Buy Me, Bad Boy - A Bad Boy Buys A Girl Romance

by Layla Valentine

  It seemed like he’d been in rehab for months, rather than only three weeks.

  “You sound really strong, Daddy,” I said, cradling the phone close to my ear. I missed him so much; it made my heart ache.

  “I feel a bit stronger, baby,” he said. “But I’ll be honest with you, I’m not quite sure what kind of home I’m supposed to return to. Not even sure I want to drive past the house to see it. Completely destroyed, they said?”

  “The bones are still there, Dad, and you own the property,” I said, my heart sinking. “Colt thinks you should rebuild after wintertime—if you’re feeling up to it.”

  “Just can’t imagine not having Thanksgiving at the house, you know?” he said.

  “I’ve been thinking about that a lot, but we can have it at our apartment, Dad. And actually, an apartment opened up on our block at the beginning of the month, and I’ve already talked to the landlord about you moving in. We can get you settled. New clothes, new furniture—everything you’ll need until you’re ready to move back into the house.”

  “This Colt, he handy with tools?” my dad asked.

  That was a question I didn’t know the answer to. Turning my eyes toward the window, I watched as a little boy and his mother brought together hay and sacks, creating a befuddled-looking scarecrow. It was only four days till Thanksgiving, and we hadn’t yet bothered to reserve a bird at the grocery store.

  “He seems to think he can help you,” I said, shrugging slightly. “In my experience with him, Colt has surprises up his sleeve at every corner.”

  It was true. The minute things had calmed down, Colt had rushed out and gotten a job at the local mechanic shop, as he had apparently learned a fair bit about cars during his life on the road and during his time in juvenile detentions throughout Detroit. “It’s a car city, baby,” he’d told me with a shrug.

  The money was good, and he contributed half of the rent and the groceries. He even paid me back every single penny for reclaiming his Mustang. He still drove that thing proudly through town, the chilly autumn wind ripping across his face through the open windows. People had begun to whisper about him, this strange, handsome newcomer.

  Colt came into the kitchen on the day we planned to pick up my dad, stinking of cars and oil. I wordlessly pointed toward the shower, but instead of following my directions, he lifted me high with his grubby hands and then kissed me hard, his lips sucking at mine. Falling into a puddle of lust at his feet, I allowed him to carry me into the bathroom.

  He placed me, bare-footed, inside the shower, and then he turned the hot water on, which pooled around my feet. I giggled, making a face at him. “If you were anyone else on the planet, Colt, I’d smack you across your grubby face.”

  Ripping his shirt from his body, he revealed his sculpted abdomen. He tossed his pants and underwear in the hamper and stepped in after me, clucking his tongue.

  “Now, you should know the rules, little Luna. Look at you. You’re still wearing your clothes in the shower! We have to fix this.”

  With a flourish, he ripped my dress from my body and then spent the next few minutes toying with me, kissing my neck, my ears, and my forehead with tender kisses. Beneath the wave of hot steam, we fell into one another’s arms, making love and easing soap over our arms, our legs, and our stomachs.

  Afterwards, we dressed quickly, donning our winter coats, as the night was closing in. I huddled in the passenger seat of the Mustang, cranking the heat up as high as it would go as Colt drove us toward Des Moines. We watched in silence as the sun took its final stretch across the fields and then descended, peppering the sky with stars.

  “In Detroit, my grandmother would always stand out on the porch and try to point out any stars she could see. Sometimes, I think they were just airplanes,” Colt said. “But she kept the magic alive for me, at least while she was around. I’d never looked at the sky as an adult until I moved to Iowa. There’s such a grandness to nature out here. Everything is so big, spread out, open.”

  “Some people would call that boring,” I said.

  “Boring is a state of mind.”

  As we pulled into the parking lot of the clinic, my stomach knotted with apprehension. So much had happened since my father had left for rehab. I didn’t want to see his face when he first saw the shell of the house, cleared out and with a large sign out front that said “NO TRESPASSING.” It looked nothing like a home anymore, no longer reminiscent of the place he raised me.

  But life was all about facing these sorts of things. Colt had taught me that.

  We’d come here a few weeks before to collect Dad’s car. They didn’t want it in the lot, and Dad didn’t like the thought of it rusting out there in the growing November chill. We’d parked it at the apartment complex, with Colt going out to start it and drive it around every few days. But we hadn’t been allowed indoors to see Dad then.

  The place was sterile, white-washed, with sour-looking staff checking us in and telling us, in low voices, to stay in the waiting room. We huddled close together, assessing the other people who sat in plastic chairs, reading magazines. Everyone was zombie-like, lifeless looking. We wanted to get out of there as fast as possible.

  “You don’t think they’ve replaced his brain with a robotic one, do you?” I asked Colt, half-serious.

  Colt shook his head. “These clinics are all the same, whether you’re in it for drugs, gambling, you name it. They always give me the creeps. Aaron was in one for drugs for a bit. He was clean for a whole year when we were 20 or so. But after that…”

  Learning more about Colt’s past had proved rocky. He hinted at things here and there—the gang fights, the violence—but it was clear he was trying to put it behind him. I had to push my lips together to help, to avoid the many questions I wanted to ask.

  Perhaps we’d be in our 80s someday, rocking in chairs on the front porch and telling each other our intimate secrets. Perhaps I’d learn then.

  My father was the second man to exit the main area of the clinic. In the loose-hanging pair of jeans and black sweater he wore, he looked like he’d lost a decent amount of weight. His face was brighter, fuller, without as many of the wrinkles I remembered. I rushed toward him, wrapping my arms around his neck and inhaling sharply, feeling close to sobbing. He held on to me, the only family he had left.

  I felt a small tear glide down his cheek as he whispered, “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  Breaking the hug, I cleared my eyes and gestured toward Colt. “Dad, this is Colt. Colt Anderson, my boyfriend.”

  “Good to finally meet you,” my dad said, reaching forward and shaking Colt’s hand. “You’ve made quite an impression on our family, as I hear it.” His face grew grave. “Thank you for taking care of my daughter when we got into trouble. If I’d known, I never would have checked myself in here.”

  “We handled it together,” Colt said, nodding firmly. “And it’s wonderful to finally meet you. Got your new bed and dresser moved into your apartment this morning. You can make it up however you like over the next few months. Then, I figure, we can start with the rebuild.”

  “The rebuild,” Dad echoed, his eyes growing wide. “Jesus. Such an undertaking. Maybe too much of one. Maybe I shouldn’t be alone in such a big house.”

  “Don’t be silly, Pop,” I said, easing my arm through his. “Let’s get you back to town. We can talk about this later.”

  “It’ll be even better than the last one,” Colt said as we traced our path back to the Mustang—a car I knew my father would love.

  “I have some plans drawn up,” Colt said. “We can discuss them, of course.”

  “So he is a handyman,” Dad said, eyeing me with a smile. “A handyman who drives a Mustang. Don’t know how you found one this good, Luna.”

  “Me neither,” I said, grinning.

  I slid into the back seat of the car, allowing my dad the passenger seat. As we drove back, the voices of my lover and my father swirled in the night air around my head. I didn’t follow the
ir conversation; I couldn’t remember it mere seconds afterward. I simply placed my head against the window and reveled in the beauty of their voices together in my ears.

  The boys didn’t begin building the house till after the first thaw in mid-February. We’d had a prosperous winter together: Colt getting a raise at the mechanic’s, me starting my last semester at managerial school, and Dad maintaining his sobriety.

  For Thanksgiving, we ended up having a small gathering at our apartment, with Dad and Colt falling asleep in front of the football game and dishes piled high in the kitchen sink. For Christmas, Colt and I adopted a puppy—a golden retriever we named Amie—and Dad took to spending long days with her while Colt and I were at work, even training her to fetch, roll over, and give high-fives.

  We managed to afford decent health insurance for him, now, allowing him his heart medication. Immediately, he seemed more full of vitality than I’d seen in years, a stamina that allowed him to go on longer walks with Amie, stay up talking and laughing, and even drink the occasional glass of wine.

  It seemed our lives couldn’t have gotten any better.

  When Colt and my father began construction, I was at the house often, bringing sandwiches and doing what I could in the initial stages. (Colt said I’d come in later, for the paint jobs, the carpentry, and the tile choosing. “We don’t have a flair for that stuff the way you do,” he’d told me.)

  It was obvious, as Colt began to create this house from the bare bones, that carpentry was his true calling. He’d hired contractors to come do various elements—the plumbing, electric, and pouring concrete—but he did the majority of the work himself, with my dad monitoring from the sidelines. Each day when he returned home, Colt spoke to me excitedly, telling me the play-by-play of his carpentry work, his hands gesturing wildly, yearning to get back out on the field.

  “Have you ever considered that this could be your passion, your calling?” I asked him one day, just a few weeks out from them finalizing the construction. “I’ve never seen you this happy.”

  “When I was younger, I used to create little towns from stuff I found in the yard at my grandmother’s,” he said, his eyebrows furrowing. “I remember I was so involved with the small, imaginative lives of those people. I could practically see their tiny bodies wandering through the town I’d made.”

  “You should start your own business,” I said. “I know you don’t love being a mechanic. It’s just a filler right now.”

  “Come on, Luna, we don’t have the money for that right now.”

  I leaned toward him, my eyes intense. “We’re not going to be the type of people who stress about money,” I said, kissing him firmly. “I’ve been going to this business school for years. Let me look into how we can wrangle you a loan.”

  Colt shrugged it off, but I arranged the paperwork, alongside my final exams, and scheduled a meeting with the bank on the very day Colt and my father finished the building of the house. Once they were done, I leaped into Colt’s arms, giving him a long, desirous kiss, and then telling him to put on his best suit and meet me at the car.

  “We’re going to the bank. You’re going to keep doing this. This isn’t the last house you’re going to build. Not over my dead body.”

  Begrudgingly, Colt donned a suit we bought at a second-hand store. It was a bit wrinkled here and there, but it framed his muscular form well. He drove us the long way to the bank, wanting to go over the points of the loan: that he’d use the money to generate a carpentry business, that he’d acquire clients throughout the city and the surrounding areas. We included photos of the house he’d just built for my father, including a testimonial from my father about the “fine craftsmanship.”

  When he parked outside the bank, he gave me a long stare. “What if this doesn’t work?”

  I shrugged. “Then we’ll go back to how things were, and you can build fake little cities with popsicle sticks in our living room.” I reached across the gap between us, squeezing his hand. “The point is, baby, we’re happy. And I love you more than anything, so whatever happens in there, we’ll be fine. Right?”

  Of course, Colt got the loan. It was almost too easy once he flashed that charming smile of his to the woman at the desk. She fawned over him, asking him details about the craftsmanship on the house and then looking genuinely impressed when he showed her the actual photographs. The loan was a hefty one, more than enough to rent out a space downtown and take on a few employees.

  When we left the bank, Colt looked astonished, his cheeks almost blue from shock. “I can’t believe it actually worked,” he murmured. “You have to understand, I grew up on the streets. I hardly knew what money was, and I certainly wasn’t ever going to make it the proper way…”

  I reached up and kissed his cheek, giving him a wide smile. “You need to start giving yourself more credit, baby. You got yourself to where you are right now. You escaped your past. You’re building your future, just like you said you wanted to.”

  Only a few days after Colt leased out a space downtown, I graduated from managerial school, earning a degree I’d never been sure I needed, being “just a waitress” at the local diner. But when Marcia whispered into my ear one day that the owner of the diner, Mannie, was considering handing it over to new management, I stepped in immediately.

  My father had said, all those years, that I could someday operate my own diner if I worked hard enough. And dammit, owning the diner became precisely what I wanted to do. When Mannie first handed me the keys that bright June morning, I’d leaped into the air, glancing around the familiar, glittering interior and imagining a million different ways the place could shift and grow, becoming my vision of what a diner should be.

  Of course, in the midst of the redesign, I gave Marcia a generous raise. Then, I hired a few other girls who looked how I had about five years before: thin, awkward, hunting for their purpose in life. They would find it, even if it burst in from out of town and demanded they follow it out onto the open road.

  Or something like that.

  By the next Halloween, about a year after Colt had come barreling through town, the diner was completely different. I’d decided to rename it “Lunar Diner” after my name, and paint the interior with a series of murals, many of which were space-themed. I had forgotten how much I’d liked to paint as a younger girl, and I threw myself into it, with Colt often watching from the counter as he went over his carpentry plans.

  “Look at us,” I’d breathed to him in the midst of painting, shaking my head. “We’re making everything happen.”

  We made love in the diner multiple times during the redesign, closing the shades—or sometimes leaving them wide open—and fucking against the countertop, on the new tables and chairs, and even in the storage room where it had all begun for us.

  We giggled endlessly, always making jokes and teasing one another, falling more and more in love every day. One evening, after Colt left his office, he came to the diner with a wall hanging of my diploma from the managerial school. With a hammer and nail from his office, he hung the diploma over the door of the diner, telling me, with a beaming expression, that he’d never been prouder of anyone in his life.

  For Halloween, we celebrated the one-year anniversary of many different things in our family. One year since Colt’s arrival in Iowa City. One year since my father’s sobriety from gambling. One year since everything rocked and changed and blew up in our faces only to reveal a better life waiting in the wings.

  We ordered a large turkey, basted it, and then allowed it to cook for hours in the newly designed kitchen, filling the house with savory smells. I prepared a batch of mashed potatoes and three pies—pumpkin, cherry, and apple, all of which my father said were “his personal favorites.” Colt insisted we have several different types of vegetables, including asparagus, which his grandmother had taught him how to make. “Extra butter, extra love,” he told me.

  We sat down at the large wooden dining table—one Colt had crafted for my father with his two ha
nds—and brought our hands together for a moment of silence, of peace. Thankfulness filled our hearts, and when our hands broke apart, we shoved our forks into the meal and ate heartily, all three of us grateful to be alive and well.

  As we ate, I glanced around the new dining room. Colt had played around with the original model quite a bit, making the ceilings tall, with floor-to-ceiling windows. The living room held an antique couch, which we’d purchased at a flea market, and a massive television, which my father used to watch his chess matches.

  Even Colt had recently gotten into chess, forcing me to play with him deep into the night. Often enough, he beat me, making my heart burst with a competitive spirit. I usually made him play until I won again, and by then it was often after one in the morning, leaving us both exhausted. But it was worth it, spending time together, doing something we both enjoyed.

  Up the curving staircase, Colt had built two bedrooms, along with a master bedroom. When my father had told him that it was too much space, he’d winked at him, saying that he’d want the grandchildren over when they were a bit older, wouldn’t he? My father had nodded, his eyes pining.

  But, of course, I wasn’t pregnant. Not yet, anyway.

  We’d considered trying, but with both of us managing new businesses, it didn’t seem like the right time.

  Raising my wine glass high, I proposed a toast.

  “My boys—my loves—I’d like to say something,” I said, giving them both meaningful looks. “If you can stop eating for more than a few seconds. I beg of you.”

  They stopped, clunking their forks and knives against the plates before them. They blinked, giving me the floor.

  “Thank you. As you know, we’ve all had quite a year, from Dad entering a clinic to get well to Colt rebuilding this magnificent house and opening his own business.”

  “I think you’re forgetting a few things,” Colt said, laughing. “You, my darling. You brought us together. You graduated from college and helped me start my business. Don’t discredit yourself. You deserve this toast more than any of us.”