Badd Boy

by Jasinda Wilder

  Bast's eyebrows lifted. "No kidding. Anything else?"

  I swallowed hard. "We...I--there was a kiss."

  Bast whistled low, a sound of disbelief. "No fucking way." He reached out and grabbed my hand, squeezing it. "Buddy, you're growing up!"

  I narrowed my eyes at him, withdrawing my hand. "I do not find that humorous, Sebastian."

  He held up his hands. "Okay, okay, sorry." A frown crossed his face. "So, this chick is hot, classy, rich, and you kissed her. What's the issue?"

  "Where do I even start?" I asked. "She's...Low is out of my league, to use a popular phrase. Beautiful, hot, gorgeous--there aren't enough words to describe how perfect she is. She seems to like me. My quirks do not bother her--if anything, she seems to like them, finds them funny, or endearing, or...I don't know."

  "And how do you feel about her?"

  "Words fail me."

  Bast quirked an eyebrow. "Gonna have to unpack that one, bud."

  I struggled for words. "I have never, ever felt such an intense physical attraction. Need, desire, craving--language fails to encompass the intensity of what I feel when I look at her, or think about her."

  "Damn. That's pretty intense." He swirled his mug in circles and then glanced at me again. "Is just physical?"

  "No."

  "Do you have any idea how she feels about you? I mean, does she seem like she's attracted to you?"

  I nodded. "I believe she is. But...that's part of why I'm upset--I don't know. I don't trust myself. I don't trust that I understand her, that I'm reading her properly. You know how I am, socially. I miss things. I misread social cues. I want to believe she likes me, that she feels attracted to me."

  "What makes you think so?"

  I blushed, looking down at the table. "She...um--it's...body language, I suppose. Leaning toward me. Touching my hand or my chest when she looks at me, or laughs at something I say. What seem to be intentional physical movements designed to allow glimpses at her, in certain...um, ways."

  Bast chuckled. "So she, like, leans over just right so you can see down her shirt, or bends over with her ass right front of you, or leans in real close when she's talking, like you're the most interesting person who's ever lived and she's hanging on your every word?"

  "Yes, precisely."

  "She's into you, dude."

  "But...why?"

  Another chuckle. "Every guy asks himself that when a girl who's out of his league is into him. Don't ask why, just go with it."

  I shake my head. "I am not capable of not asking why, for many reasons."

  "She likes you. Why does anyone like anyone? Something just clicks, man. You interest her." Bast tossed back his coffee and poured us more. "And dude, Xavier, you're a fascinating guy, okay? You are by far the smartest person I've ever heard of, let alone met. You're funny when you want to be. You're a good listener. And plus, you're a Badd. Which means you're a damn good-lookin' motherfucker, all right? You got Mom's eyes, and Dad's height, and you're shredded--what's not to like?"

  I blushed. "Thank you for the motivational speech."

  Bast snorted. "I was bein' serious, douchebag."

  "So was I. Thank you, I mean it." I sighed. "But for reasons I'm not prepared to explain, that does not alleviate my doubt, and my inability to trust that she could actually like me."

  "Someone hurt you, I'm guessing?"

  I nodded, not looking at him. "Yes. Very badly."

  "So, what happened?"

  I shook my head. "I can't...I can't talk about that."

  "Fair enough." Bast tapped the side of his mug with his wedding ring. "So what happened with your girl? What'd you say her name was? Lola?"

  "Low."

  "Low. Cool name," he said. "So, what happened? Why're you here all pissed off and crazy?"

  "We...we were watching a show. She was very close to me all evening, what one might term cuddling, I suppose. That was nice, and as long as I didn't think about it too much, it was okay. Extraordinarily pleasant, and yet overwhelming at the same time." I swallowed hard. "And then...we kissed. She was wearing a robe, and--and not much else. Nothing else, to be truthful. My desire for her was...it was out of control. I felt crazed. Even now it blinds me, makes me dizzy, unable to think straight. I had a panic attack."

  "Because of how bad you wanted her? She was kissing you, so clearly she was into it. I don't think she'd have minded if you took it further."

  "That was part of it, but...the panic attack was because of having been hurt, previous to this encounter. I was...I was scared." I sighed. "The panic attack triggered my issue with physical touch, which made me panic all the worse. So I...I ran."

  Bast was silent. "You explain any of this to her?"

  I shook my head. "No. Where would I begin?"

  "I'm just guessing here, but I'm thinking she's probably confused." He shrugged. "Not saying you owe her an explanation, but...you kinda owe the girl an explanation."

  "I hadn't considered how my actions would affect her."

  Bast chuckled. "Yeahhh..." he drawled, "you may want to start doing that."

  "What if I can't explain it?"

  "If you can explain the theory of relativity to me in such a way that I almost understand it, I think you can explain your physical touch hang-up to a girl who seems to be seriously into you."

  I laughed. "The theory of relativity makes sense to me. My feelings do not, nor do women."

  "Amen to that, brother. But still, you need to try." He leaned back in the chair, tipping onto the rear legs. "I've never seen you this worked up in your life, and I've certainly never seen you into a girl. If she can catch your interest, and if you can get over the touch thing even sometimes, I think you owe it to yourself to see where this thing could go."

  "That is a truly terrifying prospect, Sebastian."

  He dropped his chair to all fours, leaned across the table, and clapped me on the shoulder with a heavy hand, making me wince involuntarily.

  "Welcome to the world of women, brother," he said, grinning wolfishly.

  8

  Harlow

  * * *

  I was on the forward deck of my boat, in a chaise lounge chair I had dragged outside. It was a perfect day--warm enough to sunbathe in my skimpiest bikini without being too hot, sunny and bright with a nice cool breeze. I had my laptop balanced on my thighs, working on my script.

  I was a dramatic actress, primarily known for my roles as the leading lady in romances. Most of my roles, however, had been somewhat...saccharine, in my opinion. There had always been a part of my artistic soul I'd wanted to explore, a darker, more turbulent side. Martin had been very clear that if I wanted to act in a role like that, I'd have to transition gradually and carefully, first out of romance into more traditional drama, and then into deeper, darker roles. Or, if I were dead set on a darker-themed project, it'd have to be an indie project, at least to start. Fine, whatever. I'd keep doing the lighter fare for now, as long as the roles were serious, and not gratuitous tits-and-ass fodder.

  In the meantime, just for the sake of flexing my artistic muscles, I've been steadily pecking away at a script idea I had back at NYU. It was the kind of thing you'd probably see on LifeTime, based on real-life events. This had actually happened to a friend of mine during our junior year.

  Also, writing was the only diversion capable of keeping my mind off a certain tall, dark, handsome, and complicated individual, whose name I was not, at the moment, even allowing myself to think.

  I was starting to feel like a sixteen-year-old girl with her first crush--all but doodling his name on the back of my Trapper Keeper, inside hearts. Or, worse yet, my name with his last name, in a heart with an arrow through it. Which, admittedly, I'd done at sixteen with my crush on Jimmy Riviera, the captain of the varsity football team and de facto god of my high school.

  Back to the script, I ordered myself.

  Another thousand words, and I would allow myself to daydream about Xavier, and maybe even indulge in a little...ahem...do
odling. Meaning, I'd be tracing the letters of his name onto my clit with the tip of my two middle fingers.

  I forced my attention back to the screen of my laptop, which had gone to sleep while I was talking myself out my unscheduled daydream. I dropped myself back into the story, channeling my friend Janelle's voice as I wrote.

  Once into the flow, I lost myself in it for a good hour. But then my characters--the hero who saved my heroine from her villainous ex-fiancee--started messing around in her kitchen, which sent my own my mind racing down a rabbit trail which led, inexorably, to Xavier. Last night. The intensity of his kiss. The slight tremble in his hands.

  The hunger in his eyes as he stood on the dock, staring up at me. I wondered if he'd been able to see how my nipples had puckered under his scrutiny. If he'd been able to see how I'd clenched my thighs together. Surely he'd been able to hear my heart pounding in my chest as I forced myself to stand with a confidence and boldness I only partially felt.

  I imagined him standing on that deck again; I would be naked, and he would be shirtless and barefoot in a pair of those tight jeans he liked. He'd leap onto the yacht and scramble up the deck, too impatient to get his hands on me to bother with stairs. His mouth would devour mine, and his hands would be everywhere...

  My fingers delved under the laptop, dipping under the waistband of my bikini bottom. I exhaled shakily, thoughts of Xavier's heated, hungry gaze and wandering hands and firm strong lips making me tremble before I even started touching myself. The thought of his zipper straining brought my finger to my clit, and an image of him sliding down the zipper--or better yet, me tugging the zipper down--to reveal a thick hard cock, the bulbous head slick with precum...

  Oh fuck.

  Fuck...

  I was moments from orgasming when I heard a footstep on the deck, a shuffle, and a throat clearing. My eyes flew open, and there he was, in the flesh.

  Standing at the bow, dressed in a plain white crewneck T-shirt, the front of which was tucked behind a thick black leather belt with dark-wash blue jeans, and a pair of faded, well-loved Converse All-Stars. Those fiercely green eyes were locked on me.

  My cheeks flushed as I tried to subtly withdraw my fingers from my bikini bottom, hoping it hadn't been obvious what I'd been doing.

  I closed my laptop and rested my hands on it, noticing with no small amount of embarrassment the telltale sheen on two of my fingers. I wondered if he'd notice that.

  "Hi," I said.

  He gave an odd, abbreviated wave of one hand. "Hello." He cleared his throat. "May I come aboard?"

  I smiled. "Yeah, of course. No need to ask."

  He stepped onto the deck and crossed to lean against the railing next to me. "I would not want to assume I would be welcome," he said, staring at the deck between his feet. "Especially after my...abrupt departure last night."

  "Of course you're welcome here." I twisted to bring my legs over the side, facing him, and set my laptop to my left. "And about last night...Xavier, I hope I didn't do anything--"

  "I know this is a horribly cliche thing to say, but it was not you, Low. It was me. You were perfect, and I was...I am..." he sighed, trailing off. "I was me."

  I tipped my head to one side, puzzled by that. "Well, yeah. You're you. And I like you."

  "But what happened, my panic attack...that is a part of who I am."

  I set my laptop underneath the chaise lounge and patted the cushion next to me; Xavier sat down nervously, leaving a good two inches between us.

  "My mom gets panic attacks," I said. "She's learned to manage them through medication, meditation, and exercise, but she still gets them. So...panic attacks I understand."

  "At the risk of sounding as if I think I'm some special case...the source of my panic attacks is not something any of those remedies will help."

  I wasn't sure how to respond to that. "Oh?"

  "Perhaps you've noticed, and perhaps you haven't," he said, staring out at the water, "but I have difficulty with physicality."

  "Like being touched?"

  He nodded. "It is partly a sensory issue. When a person touches me, and I mean even basic, everyday physical contact, such as shaking hands or bumping shoulders in a crowd--the physical sensation of the touch overloads my senses."

  "What do you mean?" I asked. "How does that...I don't know--how does that manifest, I guess?"

  "Have you ever come in contact with a live electrical current? Even a small one. Like something not grounded properly, or shorting out."

  I thought about it. "As a kid, I used to go grocery shopping with Mom. We always went to the same store, and we went every week. We'd go through the aisle at the back where the cheese and lunchmeat and all that stuff is, right? The cooler section. Well, you know those little grates at the front of the coolers, where the cold air comes out? I would run my fingertips across those grates or openings as we walked down the aisle, and there was this one spot, right in front of the blocks of cheddar cheese, where I'd get shocked when I ran my fingers over it. Not bad, just like...a zap."

  He smiled, nodding. "I know exactly what you mean." He rolled his hand in a circle. "Well, for me, someone touching me feels much like that. I feel it throughout my whole body. The contact...I don't know how to describe it--it sort of briefly but intensely short-circuits the part of my brain which registers touch. I've always got so many thoughts running through my head--which, incidentally, is why I sometimes seem out of it or distracted--and then adding touch is just one thing too many for my brain."

  "So...does it hurt?" I asked, glancing at him.

  He shook his head. "It does not register as pain, exactly. Well, it does, but--" He broke off with a sigh. "It is difficult to accurately describe. I mean, pain is pain, so if I bump my knee or break an ankle, it would feel exactly as it does for you. It is not a heightened receptor issue, on a physiological level. It is mental, neurological, but it manifests physically." He was silent for a moment. "So, last night..."

  I followed where he was going. "So if even shaking hands or bumping someone accidentally in a crowd is overwhelming, I suppose that means something like hugging, or holding hands," I met his gaze, "or kissing..."

  "To describe the sensory experience as intense would not be even remotely accurate." He held my gaze, and I saw a silent plea for understanding in his eyes, which were unusually open in terms of emotional transparency. "I do not mean to say unpleasant. I...the time I have spent with you, I have been able to tolerate and enjoy the physical aspect of our...relationship, or--or however one would appellate it."

  "Tolerate?" I swallowed hard, more upset by that word than I should have been.

  He sighed sharply. "Low, please. You must understand. Tolerating physical touch is, for me, a victory. My own brothers know not to touch me, because it is something I typically cannot handle. You--" he glanced down, and we both watched his hands find mine, a gesture I now found more significant than ever, "--there is something about you. I don't have the words to encapsulate it. I imagine you would find the word 'tolerate' in reference to the physical aspect of what is occurring between us as an insult, or painful. But from my perspective, toleration of physical affection is an enormous step forward."

  I stared down at our hands, our fingers laced together. When was the last time I'd held a man's hand? Just held hands, like this, innocently? Harrison, most certainly. And he was not, generally, a physically demonstrative person, at least in terms of nonsexual affection such as holding hands.

  "So, last night, your panic attack, that was because you were just overwhelmed by...everything?"

  He nodded slowly. "Yes." A pause. "Mostly."

  I looked at him, then, my head swiveling sharply to pin him with an inquisitive gaze. "Mostly?"

  He sighed again. "I shouldn't have said that," he muttered, more to himself.

  "But you did, and I heard it, so...what does that mean? What else is there?"

  He shot to his feet and paced away to stand at the bow of the boat, hands fisted at his sides.
He was ramrod stiff and straight, shoulders hunched as if to ward off a blow.

  "Xavier?" I stood up and followed him, standing beside him, close but not touching. "What is it?"

  He was exuding anxiety and angst and pain, every line in his face etched into a rictus of unease and agony. "To explain would mean telling you a story I have not told another person since it happened."

  "Not a good story, I'm guessing."

  He shook his head, laughing bitterly. "Assuredly not."

  "Do you want to go inside?" I hesitated, and then put my hand on his forearm--noticing now how he tensed immediately, and then slowly relaxed. "And...you know you don't have to tell me, right? You don't owe me any explanations. I mean, I'll be honest and say I would like it if you did tell me, and I would obviously hold your confidence in me as sacred. But...you don't have to tell me."

  "I would be more comfortable outside, I believe," he murmured. "Perhaps it is time I shared this. It has haunted me for several years, and it does affect you, or at least concern you, so...yes. But I would ask you to not interrupt me until I am finished, because the telling will not be easy for me."

  "Not a word, I promise." I pivoted to put my back to the railing, leaning against it facing Xavier. Our hands remained laced together, and he spoke with his gaze on our joined hands, my fingers twined with his.

  "As you can probably guess, I was not what you'd call popular." He laughed, as if the very idea was so preposterous as to be comical. "I had little to no control over my tendency to lecture endlessly on whatever topic I was interested in at the time, and I was obviously just...different, in every way. I would finish assignments in a quarter or an eighth of the time as everyone else. I would correct teachers frequently. If we were assigned a book to read, I would finish it in that class period, while the teacher was still talking--and I'd be able to recite the entire thing verbatim, as well as everything the teacher said."

  He waved a hand.

  "I only say this to exemplify my oddity. In high school, this behavior set me apart, obviously, and I'm sure you're familiar with how cruel high school students can be. Well, when you're as vastly different as I was, that marked me as a target for cruelty of every kind imaginable. I was beaten up regularly, locked in lockers, made fun of mercilessly even by the unpopular kids...I was set on fire in chemistry class, once. Imagine a torture devisable by teenagers, and I experienced it. Rocks were thrown at me on the way home from school, and bricks even, a few times. I was attacked with paintball guns in drive-by shootings." He glanced at me, seeing my horrified expression. "I survived it, clearly, and developed mental and physical toughness because of it. I learned to fight back, until the bullies didn't dare approach me except in large groups."