked area. “I actually like your singing. Besides, I couldn’t live with Mum’s nagging if I didn’t.”

That’s easy for Tristan to say. The rest of the guests might not appreciate the interruption. He may not have anyone turn up on his forty-first birthday after this.

I glance up at the sexy stage and flinch. It’s designed for soul, jazz, or burlesque, not for an Irish fiddly-dee session.

“Singing at Aunt Mo’s funeral is one thing. I can handle that. Singing Irish covers at an exclusive members’ club—not so much!” Looking up at the ceiling, I let out a tiny wail. “Oh my God, why is this happening to me?”

He cocks a brow. “Stop being dramatic. Anyway, the band is waiting for you.”

“Charlie?” Mum calls.

“What?” I flip around to glare at her. “I’ve given in, damn woman. I’ll sing one song.”

She purses her lips into a thin line.  “Maybe you could put on a bra before you go on stage?”

Argh. I growl loudly and storm off, walking straight into Danny Walker.

A flicker of amusement crosses his face as he steps aside. “Good luck,” he says in his low, dry voice. The voice that makes my breath stall.

I grunt and move towards the stage.

Ten minutes later, and two bloody-tampon cocktails down the hatch, I’m waiting at the side of the stage. I look down at my breasts. Perhaps the chicken fillet bra is a mistake? I’m well-endowed in that department. The inserts are meant to make me appear sultry under dim lighting and sexy lampshades, not naked under a stage spotlight, like some sort of sex show.

It’s too late to inspect them further. The band beckons me on stage and introduces me on the mic.

As I walk onto the stage, a deep blush spreads outward from my cheeks and reaches my ears. The walk is always the worst part.

With a sympathetic smile, the lead singer hands me an electric guitar. It’s a tough transition to make, going from sexy jazz to old Irish country.

“Thanks for giving us a break.” He grins. “They’re all yours.”

He’s not bad-looking.

As I put the guitar strap around my neck, stage nerves rumble through my stomach. Since I was eight years old, Mum had wheeled me out at every wake and wedding to sing her traditional Irish favourites. I was the Kane singing sensation. Audience members are usually old Irish women who toe-tap their feet in appreciation. Not bloody Kensington brokers and lawyers whose idea of a piss-up is a weekend in Monaco with bottomless champagne aboard a chartered yacht. This is a more difficult crowd to please.

The crowd becomes uneasy with the lack of jazz. I clear my throat. “Sorry, folks,” I say into the mic in my huskiest stage voice. “My mother is forcing me to do this. Since my brother is paying for all your drinks, you’re expected to be nice to me. I promise I’ll only make you listen to one song. But please don’t cheer because then my mother will make me do it again.”

There are a few laughs and cheers in the crowd.

“Also, I’m used to doing funerals, so my main audience is mourners and the dead.”

There’s more laughing. That’s it, funny girl. Now they feel sorry for you and won’t boo you off the stage. Or the ‘brother paying for drinks’ line nailed it.

I start strumming, trying to channel Celtic rock vibes. I’ve chosen an upbeat Irish jig adapted for the electric guitar. It’s quite funky, like old traditional meets new rock.

It’s got a fast tempo, and the crowd sways in response.

The first line is a belter. My stage show’s success depends on this first line. If I don’t do a Sinead O’ Connor, it’s a flop. I breathe in then blast the opening.

The crowd responds with whoops and whistles.

I’ve nailed it.

The upscale Kensington club transforms into a rowdy Irish pub. Who am I kidding? Eventually they all do, no matter how stiff the suits are.

A few Chelsea types attempt to river-dance at the front of the dance floor. Cheers erupt from the audience, and I sing louder while strumming on the guitar furiously. Performing Irish music is like a workout. I’m sweating down my back and chest.

When I sing, I just lose myself in it. Once I get the first good reaction from the crowd, I can ride the adrenaline wave and own the stage.

The song’s a long one, about six minutes or so. Traditional Irish ones always are. I’m exhausted by the end, and my black jeans are sticking to me with sweat.

“Thanks, folks.” I give a little wave to show I’m done.

Claps and whoops erupt from the floor.

“One more!” a voice booms from the crowd.

I smile and shake my head.

“More!” The shouting continues, becoming louder as it propagates throughout the room.

On the side of the stage, the lead singer raises his eyebrows encouragingly. “One more?” he mouths.

I look down at the crowd.

Danny Walker stares at me, not smiling. I’ve grown accustomed to his rigid body and unfathomable stare over the past decade.

What is this asshole’s problem?

“OK, just one more,” I say into the mic. The next one I do isn’t a cover; it’s one of my own. It would be too much pressure for me to admit that to the crowd. I’ll let them think it’s another cover. It’s still Irish traditional but sultrier. I was obsessed with Amy Winehouse when I wrote it.

Mucking around with songs is just a hobby. I think some of my creations are pretty cool, but of course, I’m biased, as are my friends and family. Even Julie goes easy on me when it comes to my own creations.

I’ve never received constructive feedback, so the reality is that I probably sound like a banshee and get sympathy votes. I’ve even secured a few shags from doing gigs. Again, maybe sympathy shags, but I’ll take them. It’s nice to pretend you have groupies.

Mum thinks the songs are too sexy for funerals, so I never get to sing them.

With my eyes closed, I start strumming and singing. It would be too off-putting if people walked out during one of my own. I’m blessed with a decent vocal range that I can demonstrate in this song. I sing the last verse, deep and husky, then open my eyes to look down.

The first pair of eyes I lock onto are Danny Walker’s. While the crowd moves around him, he stands rigidly. His hands are buried in his pockets, as if this is the most uncomfortable situation he’s ever encountered. His dark gaze makes me stumble on the last line, and I curse him silently for controlling my vocal cords.

The crowd cheers in appreciation, and I hear someone shout my name. Likely Mum.

My eyes scan the room.

Cat’s mouth hangs open and her hands are laced over her chest. She’s my biggest fan.

Tristan beams up at me, and Mum looks chuffed despite the lack of an appropriate bra.

In my sweaty jeans, I trot off stage, waving.

“Sensational.” Mr. Lead Singer winks at me as I pass him the guitar.

I wink back, talking the language of flirt. At least someone appreciates my singing. Danny Walker and his rigid square jawline can go to hell.

As I walk through the crowd, I’m patted on the back like a D-list celebrity.

“Amazing Charlie!” Cat rushes forward to hug me. “It’s like Riverdance meets soul.”

“Wow!” From behind, strong arms lift me off my feet, and I tilt my head to see Jack Knight grinning at me. “Charlie, what are you doing to us? You broke everyone’s heart up there.”

I roll my eyes but bask in the compliment. Cat’s right, he’s easy on the eye. He can leave his arms around my waist.

“Very good,” Jen says, her lips forming a thin line. As if marking her territory, she has one arm around Danny’s waist and the other draped across his chest. I don’t blame her, women are circling. “I assume you only do covers?”

Bitch.

“The second one was one of her own,” a low, dry voice replies before I can, and I look up at him, surprised. How did Danny Walker know that?

“Uh, yeah, actually, it’s one of mine.”

A drunken bloke pushes me from behind. “Dolly Parton! Do Dolly!”

“I don’t do Dolly requests,” I snarl at him, creating distance between us.

“Dolly!” he roars again. “Come on, you’ve got the jugs for it.”

My mouth drops open.

“Back off,” Tristan growls behind me. “Who the fuck is that guy?” he mutters to Danny.

“Come on, Dolly bird,” the guy continues, misreading Tristan’s wrath.

People are staring now.

“It’s not American Country, it’s Irish Country, you moron,” I bite back. “Now back off … you Dolly loving dick.” It was the best insult I could muster.

Tristan steps in. “If you talk to my sister again like that, I’ll rip you a new asshole. I don’t know who you are but fuck off out of here before I do something I regret.”

I smile. Sometimes having a bad-tempered big brother is great.

***

Danny

Get a grip, man.

I down the rest of the glass like it’s cheap scotch rather than one of the world’s oldest single malts. My knuckles squeeze the glass so hard I might break it. I had been saving that malt for a special occasion, but tonight called for it. I needed something to take the edge off.

I jerked off twice in the dark, in my office.

Ridiculous. Not my typical end to one of Tristan’s parties.

I wonder what she’s doing now. Did she go home with anyone? There were enough rich fucks trying. Is she having sex with one of them right now? The jazz singer looked like he fancied his chances.

My dick’s been throbbing ever since I clocked that she wasn’t wearing a bra. Her naked back, the subtle outline of her breasts in the sheer top … what chance did I have after that?

My eyes close as I relive the swell of her breasts as she sang. Her jeans were so tight around her ass that they could have been painted on. Those lips, fuck, those full sexy lips that I can only get away with staring at when she’s singing. Imagining those lips wrapped around my cock, drinking me up. My cock twinges at the thought of her kneeling before me, eyes staring up at me as I hit the back of her throat.

On stage, she was so sassy and in control, I nearly came right there in my trousers. I had to keep readjusting myself like a dirty old man.

For such a possessive brother, I don’t know why Tristan encourages her on stage at those parties. I’m pretty sure I wasn’t the only one there with his hands in his pockets. She had us all captivated. All drooling like idiots.

The type of girl who can make a man fall on his knees and beg for a taste of her.

I was just another man in the audience lusting over the younger girl. So now I’m a fucking cliché. This is what happens past forty.

If Tristan knew, he’d beat me senseless.

It’s one itch I can never scratch. I’ve been warned enough times by Tristan to know that the friendship would end if I took a crack at his little sister. Not surprising since he knows me so well. After a few nights of passion, she would be gone from my system, and I would lose the best friend I’ve ever had.

I can’t put my finger on why she gets under my skin.  Yes, she’s beautiful, but I’m not exactly lacking in options. Perhaps it’s because she looks at me with such venom, there’s no doubt about how much she despises me.

Perhaps it’s because she’s one of the only women in the city I can’t touch.

Her mother was videotaping her tonight.

I need to get my hands on that video. I wonder how I’ll wrangle that from Tristan without making it look suspicious. I smirk at the thought of asking Mrs. Kane for a video of her daughter singing so I can add it to my wank bank.

The knots in my shoulders tighten. I should have sorted a plan by now. Having her work under me isn’t a viable option. I’ll offer her an obnoxious sum that she can’t refuse in exchange for quitting.

Before I start something I immediately regret.

I laugh out loud. Am I losing my game in old age? There’s an acquisition worth twenty million pounds in the works, and my number one concern is that my best friend’s younger sister, who I’d like to fuck, is an employee?

First thing tomorrow morning, I’ll call Tristan and explain what I need to do. He’s a businessman; he’ll understand my justification.

Let’s hope he doesn’t smell the bullshit.