Bad Boy Boxset

by JD Hawkins

“I…I can’t do this. I’m kinda freaking out now.”

  “Wait,” I say, grabbing her arm gently before she moves out of reach. “What’s the matter?”

  Margo sighs, glancing up for a split second. “Do I really need to list all the reasons this is a bad idea, Owen? Our friendship, the fact that we work together, the vlog series, your commitmentphobia…the list goes on.”

  “Don’t overthink this,” I tell her soothingly. I rest my hands lightly on her shoulders and she falls against me, melting under my touch as I nestle my lips beside her ear. “Nobody needs to know,” I add, moving my hand up to cup her breast, feeling the tension in her body release. “We’re just having fun, Margo. Just enjoying ourselves.”

  Margo gasps when I bring my teeth to her earlobe, press her nipple between my fingers.

  “Until it goes wrong,” she manages to say, in between fluttering breaths.

  “So tell me to stop,” I say, blowing gently against the soft skin of her neck. “Just say the word and I give you my word, I’ll stop.”

  I bring a hand to her back, tugging at the zipper of her dress, knowing with every fiber of my body that she wants it by the way she pulls her hair over her shoulder and then turns around to help me undress her.

  The next morning I’m late to work—which isn’t suspicious, though Margo is going to be even later, which definitely would be suspicious were it not for the fact that she told everyone she was ditching her date last night because she felt sick. I guess we’re gonna have to think about these kinds of things now that we’ve opened up a whole new element of our friendship.

  On the one hand, it won’t be hard, since we talk to each other at work all the time anyway. On the other hand, I’m supposed to resist the urge to fuck Margo in any cloistered corner of the offices—which is going to drive me crazy. One step at a time, though.

  Except the secret’s out, I think, when Brad stops me on the way to my desk by saying, “Now there’s a guy who definitely got laid last night! Hah!”

  I stop and turn to him, sitting at his own desk, his computer screen showing a webpage of sex tips. Before I can say anything Brad says, “There it is! I knew it!”

  I frown at him as if confused. Either Brad knows something he shouldn’t, or he’s fishing for it. Either way, I decide the best thing to do is play dumb. Considering he’s already spying on Margo, though, there’s a part of me that’s almost ready to put a fist in his mouth and stop him from saying anything more.

  “What do you mean?” I say, still wearing my best confused mask.

  Brad shrugs humbly.

  “Dude, I know we have our little…tete a tetes, but I got to admit,” he says, giving me the Robert De Niro finger waggle. “You’ve got game. I didn’t think you’d actually do it, but you did it.”

  He holds out his hand for a high-five, and I suddenly understand Sophie’s Choice better than ever before. Either I high-five the sleaziest guy I’ve ever met, or I risk him blowing open my relationship with Margo before it’s even begun. If he hasn’t done that already.

  I high-five him.

  “Damn!” he cries, the high-five all the confirmation he needs. “I knew it!”

  “Hey, listen, do me a favor, ok? Keep it down,” I say.

  “Oh,” Brad says, nodding and looking around to check if anyone heard. “Sure…but damn, dude. She was hot. Unbelievable.”

  That’s when I realize: he’s not talking about Margo. Relief floods through me, but then a new problem rears its ugly head—if Brad thinks I went home with the Amazonian and then finds out I left the date early, I’ll need a cover story fast. “You mean my date?”

  “Yeah!”

  “Didn’t you hear? I left it early.”

  Brad’s face drops a full two inches, the smile obliterated. “What? I don’t understand.”

  “I didn’t take her home. She was…not my type.”

  “Not your type? Dude, that girl is everyone’s type! So wait—if you didn’t go home with her…then who—”

  “I called this other girl I know. A redhead who sucks dick like a vacuum cleaner and loves taking it doggystyle,” I say, disgusted with myself for talking Brad’s language, but relieved to be finally misdirecting him from the truth. “Yeah…you know, that chick on the date was hot—but the hottest ones never get that wild. Everyone knows that.”

  Brad laughs and punches my arm like we’re in the gym.

  “Don’t wanna mess up their hair, right dude?”

  “Right.”

  “Hey,” Brad says, getting up out of his chair to stand next to me so he can lean in and lower his voice. “So if you and…”

  “My date? Stacey?”

  “Yeah. If you’re not gonna…you think you could…”

  “Give you her number? Sure. I’ll send it over as soon as I get to my desk.”

  “Awesome, dude.”

  I wink at him and start pulling away, before wondering if I’ve done enough to clean up my tracks. I take two steps toward my desk before turning back to him.

  “Hey Brad,” I say, getting his attention. “Wear a nice watch when you meet Stacey, and be a little creative when you talk about your lifestyle. She likes the good things in life, if you know what I mean.”

  Brad’s face twists itself up like I just asked him to solve a quadratic equation in his head.

  “Pretend you have money,” I clarify.

  Brad’s big, beaming smile returns and we point fingers at each to express how much we understand each other. I turn back to my desk and a shiver rolls down my spine at what I just did, but if that’s what it takes to keep me and Margo a secret, then that’s what I’ll do. Besides, there’s no chance of Stacey actually going out with Brad. Not after the warning text I’m about to send her.

  14

  Margo

  It’s almost midday when I arrive at TrendBlend. I’ve never come in this late before, but then again, I’m doing a lot of things for the first time lately.

  Still, stepping out of the elevator and seeing a full office feels weird, transgressive, adding to the sense that I’m living close to the edge a little more. I step past the cubicles on the way to my desk so full of tension that Mia’s call almost makes me drop the coffees I’m carrying.

  “Hey Margo.”

  She steps in front of me as if pouncing from a hiding spot, looking at me with the kind of expression that only Mia can pull off. A mixture of hardness and scrutiny that puts most people off, but which I think is pretty badass. Not today though—today I could do without feeling like I’m being judged before I’ve even turned on my laptop.

  “Hey Mia.”

  “Listen, the studio’s booked out this morning. You think we can shoot the post-date interview after lunch?”

  “Sure,” I say, relieved at the innocuity of the question.

  “Cool. And tell Owen.”

  “Will do,” I say, hoping she doesn’t notice the blush that just rushed to my cheeks.

  When I reach Owen’s desk I put his cappuccino beside his keyboard. He pulls his headphones back behind his neck as he notices me and smiles.

  “Thanks,” he says.

  “No problem,” I say, putting my own coffee down and settling into my seat. I turn my computer on, pull myself under the desk, and wait for my login screen to pop up. A movement from the corner of my eye causes me to turn and I see that Owen’s still smiling at me.

  I frown and lean toward him, then say in a loud whisper, “Stop looking at me!”

  Owen’s face turns a little mischievous as he leans in himself. “I wish I could.”

  I groan and sigh—if only to hide the goofy, involuntary smile that even his cheesiness brings out. I start to wonder if this is going to be too difficult to get through an entire day of, not to mention the rest of the week—and however much longer this lasts. How the hell can I depend on a guy like Owen to keep his dirty mind and infinite desire to himself?

  “Just kidding,” Owen says, as if reading my thoughts. He winks as he rolls back and p
uts his headphones over his ears again, his lascivious smile dropping as he refocuses completely on his work. I glance one more time at him and then turn my own attention to my work. Maybe this won’t be so bad, after all.

  For the next hour or so I actually get some work done, glancing over at Owen only now and then, though each time I do I can’t stop a huge smile from spreading across my face at the way he bobs his head to the music, lost in his own world.

  After two hours, though, I realize I’ve completely lost my focus. Can he really just sit there pretending nothing happened last night? Acting like he didn’t fuck my brains out and then hold me on the sofa afterward? Is this what it’s going to be like between us from now on? Clandestine meetings where he tells me I’m perfect and I come screaming his name interspersed with this kind of cold shoulder at work and when we’re out in public?

  I try to push the panicky thoughts away and tell myself I can deal with them later, that I need to get back to my article so I don’t blow this deadline, but the harder I try not to think about it, the louder the little voice in my head gets. I look over at him, still bobbing to his music as he clicks around, occasionally hammering on his keyboard. I turn in my chair and scoot a little closer to him, then pull gently at one side of his headphones.

  Owen smiles and takes them off. “Hey you,” he says. “What’s up?”

  “Oh. Um.” My mouth goes dry. Now that he’s actually waiting for me to say something, I feel like I’m being clingy and ridiculous, overthinking this whole thing before it even becomes a thing. “Nothing, I guess. A touch of writer’s block.”

  Owen makes a sympathetic face and nods. “You working on that piece about cultural misappropriation and tribal tattoos?”

  I look at him closely, studying his face for signs of anxiety or discomfort, but he just looks at me blankly.

  “Jesus, you’re good at this.”

  “Good at what, fellow worker?” he says, an almost imperceptible smile on his lips.

  “I’d believe your act more if you didn’t look at my legs when you said that.”

  Owen laughs and looks aside as a couple of people walk past. He watches them move out of earshot and then leans a little close to say, “It’s all I can do right now to keep myself under control while sitting next to you, believe me.” He looks around him again and leans in a little closer, and I see a flash of last night’s Owen, the ravenous Owen, the uncontrollable Owen, the slam-me-up-against-the-wall Owen. “I’m this close to shoving everything off this desk and fucking you on it in front of everyone.” He lets his eyes roll down my legs, slowly rising back up the length of my body, so focused I can almost feel where he would put his hands on me if he could. “And you’re not helping in that tight skirt.”

  My pulse kicks into high gear and I have to cross my legs against the sudden aching need in my still-sore pussy. I lower my voice and say, “You’re not exactly doing me any favors yourself, looking at me like that. You think I’d rather be sitting at my desk than on your face right now?”

  Owen flashes his teeth, his knee bouncing a little. He shifts a little in his seat, and I can tell that comment went straight to his cock. He shakes his head and laughs, sighing deeply as if releasing some inner tension.

  “Shit, Margo. I thought I couldn’t like you any more than I do…but you keep proving me wrong.”

  “Anyway,” I say quickly, shaking off the trembles in my skin, “I just wanted to ask if you were free on Sunday. I thought we could do some…more in-depth research.” I look around and add quickly. “You know, for the vlog.”

  “Research. For the vlog. Of course.” Owen nods slowly, eye-fucking me shamelessly again. “How deep are we talking, Margo?”

  I’m so wet now that I can feel it. “Very.” I clear my throat. “Perhaps we should discuss it over dinner.”

  He grins, and there’s no doubt in my mind he knows exactly what he’s doing to me with that smoldering gaze sending fire through my body and his low, commanding voice. “Sounds like a plan. Somewhere in your neighborhood?”

  “I know just the place.” I return his gaze with a hungry eye-fuck of my own. “It’s about as close to my apartment as Maddie’s was to yours. Short walk.”

  Owen thinks for a second. “Only I won’t get to carry you home this time.”

  “Maybe we won’t make it home,” I say, suddenly pursing my lips as I consider how that would sound to anyone who overhears. “You know, if we decide to have drinks.”

  Somehow our faces are closer than when the conversation began, so close that the most natural, easy thing in the world would be to grab him and press my mouth to his, climbing onto his lap and grinding against his cock as he devours my lips and pulls my hair. My imagination is like a runaway freight train of office sex fantasies and subconsciously I move a little closer, unable to control myself, wondering when sense is going to return to my magnetized body.

  Owen puts his hand on my wrist, opens that perfect mouth and says, “Maybe we should—”

  “Listen up everyone!” Agnes screams across the office, snapping the bond between me and Owen like a bucket of cold water, causing us to lurch back into our seats as we turn to face the call. “Don’t forget! We’re having an office lunch at Sushi Gen today. If you haven’t arranged a ride yet, there’s plenty of cars so let’s save the planet and carpool as much as possible! Reservation’s at one-thirty, and remember: it’s not technically mandatory, but if you don’t turn up, me, Tori, Mike, Sasha, and everyone else who arranged it will personally hold a grudge against you until the day you die.”

  There are laughs all over the office and then things quiet down as everyone returns to what they were doing. Owen and I look at each other and raise our eyebrows.

  “You’re going, right?” Owen asks.

  I shrug. “Sure. I’m not going to piss off Agnes.”

  “I’ll give you a ride,” Owen says nonchalantly, only his eyes revealing that there’s more he wants to give me.

  Tom rushes past our desk, stops, then turns back to look at us. “Can I ride with one of you guys? Brad’s Mini Cooper is full.”

  I look at Owen, who’s looking at Tom like the guy just shattered all his hopes and dreams. “Um…yeah, of course,” Owen says, with all the false positivity of someone opening a present they don’t like.

  “Awesome,” Tom says, giving him the thumbs up as he continues to rush through the office. “I’ll meet you at your car in fifteen.”

  I shoot Owen a confused glance, and he shrugs regretfully. “No way would we get there on time without a chaperone. You can’t deny it.”

  He’s right. But I’m not sure how much longer I can wait to get Owen alone again.

  The drive over is fun, Tom, Owen, and I chatting about the dates last night. We shouldn’t—we’re supposed to save it for the cameras—but it’s hard to resist. Owen puts in an almost scarily good performance, weaving some elaborate story of how he bailed on the date because he’d been with girls like that before and they always end up more trouble than they’re worth. If I wasn’t feeling so good myself, I’d almost start worrying about how good Owen is at obscuring the truth.

  My good vibes continue on into the sushi place, as about fifteen of us sit around the chef’s preparation area, the other dozen or so employees taking up most of the tables dotted around the restaurant.

  Whether it’s eating and drinking on the company account, the mouth-watering smells of soy sauce and teriyaki that fills the air, or the fact that we’re all getting to relax and see each outside of the office walls for once, there’s an aura of laid-back joy among the TrendBlend team. Tossing around good-natured jokes like schoolchildren playing catch, smiles and drinks free-flowing as we take the edge off our hunger with jokes and stories.

  Even Brad, at the opposite end of the chef’s area, laughs along with everyone else. We only stop when Melissa gathers all of our attention to give us a positive message and encouragement for the good work we’re all doing, keeping it brief and light, but no less mean
ingful and sincere for it, before she shoots off back to the office despite a few protestations.

  Then the food starts coming out, and I think I might be experiencing the happiest work day I’ve ever had. I’m sitting next to Owen, a light buzz going, amid good food and good colleagues. I watch with growing desire as he gets the others around the table laughing, listening, and attentive in the palm of his hand, his natural charisma shining in this environment. I haven’t seen him this magnetic and yet carefree since our college days.

  In this moment, I forget about New York. I forget about those ropes of ambition that constantly pull at me. I forget about the person I’ve been trying to become for years now. It’s hard to want anything else when you see it all laid out like this, the great coworkers, the sense of community between us, the super hot, super wonderful guy beside me, his knee against mine, his hand ‘accidentally’ flickering over my thigh every time he shifts in his seat.

  “This is absolutely amazing,” Owen tells me through a half-full mouth, picking up another California roll with his chopsticks and holding it toward me. “Try it.”

  I almost lean forward and let him feed me, it feels so natural, but then I remember where I am, who else I’m here with, and look around in a flash of panic. I see Brad quickly avert his eyes.

  “Owen,” I hiss in a low whisper. “You can’t do stuff like that…not now, not here.”

  Owen laughs and pulls his hand back. “It’s no big deal. Nobody cares,” he says nonchalantly, gesturing around us at the coworkers all focused on their food and each other. “We’re longtime friends, people know how we act around each other. I’m not ashamed.”

  “Neither am I,” I say, playing with my pickled ginger a little. “But I just want to play it safe.”

  Owen’s smile fades a little as he puts the roll down and wipes his hand, considering what I’ve said as he looks at his plate. “You’re right,” he says, then looks up at me, the devious grin back on his face. “Good food always gets me riled up though.”

  I feel his hand before I see it, wrapping itself high on the inside of my thigh, squeezing the soft flesh there before moving up a little, closer to the spot he knows so well.