by Nikki Wild
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Prologue
Epilogue
Part II
Prologue
Part III
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Baddy
Nikki Wild
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
NIKKI WILD
Other Novels by Nikki Wild
Fall Into Me
1. Elizabeth
2. Julian
3. Elizabeth
4. Julian
5. Elizabeth
6. Julian
7. Elizabeth
8. Julian
9. Elizabeth
10. Julian
11. Elizabeth
12. Julian
13. Elizabeth
14. Julian
15. Elizabeth
16. Julian
17. Elizabeth
18. Julian
19. Elizabeth
20. Julian
21. Elizabeth
22. Julian
23. Elizabeth
24. Julian
25. Elizabeth
26. Julian
NIKKI WILD
Other Novels by Nikki Wild
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BONUS NOVEL: Saved by the Bad Boy
NIKKI WILD
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
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Novels by Nikki Wild
Rough Rider
NIKKI WILD
Prologue
1. Gabby
2. Dante
3. Gabby
4. Dante
5. Gabby
6. Dante
7. Gabby
8. Dante
9. Gabby
10. Dante
11. Gabby
12. Dante
13. Gabby
14. Leonardo Loprinzi
15. Dante
16. Gabby
17. Dante
18. Gabby
19. Bella
20. Dante
21. Lauren
22. Gabby
23. Dante
24. Gabby
25. Dante
26. Gabby
27. Bella
28. Gabby
29. Lauren
30. Dante
31. Gabby
32. Bella
33. Dante
34. Bella
35. Gabby
36. Dante
37. Lauren
38. Leo
39. Gabby
40. Dante
Epilogue
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Bonus Novel 6: PLAYED (A British Bad Boy Romance)
PLAYED
Copyright
Prologue
1. Riley
2. Lex
3. Riley
4. Lex
5. Riley
6. Lex
7. Riley
8. Lex
9. Riley
10. Lex
11. Riley
12. Lex
13. Riley
14. Lex
15. Riley
16. Lex
17. Riley
18. Lex
19. Riley
20. Six Months Later
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Novels by Nikki Wild
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bsp; BONUS NOVEL 1: Saved by the Bad Boy
Mailing List
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
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Novels by Nikki Wild
Taking Beauty
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
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Chapter 1
Misty
I picked at my nail polish. Dad's words echoed in my brain. He was always telling me, quit it.
Quit picking at your nails. Quit biting your lip. Quit fidgeting. Quit whining. Quit looking at me like that, I'm just doing my job. I’m trying to provide for you.
Even though I was all alone in that waiting room, I narrowed my eyes and my nose crinkled.
Look where your job left me, Dad. You're dead and I'm still paying for 'your job.'
There was a heavy, screeching clink, and I glanced up at the guarded door. But the guard didn't look back at me, didn't move at all. He wasn't quite standing at attention, since he probably got paid all of $9 bucks an hour and had no training, but at least he was standing. His tongue rolled across his teeth, its path visible in the contortions of his lips. He sniffed.
I stopped cataloging the prison guard's every movement and looked at the folder in my hands.
It held a yellow legal pad (blank), a copy of my father's sentencing agreement, the letter that detailed his death, and an old photograph of him. He looked handsome in the photograph, which was faded in that late-70's way with all the colors muted. You must remind yourself that the people in the picture saw the world in as much vibrant color as you now see it, and not through a hazy patina.
He wore a jaunty-looking orange cap, like a beret, a striped shirt, and blue jeans tucked into a pair of boots. He leaned against the Chevy Bel Aire, smiling like a proud papa. Until I was born, that car was the closest he got to fatherhood – it was, quite possibly, the closest he got to love.
The Bel Aire was the very same car that I drove to the prison that day, three hours from Sorghum Bend. Take county route 45 down to the interstate, ride it straight to exit 78, and wind your way through the lushly forested, and occasionally pastoral, lowland.
If you kept going on the interstate, you'd get to the Smokies. If you went back the other way, you'd get to Memphis.
If you went the way I went, you wound up at Guvcheck Correctional Institution.
This was not the prison where my father died. That was in Georgia. But it was still my father who brought me here, one way or a-fucking-nother.
From somewhere beyond the door, there was a violent buzzing noise, and then the muffled but distinct sound of a human voice being pumped through an intercom.
The waiting room itself was nondescript. No pictures on the wall – just a poster that went over the rules for visiting hour. Dark red plastic chairs filled the space. They were the kind you had in high school, probably, where the plastic was bumpy and coarse to the touch. It was a design choice I couldn’t begin to understand.
I shared the room with a strikingly beautiful young woman. She had two children in tow and looked so very tired. The children were occupying themselves with a tablet, poking at the screen. There was also an elderly woman holding a tin box with Rudolph on it. It was March, but what did that matter? Time, I knew, was nebulous in there. My father told me as much before he died.
Before he was murdered. I thought to myself quietly.
“Alright,” a voice drew me from my distractions. “If you'll follow me...”
The door opened and a female guard gestured to us. I let the mother with her children go first, then waited for the other woman (also a mother, most likely) to pass before I rose and joined the procession. We'd all been searched already, and cleared to do our visiting with our incarcerated loved ones.
Or, in my case, to visit with a man I only knew from the briefest of memories – a man who had no idea why he'd been called to the visitation room. A man who probably didn't remember me. A man I could only hope would be grateful for the reprieve from his daily drudgery, no matter how brief.
I remembered him being handsome. First time I saw him I was only 14 and just beginning to think that men were handsome. He was just a strapping 18-year-old, but he certainly fit my idea of a man even when others would call him a boy. I tried to forget what he looked like back then… the eyes so dark they were almost black… the dirty-blonde hair that sat in a tousled drift on the top of his head… the dimples that deepened as he smiled whenever my father spoke his name.
I remembered he had dirty nails. For some reason, that it was very cool and sexy for a man to have dirty nails. I don't share that opinion with my 14-year-old self.
The last time I saw him I was 18, and he was still handsome. Even more so with the bloom of twenty-something swagger dancing behind those too-dark eyes. And he looked at me back. Actually looked at me. Like a man looks at a woman he’d pay to get to know.
I was prepared to encounter someone significantly different this time around. He had ten years to age, and four of them were spent behind bars. I was tense as we entered in a group. While the other women and children crowed and cooed and smiled their ways to their men, I stood and watched him watching me. His lips widened just a bit into a half-smile that didn't deepen his dimples. He had a gash on his forehead, and the lingering evidence of a black eye shadowed his near-black eyes into an even darker shade than I remembered. He was inked from his wrist to the beginning of his sleeve.
Somehow, he looked good in orange.
“You here for me, Misty-Lee?”
Chapter 2
Rev
I winked at her, savoring the look on her face as I dropped her name.
“I'm a poet and I don't even know it,” I said, leaning closer while she slid into the chair across from me. Here in minimum, you get about a three-second hug, one at each end of your visit. I didn't think Ms. Constatino was going to indulge me in that small favor, but I'd ask her anyway before our time was up.
“William,” she breathed, brown eyes still wide, making her look like a fawn. Last time I saw a deer was the year before, when one happened to pass by our chain-linked rec yard, emerging from the forest and disappearing back into it almost as fast as you could point to her. But I remembered what that deer looked like, and Misty-Lee Constatino looked like a deer. Right down to the heather-colored hair that framed her face in waves, and the slightly darker skin that ringed her eyes.
“Please,” I said. “We're old friends. Call me Rev.”
She winced like I'd reminded her of something awful. Maybe I
had.
“Well, no one calls me Misty-Lee anymore,” she said, putting down her manilla folder and spreading her fingers atop it. Her nail polish was chipped. It was beige. Her shirt was black – not too tight. She was wearing tan slacks and looking like she could blend into a crowd without anyone taking notice.
I don't think I'd ever seen a woman who wanted to disappear more than Misty-Lee did.
“What do they call you, then?” I prompted.
“Just Misty,” she replied quietly.
She paused, lips pursed together. The woman had used caramel lipstick too. She was beige all over. All but her cheeks, red as a burlesque dancer’s fan. A dusting of tan freckles covered her slender nose, just the way they always had...
“Misty-Lee Constatino is a long name to have to write on forms,” she explained, trying on a smile. She paused before going on. “I can't believe you remember me.”
“Why not? You clearly remember me.”
She opened her mouth to answer, but it snapped shut pretty quick. Her eyes were wincing. This girl was in some kind of trouble. She was too pretty to be in trouble, I thought. Surely there was some guy taking care of her? I glanced at those splayed-out fingers but there wasn’t a ring. She tried on another smile, but this one didn’t fit much better than the first.
“James Dean look-a-likes make much bigger impressions on teenage girls than the other way around, right?”
So she wasn't totally skittish. Willing, at least, to admit that she once found me attractive. Then again, she might just be trying to butter me up for whatever it was she'd come here for.
“You still live in Sorghum?” I asked. She nodded.
“I do,” she said. “But if you don't mind...we haven't got that much time, so is there any way I can ask you what I've come here to ask you before we skip down memory lane?”
“Shoot,” I said through a grin. “They don't approve of skipping around here, anyway.”
She opened her folder, pulling out a yellow legal pad and some various papers.
“I guess I won't really need to show you this,” she said, and slipped a photo across the table. Damn. It was old man Millions, back when he was young man Thousands. He was standing in front of that car he loved so much. I grinned a little wider in spite of myself.
“Since you remember me, I guess you remember my father.”
“Sure as hell do,” I said. “Millions is a hard man to forget.”
“Yes,” Misty-Lee said, but that strained smile just looked painful.
“How's he kicking? He's at Pinkerton, isn't he?”
“He was,” she said, voice catching, eyes blinking rapidly. Oh, hell. “He passed away. Recently. In...there. Inside.”
“I'm sorry to hear it,” I said, meaning it. I looked at the photo a moment longer, committing it to memory. When that picture was taken, he was my age and Misty-Lee was nothing but a twinkle in his eye. Now, she was too old for the name he gave her, and I was...
