Craving BAD: An Anthology of Bad Boys and Wicked Girls

by A. J. Norris

  Suddenly a voice came from behind her, a voice that made her heart leap into her chest. Her bags dropped to the floor with a loud bang.

  “Katherine?”

  She turned, forgetting all about her luggage as it rolled across the airport floor. She stared at him, her mouth open, tears filling her eyes again.

  He stood in front of her, one bag in his hand, and a slightly uncertain smirk in his eye. Their gaze locked together, even through the crowded airport. She was in shock, her whole body on edge. The hairs on her arms stood up and she couldn’t move.

  He took a step toward her. “Katherine, I—” he began.

  She cut him off, running toward him. “Oh, thank God.” She laughed as she jumped into his arms. He caught her, kissing her lips. It was as if he’d never left. They stood in the airport, surrounded by thousands of strangers, kissing like it was the last time they would ever see each other. Katherine knew that wouldn’t be the case.

  “You came?” she asked when they pulled away.

  “So did you, if I remember correctly,” he said sarcastically.

  She stared at him, a frown on her face, silently begging him to tell her that this was real.

  “I came.” He nodded finally. “I’m coming.” He smiled, still a slight hint of the perversion in his voice, but his eyes told a different story.

  She kissed his lips again, feeling them part under hers, and she knew that he felt it too. He was coming with her. And they were both asking for trouble.

  About the Author

  Kiersten Modglin lives in Nashville, TN with her husband and their two Boston Terriers, Cedric and Chloe. A psychology fanatic, lover of Netflix, coffee and all things Harry Potter, Kiersten can almost always be found curled up in her favorite writing chair with a good book. Kiersten writes psychological suspense novels that explore the darkest parts of human nature and the inner workings of twisted minds. Writing has always been an important part of Kiersten’s life; for her, this is just the beginning.

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  Blacklisted

  By: Cora Kenborn

  Chapter One

  Charity

  Whoever said money couldn’t buy happiness obviously hadn’t slipped a toe into a pair of Christian Louboutin Harleyda thigh-high boots. At twenty-seven hundred dollars a pair, the crystal-tipped, spiked suede hugged my calves like a second skin bathed in barbed wire, making me the happiest bitch in the club.

  Not that I paid for them myself. I’d built a career on the generosity of others…only they had no idea of their charity until it was too late. Maybe that’s why I’d chosen the name I had when I found myself knee-deep in the shadier side of business. It was a little sadistic, but on some sort of Freudian-level, I guess it gave me a good laugh to tell myself all those poor idiots gave to charity. Or it could quite possibly be that I had so many aliases it was the only one left I could remember.

  Some called me a con artist. Others called me a thief. I preferred Personal Liquidation Specialist.

  Okay, yeah, maybe thief was more accurate.

  It didn’t matter much to me what people thought of me. Those same people who judged me dragged their asses out of bed every day at the crack of dawn and slaved for some dickhead who paid them a fraction of their worth, only to despise their lives and be miserable. What kind of life was that? People could say what they wanted, but I woke up in the late afternoon most days, dressed in the finest designer clothes, and spent a few hours once or twice a week in a club drinking on someone else’s dime.

  Call me immoral, but who’s the idiot here?

  I smiled a little to myself as I glanced around Suede’s crowded bar. Bright blue and magenta lights flickered across the packed Vegas-style Miami nightclub, highlighting the faces of the rich, famous, and completely oblivious. Other than the usual wink from an admiring male eye, or scowl from his female companion, no one gave me a second glance. As long as I played the role well enough, I fit in. I was accepted without question. They thought I belonged.

  Dumbasses.

  Located in the famed Fallon Hotel in Miami, Florida, Suede had to be the most lavish hotspot in the city. The door was notoriously hard to infiltrate and the prices weren’t for the faint of heart. People stood elbow-to-elbow with A-list celebrities, carrying on conversations with P. Diddy and Paris Hilton as if they were waiting in line at the supermarket check-out line. Table service could easily cost a weekend partygoer an entire paycheck, which was why I walked my happy ass straight to the bar. I came here to earn a paycheck, not blow one.

  With the thrill of a new chase coursing through my veins, I straightened my spine and licked the inside of my bottom lip the moment I set eyes on my newest target. He sat hunched over, his hair rumpled from its earlier nine-to-five sensible style, and the collar on his boring white shirt opened a few buttons. He motioned to the bartender, tugging on his opened lapel repeatedly as he slugged back gin and tonic like it was water in the Sahara.

  This would be too easy. It saddened me a little. I liked a challenge. Hopefully, they all wouldn’t be this pathetic, or I’d be bored into an early night. Still, I lived for this shit and a rush was a rush in any form it presented itself. I’d take what I could get for the high alone.

  My light blonde hair hung at my chin in loose curls that I’d styled just for tonight. Wearing my hair like this drove men crazy. I had no idea why, but my score always seemed bigger when I amped up the Marilyn Monroe sex-kitten look. Maybe it made me seem vulnerable and harmless. Maybe that was why men like this guy almost made me feel guilty.

  Almost.

  “Is this seat taken?” I ran my red nails over the back of the bar stool and watched him do a double take. The moment he glanced up and met my eyes, I knew I had him. He stared at me with his mouth slightly open like I had angel wings and a halo.

  Sucker.

  He pushed the chair out with his toe and motioned to the seat. “Not anymore. It’s all yours.” Running a hand down the front of his wrinkled shirt, he offered me the opposite one. “I’m Paul, by the way.”

  With the club growing more crowded, I plastered an indifferent coolness across my face and quickly accepted the invitation before he changed his mind. Reining in the excitement bubbling under my skin, I slipped in beside him, placed my clutch on the bar, and cranked the charm up to an eleven by flashing him one of my practiced killer smiles.

  “So what’s got you looking like Wall Street just crashed your party?” I needed to establish a rapport, although I honestly didn’t give a shit what Paul’s day was like. In my line of work, small talk was a necessary evil, and I had the skills to make this guy think I was a walking dream. If I could figure out how to do my job without catering to overinflated egos, my life would be ten times easier and a hell of a lot happier.

  I prowled my mark, perched on a live wire with a hedonistic covering of electricity and sin. “I’ve got all night. Why don’t you buy me a drink and tell me about it?”

  A light sparked in his flat eyes, and one side of his mouth twitched in a hidden smile. “What’s your poison?”

  “Chopin vodka martini…extra dirty, four olives.”

  “You’re very specific.”

  “I know what I want.” I winked.

  It wasn’t a lie. I absolutely knew what I wanted. His wallet and his watch…preferably without too much exertion on my part, thank you.

  A grin tugged at the corner of Paul’s lips as he flagged down the bartender and recited my order verbatim, holding up four fingers when asking for the olives. Bored already, I scanned the rows of couches in an elevated seating area directly above me, when I saw him.

  Shit.

  What in the hell was he doing here? Surrounded by a private part
y held by a well-known television actress, he’d all but pulled some random woman in his lap. As the hard bass of the music engulfed me, I narrowed my eyes at his thrown back chin while he laughed at something some blonde bimbo in boots said to him.

  Yeah, I know. Hi, pot. I’m kettle. You’re black.

  But rationality had no place in my world at that moment. His presence in Suede threw a major kink in my plans and pissed me off in a way I hadn’t been in a while. As I took in his fitted black slacks and gray button-up shirt that hugged him in all the right places, I fisted both of my hands, digging my nails into my palms.

  Spencer.

  Strands of gelled and meticulously styled onyx hair crowned equally meticulously chiseled cheeks, stubbled chin, and espresso-colored eyes. The man wore a face mask twenty-four-seven, artfully keeping his opponent off-guard and unstable. I halfway respected and hated him for it. I could keep the charade up for only so long before my mark bored me to the point of breaking character. It was why I usually worked fast and got the hell out.

  Speed yielded a bigger payout for me. However, Spencer played a well-orchestrated cat-and-mouse game like none other. He could work a target for hours, patiently waiting for the perfect moment to strike. I’d rather hit multiple marks, doubling my cash load and spending as little time as possible lying to everyone involved about how much I cared about their lives.

  I let out a low growl as Spencer ran a crooked finger down the blonde’s cheek while she giggled and played with her sad excuse for hair extensions. I almost felt bad for her. She actually thought he wanted whatever Botox-silicone offering she flashed him, but I knew the truth the minute he swiped her cheek again.

  From what I could tell, the diamonds shining in her ears most likely weighed in at about two carats. Another drink and one more swipe, and they’d be in Spencer’s pocket.

  If I wasn’t in the middle of my own score, I’d walk my ass over and shit all over his parade. I was only thirty years old, but I’d been doing this long enough to build a name for myself in our blacklisted circle. There were no business partners in this line of work, and there wasn’t room at the top for both of us. High-roller clubs were my domain and he knew it. He came here to be an asshole and one-up me.

  With the beat still vibrating in my ears, I tuned Paul out and watched Spencer run the pad of his thumb over his bottom lip, eliciting a shudder from the cheap blonde. The look on his face was smug, certain he had her where he wanted her as she leaned into his touch while he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

  To the oblivious onlooker, Spencer and this chick looked like an impending hook-up. However, I followed his hand as it trailed from the outside of her ear, down her arm, and across the seat cushion to his lap. The flashing lights from the dance floor caught the sparkles in the center cut of the diamonds before they disappeared into his pocket.

  Motherfucker.

  I had no clue if I spoke the word out loud, but I felt my lips mouth every consonant and vowel in waves of loathing. I’d barely made it through the second syllable when his head cocked up, and rich, espresso-brown eyes met mine with a hint of recognition and smugness. Something resembling a challenge flickered across his face as he arched one brow, grinned, and whispered something into the woman’s ear, causing her to giggle.

  Everything seemed to move in slow motion as red hazed my vision. Heat bubbled through my veins, forcing my eyes closed for a moment as I counted to ten. A few deep inhales later, and feeling more in control, I opened my eyes and prepared for a battle. Instead, I stared at the back of Spencer’s head, his seduction of the blonde curled by his side amped up and back in play.

  Thrown off guard by my own reaction, I forced my eyes off Spencer and back toward the man sitting beside me with a bewildered look on his face. I’d be damned if I’d let anyone ruin my night or cost me a big payout.

  “So, where’s your wife tonight, Paul?” Always good to run a preemptive interference on a potential wallet-block.

  “No wife. Not even a girlfriend,” he replied sporting a full smile. In an eerily similar move to what I witnessed from the couches a few moments ago, Paul ran his hand down the length of my arm. “So, do you have a specific name that goes along with that specific drink order?”

  Game on, Spence.

  “Charity,” I purred with a slow blink. “Charity St. James.”

  Chapter Two

  Spencer

  With a pocketful of ice, my fingers headed toward the black AmEx card sticking out of her purse when fire shot through my veins, leaving an eighty-proof burn in its wake.

  Charity St. James.

  “Adam, you are such a bad boy!”

  Huh? Who the fuck is Adam?

  The blonde who I’d chosen to donate all her assets to me tonight ran her hand up my arm and pulled it away from her handbag with a smirk. As she bit her bottom lip and slid closer to me, I realized she thought I meant to cop a cheap feel up her skirt. Apparently, I also told her my name was Adam. I guess I needed to pay closer attention to the shit I said when working.

  She tugged on my shirt collar and whispered into my ear, “Let’s go back to my place.”

  “The night is young, Mandy.”

  “Mindy,” she corrected with a less-than-thrilled expression.

  Fuck! “Of course. I know your name is Mindy.” Smiling, I took her chin in my hand while gazing in her blue eyes. “I just wanted to see if you were paying attention. I was feeling a little neglected.” I held my breath as her eyes softened and her shoulders dropped their tension.

  Thank God.

  Fucking Charity. I was so caught up in watching what the hell she was doing, I forgot about my own target. I couldn’t blow this one. That credit card would pay for a few nights in a Fallon deluxe suite. I couldn’t let her screw this up for me.

  Charity St. James liked to think she had the corner on the market of the theft ring upper echelon, but clubs were open season for our kind. No one could “claim” a territory like we were the damn mafia. We took what we could, when we could. A victory was a victory, and if one of us got the jump on another one…well so be it.

  While Charity limited herself to high rollers, I spread myself evenly across income levels. I wasn’t a picky man…if a chick had shit I wanted, I’d follow her just about anywhere to charm it off her. The game meant almost as much as the prize to a man like me. The rush of possibly getting busted while lifting jewelry or cash off women was a high I’d chase over and over until I took my last breath. It never got old.

  She liked to think she hated me, but we both knew if we pulled back the surface layer of hate, passion boiled raw and hot underneath. She covered it up with a smart mouth and well-executed hand gestures, but the push and pull of our line of work kept us on our toes and in each other’s line of fire.

  I’d been only twenty-two and on my own for over eight years the first time I saw her. Having been shuffled around from foster home to foster home most of my life, I’d been used to spending my time on the streets of South Beach. With the out of the ordinary as the norm for this side of town, nothing usually surprised me or caught my eye.

  Until she showed up at a club in a skin-tight red dress and expensive as fuck shoes that I knew didn’t come from any department store. I’d watched her for a good hour before deciding the hot blonde with honey brown eyes would be my hit for the night.

  Pay dirt.

  For a guy who prided himself on being able to read people for a living, I’d totally missed the mark on her. My heart rate sped up and I adjusted my pants just thinking about the moment she’d excused herself to the bathroom, and I’d realized too late that my pocket had been lighter.

  She’d lifted my wallet and took off. It’d be another three months before I ran into her again. I should’ve stolen everything she had after that. We didn’t have much among thieves, but we did have a code…no taking from another con. It was an unwritten rule. But instead of being angry for what she’d pulled, it’d turned me on. Nobody had ever gotten the ju
mp on me before, much less a woman.

  “Adam, are you ignoring me?”

  Pulled back into the here and now, I threw back an entire shot of whiskey and ran my tongue along the front of my teeth, absorbing the burn. “No, baby. Just wondering how I got so lucky. The night is young. I don’t want to rush what’s meant to be savored.”

  Jesus, that was lame. I wanted to punch myself for such a line. She’d never buy that one.

  A full grin broke out across her face. “That’s so sweet!”

  Lucky for me, Mindy was dumber than I gave her credit for. I wanted to tear across the bar and bust Charity’s ass in front of her score for distracting me. However, I held back the tirade of curses resting on the tip of my tongue and taunted her instead with a few pointed looks and smiles meant to irritate the hell out of her.

  I knew there wasn’t a name for her level of pissed when she saw me sprawled out on the upper level of Suede like I owned the place, and it egged me on to rile her up more. Mindy had been my third mark of the night, and technically, the earrings I’d lifted would have sufficed enough to call it a win. But I wanted to see that flush in my adversary’s neck again…maybe push a few more of her buttons than I already had.

  Charity had to be the only woman sexier when she was half a heartbeat away from chopping my dick off than when smiling. Miami crawled with tanned, toned women who made it their mission in life to look damn near perfect in every plastic way possible. Some achieved their goal shot, some fell slightly short of the baseline, and some never even made it into the stadium. Charity looked stunning on a normal Tuesday afternoon in jeans and a sweatshirt, but tonight she was the reason God invented two hands and one dick.

  The black sequined dress she wore covered just enough skin to keep her out of jail but revealed enough to give a man both heart failure and a hard-on. Hugging her tight and dipping low, it showed off her God-given assets and put every other woman in the club to shame. Other than the mouth-watering neckline, the long-sleeved dress seemed tame from the front, but once she turned to the side, shit got serious.