Bad Boy Benefits: A Standalone Little Sister's Best Friend Romance

by JD Hawkins

  “Part of the excitement is that she’s left New York for L.A. She’s ours now, a lot of people feel, and they’re determined to treat her just as well as the elites on the East Coast did.”

  Asher glances from the road to me so I can see his smile.

  “Impressive,” he says. “You know your stuff.”

  “It can be deadly if you don’t.”

  “But…what about the actual art?” he asks. “What’s that like?”

  I let out a flighty laugh. “Oh honey, if you think the art itself matters then you know less about that world than you let on.”

  Asher laughs gently, then nods at the building ahead of us as he turns onto a side street.

  “I’m sure you could teach me plenty. Here we are.”

  He parks and we walk toward the modernist building in downtown L.A. in which the exhibition will take place, the beautiful people and some glimpses of the paintings and installations visible through the glass fronts. We make idle chitchat about how well we know the area respectively as we walk.

  I’ve never liked the term chemistry, but there’s definitely a pleasant and slightly exciting feeling between us. Asher has a kind of presence that’s both intriguingly enigmatic, but engagingly uplifting to be near. He’s attentive without being impatient or overbearing. Charming but subtle with it. And more than anything else, irresistibly cool in everything he says or does.

  The exhibition is already filled with people who would have been fashionably late were this not the biggest event of the month. Fabulously aloof people who are experts at making themselves look even more beautiful than they are. People who learn how to stand and to move from studying fashion magazines and art films, and who rarely allow anything but a stoic detachment to express itself on their faces. My kind of people, in other words.

  Our moment of idle intimacy chatting on the way from the parking spot to the exhibition ends almost as soon as we enter. Asher and I are immediately besieged by greetings and invitations to join already-formed groups. Soon the only words Asher and I exchange are the names and professions of our respective friends as we go through the formalities of superficial pleasantries.

  “Maeve! How lovely to see you! When was it last? That fundraiser for the hospital? I love what you’ve done with your hair.”

  “I think it was the Clapham launch event wasn’t it? Speaking of hair, I love that color on you—just perfect.”

  “Thanks. Hold on, I’ve got someone I have to introduce you to…”

  Everyone I know—or rather, those who know me—isn’t surprised to find me accompanied by a strikingly attractive and charismatic man. Interestingly, though, none of Asher’s friends seem too surprised to find him with a confident and smart woman, either. I find it a little encouraging to know they don’t expect him to be with an empty-headed model or a woman who can’t hold her own.

  “And who’s this?”

  “This is Maeve. She works in fashion.”

  “Really? The name sounds so familiar, though I’m sure I would have remembered you if I’d seen you around before.”

  “Glad you finally have a chance to put a face to the name.”

  After an hour the champagne glasses start appearing as if from nowhere, as well as hors d’oeuvres beautiful enough to be framed on the walls themselves. The crowd gets a little louder, a little looser (a few of them even breaking into smiles) and Asher and I get split up for a while as we mingle and move with old and new friends.

  Eventually I find myself staring at a canvas beside May, a rather savvy, hard-nosed, but witty older woman with whom I worked at a fashion label years ago. I always saw a little of myself in her, or perhaps saw her in myself. Either way, we stand and study the crude painting of an antelope, dangling our champagne glasses delicately.

  Eventually, May says what we’re both thinking, in her gravelly, almost androgynous voice. “It’s terrible.”

  “This won’t fly in Los Angeles,” I say.

  “I’m surprised they loved it in New York.”

  “It’s enough to be strange there.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you also have to be beautiful here.”

  “Speaking of which,” May says, turning her head slowly from the canvas to me, “where did you find that entrancing accessory you came with?”

  I turn to look at May and smile. Accessory is another word for man in her language.

  “I was set up with him on a blind date.”

  May laughs because she thinks it’s a joke, and I smile because I know it isn’t.

  “How is he?” she asks, only insinuating the “in bed” part.

  “I don’t know,” I say, turning back to the painting. “I’m still making up my mind.”

  “That’s unlike you.”

  “I’m in a funny mood these days.”

  “Well, don’t take too long to decide, or you may get beaten to the punch.”

  She says this looking behind us, and I turn to see what she’s looking at. Asher is smiling politely—though looking not a little embarrassed—as he tries to extricate himself from several attractive young women with avant-garde clothes and ravenous eyes.

  He manages to placate them just enough so that he can sidle away and come over. May disappears with the elegance of a woman who swims through parties like a fish.

  “Hey,” Asher says, his smile genuine now.

  “Hello there,” I say, feeling a champagne smile myself.

  “I’ve been looking for you for the past fifteen minutes.”

  I bring my glass to my lips and eye him provocatively. “Do I not stand out enough?”

  He watches me sip before speaking.

  “Sure you do,” he says. “That’s why I got bored of everyone else here.”

  I flash him an appreciatively warm look then nod toward the canvas.

  “What do you think?”

  Asher looks at it and almost winces. He shrugs his eyebrows and scratches his temple.

  “Honestly? Not for me.”

  “Same.”

  “Like you said: it’s the singer and not the song, I guess.”

  I look at him without saying anything for a moment. For the first time feeling a surge of pure attraction to him. Not attraction with caveats, or nagging feelings in the back of my mind, but full, bodily and mental attraction. His delicate charm and forceful magnetism having worked their way all over me, into me. Soothing and brushing all my mental baggage away, causing me to forget everything in the face of his beguiling gaze. It’s a hell of an effect. Almost dangerous.

  With perfectly imperfect timing, my phone rings. I’m willing to leave it but Asher politely smiles and looks away as if releasing his spell to give me opportunity. I pull the phone from my bag and see who it is.

  Toby.

  “Don’t mind me,” Asher says, and I realize I’ve been staring at it for two whole rings. “Answer it.”

  “Do you mind?” I say.

  He plucks the champagne glass from my fingers and smiles.

  “I’ll go get you another drink. Stay here though so I don’t lose you again,” he says, winking at me as he turns and moves into the crowd.

  I bring the phone to my ear.

  “Yes?”

  “Let’s meet.”

  “I’m out.”

  “In an hour then. That’ll give me time to get some oils—I wanna take a bath with you.”

  I try not to smile, to cling onto the part of me that thinks Toby is childish and incredibly arrogant to think I would want to drop everything and run to him for something as silly as a shared bath, but I can’t help smirking a little. It takes a couple of seconds for me to suppress it and answer.

  “No. I’m having a lovely evening.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m on a date,” I say, catching a glimpse of Asher’s beautiful profile across the crowd.

  Now Toby is the one who takes a little too long to answer. “With that Asher guy?” he says, his voice drained of its prior humor.


  “With that Asher guy,” I confirm.

  Another pause. “Are you two…”

  “Having a good time?” I say, feeling suddenly cruel. “Yeah. It’s been great so far.”

  “Are you gonna…”

  “Fuck?” I finish for him, turning the screw, suddenly thinking that this might be the only way to clean this mess up, to push Toby away, to be the bad guy, rip off the Band-Aid, to stop myself from my own reckless wants.

  I watch Asher across the room, though in my mind I’m seeing Toby. And though the words taste bitter to say, I start to feel like they might be the medicine we need. The only cure.

  “Yeah. I think I might, actually.”

  This time I can’t tell if the pause is long, or if it just feels like forever.

  “Okay…” he says, and I have to concentrate to swallow. “All right… Well uh… Guess I’ll see you around then.”

  “Yeah,” I say, having to push the words out with force now, and my voice still sounds weak. “See you around.”

  He hangs up, and I hold the phone to my ear for a moment longer before dropping my hand and then stuffing my cell into my coat pocket.

  I feel a little dizzy now. The crowd a little overbearing, as if somebody turned the volume up a touch too loud. Looking around, the lack of anything but other bodies feels suffocating.

  “Here you go,” Asher says, and I spin around to face him. He’s holding out a champagne glass. “I grabbed a few of these prawns too,” he says, holding up the paper plate. “You eat shellfish, right? They’re pretty great—better than the—”

  “Actually,” I interrupt, putting a hand to my forehead. “I think I’m gonna head home now.”

  “Something wrong?”

  “No… I just… I can’t stand another drink.”

  “Okay. I’ll drive you.”

  “No…no. It’s all right. I can call an Uber.”

  “Come on,” he says earnestly. “At least let me make sure you get home safe. I’m only here for you, anyway.”

  I look up at him, and the tender compassion on his face makes my body feel like it’s being torn from the inside by violent emotions I don’t even understand.

  I sigh, then shrug, and say, “Okay.”

  15

  Toby

  “…Boss!”

  “Huh?”

  Sharon rarely raises her voice, so when I hear her shouting from the doorway of my office it snaps me back to reality violently, and I immediately realize she’s probably been calling me for a while with no response if she’s had to resort to that tone.

  I had no idea that she was even here, that the shop was even open. Last thing I knew I was coming to the shop at three in the morning to be alone. I sat down at my desk in the backroom, cluttered with tools and gems and old paperwork.

  In my hand is a giant Imperial topaz that I’ve been turning in the lamplight for hours. My favorite stone. I bought it in the first year I owned the shop, and it cost me enough that I could have built an entirely new one. That was even with the client selling it to me for a great price because she thought it was cursed. She’d said that since she’d acquired the stone it had brought too much excitement to her life—too much danger and adventure, too much romantic restlessness. I’d told her that sounded like a blessing rather than a curse to me.

  I ended up removing it from the tacky necklace it had been set in, but never had the heart or the inspiration to set it into something else—maybe I just never really wanted to sell it—and instead would sometimes take the stone and stare into its fiery pink-red light, cut so well and with such color it seemed to be alive.

  “The interviewees you sent away yesterday are here again,” Sharon says, walking over to the blinds and opening them to reveal a daylight that shocks me.

  “What time is it?”

  “Just after nine. Are you all right? Should I get you an aspirin or a coffee?”

  “Yeah, no… I’m fine.”

  “Heavy night?”

  “Something like that. Listen, give me ten minutes, then send one of them in.”

  She nods as she makes for the door and leaves me alone with the piercing daylight and the dancing gem.

  Sharon’s not too worried about me, and knows better than to ask any more. This isn’t the first time she’s seen me moping—it’s practically routine at this point. I’m just pining for another woman who’s just out of reach again. Ignoring what is possible in order to feel bad about the impossible again. Wanting what I can’t have again…

  Except this is different. This is Maeve.

  All those married actresses and models I used to enjoy feeling bad over, they seem ridiculous now. Like phony trial runs for the real thing. Momentary whims that you can’t even understand—even feel a little embarrassed by—once the moment passes. Maybe all that chasing and self-pity was just a game I used to play, a comfortable role, my typecast in a city of actors. I used to throw the word love around all the time, trying to convince people, myself, that there was something melodramatic and glamorous about what I was doing. In reality, I was just terrified of the real thing, so I instead convinced myself I was really chasing it. The beauty of going after women I could never have was that I never had to put anything on the line. No chance of needing to commit, no worries about one woman for the rest of my life, no possibility of actually following through and letting it overwhelm me. I just never expected that eventually it would chase me.

  Now…I can’t even bring myself to think that four-letter word. I spent my whole life cheapening it and it’s something I still can’t afford. Now I’m doing the opposite: trying to tell myself Maeve isn’t as magnificent as she is, trying to persuade myself that I’m not as fascinated by her as I am.

  I’m the boy who cried wolf, and the real beast is finally here.

  I can’t even think about her properly. Any time I try to order my thoughts, they slip away from me and turn emotional, erotic, thrilling… Except as wonderful as they are, they’re balanced by an equally affecting sourness. A sense of something deeply wrong that I don’t know how to fix. The contradictions in my mind like walls closing in, crushing me between them. She was never mine, so why do I feel like she’s slipping away? It was always about sex, so why am I getting so emotional? We did this all before six years ago, so why is it so tough now? We fucked already, so why do I feel like we haven’t even begun?

  The knock at the door breaks my thoughts, thankfully, and I try to get my head back in the present as I conduct the rest of the job interviews, doing my best to give the remaining candidates a fair shake and not let my mood get in the way.

  Even compensating for my mood, none of the candidates really strike me as any better than the ones I saw yesterday. I find myself at lunchtime dismissing the last one and turning back to my desk.

  I should get out on the floor with Sharon, or at least get some of the paperwork on my desk done, but instead I turn to my phone for something, anything, that can distract me even more fully.

  Texts…missed calls…emails… I look at the ones from women, almost like I’m hoping any one of them is going to have the same effect on me Maeve does, but they all just seem tiresome and second-best.

  She went on a date…and she fucked him…

  The thought sticks into my gut like a knife, twisting the more I try to push it out of my mind. Just like a blow, it hurts. It makes my adrenaline pump. Makes me angry. Makes me want to react…

  When I see Hazel’s name pop up as a newly added contact in a chat app, I don’t even think before calling her. A brief mental image of her midriff, her dark eyes and bronze skin, flashing through my mind, the closest I’ve come to feeling anything for any other woman so far. As I put the phone to my ear and listen to it ring, I remember her laugh, her sultry eyes, how infectiously fun she is, and start to think I might actually be able to fix this, to fix myself.

  “Hey,” she answers. Somehow, she manages to cram so much positive energy and exuberant joy into even that single syllable. Her
voice hitting a note like the beginning of a song, it’s a greeting that feels like it could go anywhere, open to anything. Right now that’s exactly what I need.

  “Hey, Hazel… How are things?”

  She laughs, from nothing else other than sheer love for life, it seems.

  “I’m good. About to go on my break at work, just thinking about what I’m having for lunch.”

  I know an opportunity when I see it. “Can I buy you lunch?”

  Hazel’s positivity manifests in a sense of pleasant surprise now.

  “Uh, sure! I’ve only got an hour max, though.”

  “I’ll come by and pick you up in the car. Thanks to my sister, I know a lot of good places near the hospital.”

  “Great! Is fifteen minutes okay for you?”

  “Perfect.”

  She laughs and we hang up. I bounce out of my seat and throw on my shirt as I stride out of the backroom.

  “Hey, Sharon, I’m just heading out for an hour or so, do you mind if—”

  She waves me on almost as soon as I start the sentence, and my sudden burst of enthusiasm makes me feel just as grateful for her. I remind myself to give her a good raise soon, and carry on outside to my car.

  It takes fifteen minutes to get to the hospital in good traffic—but the bad traffic’s okay with a Porsche, since I can just take the long route. Still, I use every second of it to talk myself up.

  Of course this is the solution. This was always the solution. A new woman. A different kind of woman. To think I nearly passed on someone as incredible as Hazel because of…whatever it is that’s got me stuck on Maeve. I press the gas to overtake someone and the rising volume of the powerful engine sounds like my own increasing sense of purpose.

  Once I’ve parked at the hospital, I get out and lean back against the car, putting my shades on to stare toward the entrances as I wait for her. When she emerges I reach inside to honk the horn and draw her attention. She jumps, startled, her silvery purple hair swirling as she looks about. She sees me and laughs, taking her hand away from her chest as she walks toward me happily.