Return of the Bad Boy

by Paige North

  I didn’t have to worry about them watching. When I get inside, I find my father at the back of the house, drowning in stacks of paper he’s amassed from his twenty-five years of teaching at Friesville High. “Hi Dad,” I say, navigating around the piles and giving him a kiss to butter him up.

  “Hey kiddo. Back from putting out fires in the big city, huh?” He waves his arms at the mess in front of him. “I think I murdered an entire forest during my career.”

  I laugh way too much at the stupid joke. “Where’s Mom?” I ask him.

  “Upstairs. She’s packing up her closet,” he says, stuffing more papers into a giant garbage bag. There was a time that they’d both tackle each room together, but now it’s rare to find them in the same room for more than thirty seconds.

  “Do you think I can talk to you both?” I ask him.

  He stops suddenly. This is serious. I don’t ever ask to have a “talk”. I’ve never really needed to, because I always just fell in line and did what they told me to.

  Until now.

  “Sure, honey,” he says, wiping his hands on the back of his jeans. He and I go up to the kitchen, and he calls up there stairs, “Gloria? Your daughter’s home, and she wants to talk to us both.”

  My mother appears at the end of the hallway, eyes wide with concern. “Everything all right? You didn’t get into an accident, did you?”

  I shake my head. We sit down at the table, me across from them, so I’ll so easily be able to see their faces morph into disgust at my news. I take deep breaths, trying to calm myself. I’ve never been this nervous in front of my parents before. I’ve never had a reason to be. When Dax and I were together in high school, the second they told me to end it, I did.

  I’m an adult, I tell myself. I make my own decisions.

  I take another breath, and the words come out in a tumble: “Dax and I are together.”

  Silence. Their faces already registered worry, and they don’t change much. No disgust. No lunging across the table to strangle me. My father turns to look at my mother, but she’s staring calmly at me. I wait a beat, two. One more. I wait for the world to end.

  Finally, she says, “Were you with him last night?”

  I drop my eyes to my lap. I nod.

  Maybe now the wrath will come?

  My father says, under his breath, “This is a mistake.”

  My mother whips her head around to look at him. “Well you’re the authority on that, Henry. Frankly, I don’t think your opinion matters here.”

  He crosses his arms. “Like hell it doesn’t. She’s still my daughter. And you forget, I had Dax in my classroom. I’ve seen the way he operates. The truth is that Dax is not the person you want to attach yourself to. He’ll only bring you down. I’m pretty sure we had this exact conversation four years ago.”

  My mother suddenly slams her hands down on the table. I jump.

  Her eyes are wild. “Your. Opinion. Doesn’t. Matter,” she repeats, her words hard-edged. “Maybe it did then. Not now.”

  I stare at her, rigid in shock. She always used to consult with him about everything, which was maybe why I always used to, too. Since when did his opinion stop carrying weight?

  She looks at me, and her voice becomes calm and soothing. “Is he good to you?”

  I nod slowly, still trying to comprehend that look of rage on her face. Have I ever seen her so angry and out of control before. “So good. He drove me all the way to Boston, mom.”

  She nods. “He makes you happy?”

  “Yes,” I say, thinking about yesterday. It was a blast, and not just the sex part. Even hanging out with him in high school, I was never as happy as I was when I was with him. “Totally.”

  “Then good. Life’s too short to spend with people who make you miserable.” She stands up and walks down the hallway, toward her bedroom, without another word.

  Perhaps nothing was more surprising than this—my parents division never more obvious than it was during this conversation.

  Their disgust for one another is palpable and it makes me sad down to the pit of my stomach.

  My father, biting his tongue, goes back to his work. I change into boxers and a tank and spend the rest of the afternoon ping-ponging between my parents, sometimes helping my mother pack her clothes, sometimes helping my father with his sea of paperwork. When dinner comes around, my mother only sets the table for two. My father gets showered and goes out.

  Turns out, they don’t even eat together, anymore.

  They are as separate as two people who live under the same roof can be. I know I’m supposed to text Dax, but my mother just looks so sad and lonely. So my mother and I spend a quiet couple of hours, just the two of us, sitting among half-packed boxes and half-empty cabinets, chatting about nothing important. We take down all the pictures from the foyer, and memories come along with each one. It’s a nice, sad stroll down memory lane, and several times, I have to choke back the tears. The truth is, though, in another few weeks, when she moves out of the house and down to Florida to live with her sister, I’m not going to see her very much.

  Everything is going to change.

  At times, I consider asking Mom for more details on what happened between her and Dad, but everything seems way to fresh and raw. I don’t want to hurt her just to satisfy my curiosity.

  When my mother goes off to bed, my father still isn’t home. I head into my bedroom, shutting the door, and jab in a text to Dax. I’m alive.

  Two seconds later, he comes back with: How’d it go?

  I smile. Not as bad as I thought. My dad wasn’t so great. But my mom seems cool.

  His response: Are you shittin me?

  Then: Can I come over?

  I’m throwing my hair into a ponytail and getting ready to wash my face. I laugh and punch in: What, now? I’m getting in bed.

  Two seconds later: I’m definitely coming over.

  I laugh and am about to head across the hall to brush my teeth when I hear a rap on my window. I cross the room, thinking of our first kiss. I pull open the blinds and see him leaning against the bent dogwood tree out there, just as he had four years ago. My mouth drops. “Have you been out there all this time?”

  “Well, fuck, girl. You said you’d text me right after you told your parents, and if you didn’t, you were dead,” he whispers. “It’s been hours. I thought you were dead. I was gonna call 911.”

  “Sorry,” I whisper back, searching the darkness around him. No headlights coming up the street yet, but my father could be here any minute. I pull the window up higher and slide the screen back. “Come in.”

  He throws a leg over the window ledge and crawls in, blinking to adjust to the light. I have a lot of my old unicorn and One Direction posters off the wall, but it’s apparently not enough. He chuckles.

  I remember how he teased me relentlessly about my room before and jab him in the ribs with my elbow. “Shut up.”

  I have my hands up to stop him, but he puts his own hands up, mirroring me, and then his rough hands entwine with mine.

  He kisses me softly, his lips barely grazing my lips, but that’s enough. I’m gone. His. As easy as that. Everything inside me falls like a landslide, slow at first, then all at once, into him.

  His eyes trail over to the bed, with this wild and dangerous look in them. He starts to guide me over there, but in a futile last effort to get myself back from the edge of abandon, I nudge at him, shaking my head rigidly.

  “My mom is right in the next room,” I warn in a whisper.

  “We’ll be quiet,” he mumbles.

  I glance at him doubtfully. I can’t trust myself when Dax is around. Still, he guides me to the bed and buries his face in my neck, not doing anything but breathing there. I feel his heat and his breath and I’m powerless to do anything but go the way he wants me to go. “How are you doing this to me,” I whisper, tossing my head back and closing my eyes. “Everything wrong seems right. Everything we shouldn’t do, I think we should.”

  “You
don’t want me here?” he murmurs, not even a whisper, just a breath I feel on my ear. “Tell me to go.”

  I shake my head and push him off me. Then I reach down and peel off my tank top. “I want this. I want you. I want your mouth on me. I think about it all the time, now.”

  Dax’s eyes go wide, and he licks his lips. “I think about it, too, baby. And there’s somewhere I really want to put my mouth. I’ve been thinking about it all day. I need to taste you.”

  “You mean . . . oh,” I say unsurely. “But I—“

  “Listen. I promise you. I’ll love it.” His eyes darken as they rove my body, becoming wolfish. Without laying a hand on me, he says, “Take those off.”

  I let out a shaky breath. I look down at my boxers and slip them off, kicking them away, leaving me naked and him completely clothed. His eyes rake over my body, and he must have affected me more than I realized, because for once I’m not at all ashamed. All I feel is overwhelming need. My body is so hot and there’s that same aching low in my belly.

  But this time I know what it is. It’s desire, and I know just how to quench it.

  He reaches out, sliding his fingers down my belly, which clenches at his touch. He positions me in front of the bed and gently pushes me down. I sit on the edge of the bed, him staring wickedly over me. “Lie back,” he instructs. “Spread your legs.”

  I do, feeling his body settle in between my legs, his breath on my thighs. Then suddenly, it’s his tongue, his amazing hot tongue, right on my clit. “Oh!” I mumble, biting it back as soon as it escapes my lungs. He expects me to be quiet for this?

  The knowledge that I’m so close to getting caught doesn’t help me to resist. I spread my legs wider to give him better access.

  “Yeah, that’s right,” he breathes onto my folds. “God damn, you’re sweet.”

  I blush at first at his words, but then all shame falls away. He really, really likes this. I toss my head back and try desperately to stifle my moans as he sucks at my clit, and now I’m soaking him with my juices and that only seems to give him more energy.

  His chin and lips are coated with me, and he’s licking and sucking as if it’s his mission to make me scream and wake the neighbors.

  And that actually might happen because I’ve never felt anything like this.

  I writhe on the bed, arching and bucking in time to his tongue’s lapping. I coil my fingers in his thick hair and push his face into my cunt. And just when I think it can’t get better, he slides a finger into my wet canal.

  And holy shit, I just go insane. I let out a scream and then grab for a pillow and throw it over my face. “No!” I mumble hoarsely. “Oh, god, no! No more!”

  “You want me to stop,” he breathes into my folds, but he doesn’t. He slowly eases another finger into me, making me shudder uncontrollably. He slides them in and out in time to my thrusts against him, and all the while his mouth is nipping and nibbling on my clit.

  I don’t want him to stop. I’m coming to the edge again, and I can’t back down now. I scream into the pillow, sobbing and arching and bucking against his face in a whirlwind.

  “Oh God, Dax, please . . .” I’m begging him. Please what? I don’t even know what I want from him. Just more of this.

  Suddenly I’m exploding. Falling to pieces, with his tongue buried deep inside me. He carries me over to oblivion, staying there to make sure I’m okay. Then he climbs up my shuddering body, the stubble around his mouth glistening with my juices. I’m blushing, hard and hot. “Oh my god,” I mumble. “What was that?”

  He chuckles. “I wanted to do it last night. You weren’t ready.”

  “I was scared,” I murmured. “Embarrassed you’d—“

  “Fuck, girl,” he says with a grin. “I’ve never tasted anything as sweet as you.”

  He kicks off his boots and pulls off his shirt, then holds me in his arms for the rest of the night, not trying another thing. In the morning, when the sun comes up, he’s already gone.

  But for the first time ever, I don’t even question whether I’ll see him again. I know I will.

  Chapter 10

  A few days later, and I’m standing in front of an old-style gas stove in Dax’s house, about to freak out.

  I look frantically around the house for something or someone to save me. Nothing pops out from the clutter. Dax’s home could definitely use a woman’s touch. The men of the house have Eagles sheets over the windows. They have an old carburetor as a centerpiece on the kitchen table. There are dirty dishes in the sink and layers of dust on all the surfaces. The house is a total sty, with laundry everywhere.

  This is the way they’ve lived most of their lives.

  I’m not in Kansas anymore, that’s for sure. I grew up in a spotless home with an electric stove. Stupid me, thinking all I needed to do was turn the switch and the burners would light. I’ve been standing here for ten minutes in Dax’s ultimate man-cave of a home, waiting for something to happen, which is throwing a serious wrench in my plans to impress Dax’s family by making them all dinner tonight. So now, four hungry brothers are going to come back from the shop to a box of uncooked spaghetti, raw meatballs, and a salad.

  This isn’t exactly working the way I’d hoped.

  “What are you trying to do, burn the house down?” someone snaps from behind me, making me jump.

  It’s Vincent, Dax’s youngest brother. But Dax always called him Wob, short for Wobble, because he’s never been the most coordinated of kids. The kid was a walking band-aid, all skinned-knees and scabs, or so Dax once told me. When I was in high school, I’d seen him once at the shop, when he was an innocent and scrawny eleven-year old. Now, he’s almost a perfect copy of high school Dax in every way, except that he’s pierced his ears and eyebrow and his hair is a lot longer. He’s wearing a long-sleeve, black Slipknot t-shirt and baggy jeans despite the fact that it’s probably a hundred degrees today and the Harding’s house doesn’t have air conditioning. I’m sweating like a pig in my camisole and short-shorts, part from the heat and part from the stress, but Wobble looks way cooler than I do.

  “I’m trying to make dinner,” I explain dumbly.

  In the recent days since Dax and I decided not to sneak around, there hasn’t been much to test us. Probably because when I haven’t been helping my parents pack and Dax hasn’t been at the shop, we’ve been together in his bedroom late at night, enjoying alone time.

  Which means some really mind-blowing sex.

  This is the first time I’m in Dax’s house, without him, though, and it feels a little like a minefield.

  “You’re mom and dad teach at the high school, right?” Wobble mumbles, less-than-thrilled. He pulls the ear buds attached to his phone out of his ears and comes up close to me, a sneer on his face.

  I understand that look. I’m sure he was in one of the Deadly Donahues’ classes. My parents taught all the Harding kids. They called those kids hellions. I’m sure my father’s gray hairs are a direct result of Cal, Eric, Tom, and Vincent. But I’m sure the hate was mutual. It’s no wonder those boys used to look at me like I’m infested with worms.

  Wobble slides open a drawer and smoothly pulls out a box of matches. “Got to light the pilot,” he drawls, sounding eerily Dax-like.

  I wrinkle my nose. “But it is lit,” I protest as he opens the top of the stove. “I—“

  I stop when I realize that nope, the blue light that used to be there the last time I checked is definitely out.

  “This one goes out all the time,” he explains as he lights it up. He switches it on and the burners light. “Voila.”

  “Thank you,” I say, smiling at him gratefully.

  And he actually smiles at me, too. “No sweat.” Progress!

  He starts to stuff the ear buds back into his ears. The music is so loud, he’ll probably go deaf one day. “You’re listening to Slipknot, huh? They’re cool.”

  He nods. “Yep.”

  Just when I think that maybe this is going to be okay, the smile morph
s into this sly smirk. “Yeah. Well. I got to listen to it loud. I share a bedroom wall with Dax. You’re fucking loud when you come.”

  And then he walks away, leaving me with my face red and my mouth hanging open, like a goldfish’s.

  I spend the rest of the time alternating between mortified over what Vincent said and petrified that I won’t finish dinner in time. It’s not easy, figuring out a kitchen that’s not my own, especially one that’s been ruled by men for the past dozen years, but eventually I set the table and get the dinner ready. Then I sit down at the table and cover my face in my hands. I think about Vincent, listening to everything Dax and I have been doing the past couple days. We’d tried to be quiet, but it obviously wasn’t quiet enough. I’ve had countless mind-blowing orgasms the past few days, but knowing that Dax’s little brother has heard them . . .

  Moments later, the door opens and Dax and his twin brothers stomp in, throwing their greasy stuff down in a heap in the middle of the living room. Eric and Tom are a year behind me in school, and back then they were both arrested for drag-racing cars down Main Street, drunk.

  I’d never seen Dax so pissed as when he got the call and had to go bail them out. Both Eric and Tom have Dax’s height, but where Dax is lean, these boys are built like linebackers. As far as twins go, they have different personalities—Tom is the type A, go-getting kind who will be first to help out when Dax needs it, and Eric is the slug. That’s why Tom is Sparrow, and Eric is Turkey, because Dax’s mom thought the names fit them, even when they were babies.

  “What smells good?” One of them says.

  Then they pile through the kitchen doorway and catch sight of me. Dax’s eyes light up, making my insides flutter, but his brothers’ eyes narrow in unison.

  “Hi,” I say, giving them a wave, wondering if they heard Dax and me fucking last night, too.