Bad Boy Boxset

by JD Hawkins

  “It’s okay, I’ve heard worse,” the technician says.

  “There it is,” Jessie utters softly. “Our child.”

  “I can’t believe it,” I murmur. “It’s…it’s alive.”

  “Like Frankenstein’s monster?” Jessie teases, as she and the ultrasound tech exchange a quick snigger.

  “And kicking,” the woman adds. “It’s a very healthy baby.”

  “This is so fucking surreal – sorry.”

  I look down from the screen toward Jessie, and squeeze her hand.

  “How do you feel?” I ask.

  “Happy,” Jessie says, her face glowing with pride and tenderness. She squeezes back. “A little overwhelmed, but happy.”

  “Do you want me to print a picture?” the technician asks.

  “Oh yes,” we say in unison, before Jessie continues. “There’s someone who’ll kill me if he doesn’t see one.”

  We walk hand in hand toward the benches by the beach. Kyle’s already there, an empty taco plate and half a basket of tortilla chips in front of him. We approach him on his blind side.

  “Is this some kind of joke?” I say, once we’re in earshot. He looks up suddenly and spreads a wide grin over his anvil-jawline.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Isn’t this the same bench we sat on when you punched the living shit out of me?”

  Kyle laughs and embraces Jessie warmly before we clasp hands.

  “Kyle probably remembers the tacos more than the fighting,” Jessie says as she sits down.

  I sit beside her, my arm instinctively going around her shoulders to pull her toward me, but then I quickly pull away. Kyle groans and laughs.

  “Hey, you can touch each other in front of me, you know. I’m over it.”

  Jessie looks at me and laughs, before going in for a kiss.

  “Okay, now that’s getting a little gross,” Kyle says, blocking his view with his palm.

  Jessie laughs again, before reaching into her bag.

  “We got you something,” she says, pulling out the sonogram picture.

  “Whoa!” Kyle says, grabbing it from her and holding it up to the light.

  “That’s the head. And you can see its hands there,” I say, pointing them out.

  “Shit,” Kyle says, breathlessly. “The kid looks like me!” He lowers the picture, but keeps it held in front of him, his eyes glancing at it every once in a while. “I can’t believe I’m gonna be an uncle.”

  “You are.”

  “Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?”

  Jessie and I glance at each other.

  “No,” she says. “We decided we didn’t want to know until it’s born.”

  “Why?” Kyle asks, frowning as if we just told him we hope it’s a cat.

  “It’s just cooler that way, dude.”

  “Yeah. It’s a surprise.”

  “Shit. I’d have thought you two would be sick of surprises by now. I know I am.”

  Kyle looks at the picture again and I nudge Jessie, swapping a quick smile at his look of child-like fascination.

  “You’re still helping us move some more stuff to the house this weekend, right?” Jessie asks, pulling Kyle’s basket of chips toward her. She dumps salsa on them and digs in.

  “Sure,” Kyle replies, looking up and smiling. “So how is it? Living in the old place?”

  “It’s like coming home,” Jessie says.

  “As if it couldn’t get any weirder. My best friend, my sister, my old house, a kid on the way. I’m starting to feel like a third wheel.”

  “Maybe we just need a fourth, dude.”

  Kyle chuckles.

  “Not with my schedule.”

  “I’m gonna get some real food,” Jessie says, pushing the chips away and turning to me. “I’ve got a craving for something spicy. You want anything?”

  “Sure,” I say. “Get me whatever you’re having. You’re gonna eat half of it anyway.”

  Jessie smiles and leans in. “Aw. That’s what I like about you. So giving.” She kisses me quickly then steps away toward the taco stand. I watch her go a while before Kyle calls for my attention.

  “Bro. I wanted to tell you something.”

  I look at Kyle’s expression, the sudden seriousness in his eyes, the way he’s leaning forward as if hiding something.

  “What?” I say, leaning in, too.

  “I say this man to man, okay? However much you might not like it, it’s important that you hear it.”

  I take a moment to let him know I get it.

  “Okay. Go ahead, dude.”

  Kyle shifts slightly, his eyes flickering away, then back onto my face.

  “That day, here, when I punched you, was the worst day of my life.”

  “Dude, it’s cool, you don’t—”

  “I do. I have to say sorry. ’Cause the truth is that I did it deliberately.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Kyle shifts again and looks at the taco stand to make sure Jessie’s still there.

  “You think it was easy to bring myself to hit you? It went against every instinct in my body. But I did it anyway, you wanna know why? Because I wanted to see if you meant it.”

  “Meant what?”

  “That you loved her.”

  “You punched me as a test?”

  Kyle nods, and I exhale loudly.

  “Jessie had a big crush on you as a teenager. For years. She thinks I didn’t know, but of course I did.”

  “Yeah. She told me.”

  “It almost tore her apart. And it tore me apart, ’cause you were too busy chasing tail to even notice. I wanted to make sure this wasn’t a rerun of that. That this time it was a two-way thing.”

  I lean back and rub my brow.

  “Fuck, dude. I had that black eye for more than a week.”

  Kyle shrugs nonchalantly.

  “But at least you passed the test.”

  I glare at him, then break out into a laugh.

  “Dude, I love Jessie. You could have broken my legs and I’d have crawled back to her.”

  A couple of asada taco plates appear in front of us, loaded up with sides of rice and beans, lettuce, tomato, and guacamole. There’s also a plate of nachos covered in melted cheese, pico de gallo and jalapenos. It’s become obvious by now that pregnant Jessie has a brutal appetite, but the truth is, I find it pretty cute.

  “What are you guys talking about?” Jessie says, reaching for the food before she’s even sitting down.

  “Uh…nothing much,” I say, glancing at Kyle. “Just life, love, and the problems we all face.”

  “Oh,” Jessie says, as I snatch a nacho from her hand and put it in my mouth. “It sounds like one of your videos.”

  “My old videos,” I correct. “I’ve got nothing to confess anymore.”

  The idea comes to me sometime in the evening, the house still full of boxes, Jessie gone to catch up with Lorelei and her other Thursday night friends. Maybe it’s just a new way of scratching an old itch, maybe I just find it easier to say certain things this way, or maybe it’s just nice to have a diary of some kind – but whatever it is, I go into the room where we’ve set up the computer, where the evening light casts window-frame shadows across the wall, and sit down in front of the monitor, clearing my throat and fixing my loose painting shirt.

  I turn on the webcam. This time I put my face in the frame. This time I’m not worried about the lighting. This time I don’t figure out what to say beforehand. This time it’s just me, being real, being honest. I take a deep breath, check the camera one more time, then hit record.

  “Hey. I don’t know when you’ll see this, or what you’ll think when you do. It’s kinda strange to think about. But anyway, it’s me, your dad…and there are a few things I want to say…”

  THE END

  Acknowledgments

  This book is dedicated to my wife, Mrs. J.D. Hawkins, without whom I wouldn't have been able to become J.D. Hawkins. Thanks for your great a
ttitude and support. I love you.

  I would also like to thank my readers and "fans,” who, for some reason, like to read my books. Thank you for boosting my ego. I love you long time.

  Finally, to my mean, anal editor. You know what you're doing. Thank you so much for believing in me and giving me the guidance and tough love I needed so much.

  Copyright © 2017 by JD Hawkins

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Want to keep up to date with JD? Sign up for his VIP list!

  This book is dedicated to Sea Monkey Hawkins (SMH -- my cat), who kept me company and sat on my desk while I wrote this book during this long, rainy LA winter.

  Contents

  1. Owen

  2. Margo

  3. Owen

  4. Margo

  5. Owen

  6. Margo

  7. Owen

  8. Margo

  9. Owen

  10. Margo

  11. Owen

  12. Margo

  13. Owen

  14. Margo

  15. Owen

  16. Margo

  17. Owen

  18. Margo

  19. Owen

  20. Margo

  21. Owen

  Acknowledgments

  1

  Owen

  The elevator doors open and for a second it feels like a theatre curtain unveiling. It’s three PM, and the TrendBlend offices are buzzing with the kind of vibrant, frenetic energy you only get when you put some of the West Coast’s most creative people in one place. The kind of energy you get when those people are allowed to create work that they love, then put it out to millions of fans. Our website is as likely to release a viral video about sex as it is to start a national discussion about ethics. It’s a site that’s got the first scoop on the latest trends and the last word on the zeitgeist. And it all originates in an office with as many fashion bloggers as there are political reporters; where feminist activists rub shoulders with movie critics.

  Christ, I love my job.

  I step out of the elevator clutching my remedy for the mid-afternoon slump: a tall cup of cappuccino (I usually maintain enough coffee in my system to wake the dead) for me and Margo’s cinnamon latte in the other. Back into the bustle of the bullpen.

  “Hey Owen,” Davina, the site’s resident make-up expert calls from a three-way conversation she’s having.

  I turn in her direction without breaking stride. “What’s up, D?”

  “Wanna do a video with me and Sara tomorrow?” she says through purple-colored pouted lips, angling her mini-skirt-clad hips the way she always does when she talks to me. “‘Hot guys try make-up for the first time.’ We’re looking for volunteers.”

  I sip my cappuccino to hide my wincing at the idea.

  “Uh…”

  She moves away from the others to get a little too close, tongue tracing her lips as she says, “Just tell me what it’ll take for me to get my hands on you…” and as her gaze drops below my belt I’m not sure she’s even talking about the video anymore.

  Davina’s got the body of the ballerina, walks like she wants to seduce everybody in the room, and dresses like she’s at the beach half the time. She’s hot as hell and knows it, and even though she’s got a few million followers online who agree, she’s been chasing me since I started at TrendBlend. The more I say no, the more her mascara’d eyes flutter at me from across the office. Another place, another time, and I’d let the spark between us flare up, but when you’re surrounded by journalists, gossip columnists, and a couple dozen other women trying to jump your skin, you need the diplomacy of a hostage negotiator just to keep your job.

  “Lemme check my schedule. I’ll get back to you,” I say, nodding as I step past.

  “I’ll be waiting,” she purrs.

  The office layout is simple—but it works. A vast bullpen of shared desk spaces cover the center of the office. Tables with four or five stations to them, all decorated with random personal effects, coffee cups, art books, and photos. The desks are cramped enough that you’re never more than three feet away from being hooked into something or overhearing another idea you can help out on. Half the time nobody’s at their desks though, as they run between the studios downstairs and the bullpen.

  Down one side of the office the windows look out onto the city of L.A., and from up here on the fifth floor you can almost catch sight of the beach on a clear day. On the other side are the offices of the higher-ups. The decision-makers and puppet-masters who guide the whole thing from behind closed doors.

  “It would be really great if you could!” Sara, Davina’s curvy, redheaded desk mate (and frequent partner in crime), calls out behind me as I shuffle past a couple of co-workers carrying cardboard cutouts of the Kardashians. “You’d look so good in lipstick!”

  I raise my cappuccino and kiss the air in their direction before walking a bit quicker to my desk.

  In a funny kind of way this place saved my life. Before my college friend Margo helped me get this job just over a year ago, I was partying like crazy. All I did was drink and dance, fuck and fight. All I cared about was the next crowd, the next hot girl, the next thrill. I’m not gonna lie and say it wasn’t fun, but even fun can be dangerous when you’re as insatiable as I am.

  So here I am, putting Margo’s cinnamon latte beside her on our shared desk (without a hello, since she’s hunched over her cell phone with her back to me), and dropping myself into my chair. I wake up my laptop to reveal the half-written article I’ve been pecking at today, all about hot beach dates. My inner bad boy not so much tamed now, as focused. Enjoying life as much as I ever did, but with the addition of a steady paycheck and a 401(k). The best of both worlds.

  Six seconds later I hear a quiet, stifled half-sob beside me. The kind of helpless, feminine sound that cuts through ten thousand years of civilization and makes me want to club whatever caused it. I look toward Margo and see her staring down at her keyboard, one hand still holding the phone to her ear, the other buried in her hair. She’s so distressed she hasn’t even noticed the coffee I brought her yet.

  If there’s one con to working in the offices, it’s that there’s not much privacy, and right now it looks like Margo’s desperate for it.

  “Why do you have to be such an asshole about this?” she whispers harshly into the phone. “No. I never said that…whatever, Carl…you’re my—you were my boyfriend, not my father, don’t talk to me like I’m five… Look, I only called to ask when I can pick up the rest of my stuff… Yes, actually, it is over! Oh god…just forget it!”

  My eyes on my screen, I hear Margo toss her phone clumsily onto her desk—the modern equivalent of slamming a receiver down. When I glance at her again she’s hunched toward her screen determinedly, as if about to try and climb through it, rattling away on the keyboard like she’s playing a Bach variation on it. She still hasn’t noticed the coffee.

  I open my mouth and then close it, weighing her possible need for words of comfort against her possible need for space. She’d been tight-lipped and tense all morning, and now it appears that things have gone full nuclear status with her and that film school douchebag Carl. Good riddance. She deserves better.

  Margo and I go way back. We met our first year at college. More specifically, we met at three AM outside the girl’s dormitory when she was coming home late from a party, and I was in the process of trying to get back into the dorm after sneaking out through a window to avoid my date’s judgmental roommate. Being naked at the time was a hell of a conversation starter.

  It was friendship at first sight—for her, anyway. I spent the first six months I knew her trying to find out what her tight body would look like on all fours, but she kept me at bay just about long enough for me to realize that she had a lot more
going on than just legs I wanted to wear like a belt and tits like a three-star dessert.

  Turned out Margo was a party animal just like me. Drinking, dancing, and fucking with an appetite almost as big as mine. We started hitting places up together, the rest of our friends only holding us back. Having a wingman can help you lay hot women, but turning up at a bar or party with the hottest girl there made it almost too easy.

  Don’t get me wrong: I’ve thought about fucking Margo plenty of times, and how could I not? She’s fucking gorgeous, with those thick-rimmed glasses and that artfully messy dark hair that she lets cover most of her face. A thigh length, oversized yellow sweater, her slender legs going down all the way to a pair of motorcycle boots. She’s got a body that it would take a month to explore, a sway in her walk that could make you dizzy, lips so juicy they could probably qualify as one of your five a day. So the truth is, as much as I think of her as just a great friend—intelligent, talented, and funny; someone who deserves to be thought of as more than just a body—it ain’t always easy with a body like hers. Still, I manage.

  “You ok?” I finally say.

  It takes her a second to snap away from her screen and realize I’m talking to her.

  “Huh? Oh… Yeah. I’m fine,” she says, flashing a forced smile before quickly turning back to her computer.

  I watch her for a few more seconds, peering at her screen like it’s ten feet away, and consider just leaving her alone. Margo might be as hot as she was in college (hotter, probably) but that’s about the only thing that hasn’t changed. Somewhere along the line she gave up the parties, the drinking, the reckless fun. Now the only thing that’s wild about her is her career ambitions. I suppose I should be grateful, since she’s the one who got me the job here. But it’s been pretty shitty watching her stop screwing and start dating guys long enough to recognize how many douchebags there are out there.