Bad Boy

by Cassie-Ann L. Miller

  I cringe, watching him enter the dangerous mancave where the (undeservingly sexy) savage ogre awaits. My wisdom teeth ache for him. The poor, old man has no idea what he’s stepping into.

  Chapter 6

  Clinton

  As I watch them through the window, I grip the scissors so hard my knuckles turn white.

  Vivian is beautiful as always, despite being dressed like a pilgrim who just recently gained entry into the New World. God, that woman's sense of style is horrendous. What a waste of hot tits…

  The bastard she’s standing with is holding a few large boxes with the bakery’s logo printed on the side. He’s got on a sweater vest and his wire-framed glasses take up half of his face. He looks like an exceptionally upstanding citizen of this small town. But I know better and apparently, so does his wife. I see the way the old lady flinches when he slides his hand across Vivian’s hip to the small of her back. My grip on those scissors goes tighter.

  A gruff voice grabs my attention. "Dude, are you gonna finish cutting my hair or what? My shift at the gas station starts in twenty minutes."

  I shake myself out of the daze and my eyes meet my customer’s in the mirror. I grumble an apology and resume snipping the ends of his coppery red hair. I can’t let myself get distracted. Business is good. There’s a hairy ass sitting impatiently in each and every chair in the barbershop’s waiting area. They’re all eager to get trimmed and go on with their day. I can’t be dilly-dallying around in fantasyland.

  Cruz's booming laugh rises over the music. "How long are you gonna keep wasting away as you pine for that girl in silence?" His tone is mocking and derisive as he leans close to the mirror and smooths a dollop of grooming pomade over his stubble for the third time today. As usual, he grins at his reflection. He has a heavy-duty obsession with his face. And if I hear him say, “Image is everything,” one more time, I won’t be held accountable for my actions.

  I don’t even know who the hell the guy is. And I sure as hell didn’t hire him. Yet here he is, trimming hair and busting my balls daily. He showed up for a pompadour cut on my second day of business. There was a bit of a lineup and he didn’t seem to want to wait. He claimed he had a hot date that night. Next thing I know, he had one of my customers sitting in a styling chair and was draping a cape around the guy. Ten minutes later, the customer was walking out of the shop, happy as a clam with his crew cut and there was an extra $75 in my cash register. Cruz showed up the next day and the next and by Friday, I was handing him a few hundred-dollar bills.

  A short man with the face of a chipmunk sinks into the chair in front of Cruz. "Stop wasting your time, man. I could tell you all about women like that. They act all prissy and uptight but what they really want is to get flipped on their bellies with their faces buried in the pillow and get plowed good from behind. You know what I mean?"

  The barbershop goes up in laughter as these animals, high five one another and clap each other on the back.

  “I feel you, man,” another idiot chimes in. “The soft ones really like it rough!”

  Chipmunk Face laughs and hooks his thumb in Vivian’s direction. “And doesn’t she look extra soft?”

  More laughter.

  My rage boils and overflows. "Cut it the fuck out!" I roar and the room instantly falls silent, all eyes on me. They look as shocked as I feel.

  Why the hell am I defending that awful woman? She's a snooty elitist who turns up her nose at people like me. I haven't forgotten the things I heard her saying about me the other day. Her words were harsh and they scorched me like acid although I managed to keep my face neutral. Did I ever think I'd be the kind of man for a woman like Vivian Hartley? A senator's daughter?

  I need to stop thinking about her big, black eyes and her tiny, little waist and her fiery attitude as I jerk myself off in the shower every morning. I’m working on that. Because Vivian Hartley is way out of my league.

  She's graceful. I've gotta say. I'm not used to graceful. I'm used to loud and aggressive with piercings and brightly-colored hair. Always eager for a fight. That’s the type of woman I’ve always come across. Vivian is the opposite of that. And she owns a business so I'll assume that she's ambitious too. Yet another trait that's unfamiliar in the women I’ve fucked.

  Okay, so maybe I can't have her. Maybe I don't deserve her. But there's no way I'm going to stand here and listen to some asshole disrespect her.

  I speak through gritted teeth. "It's a tradition, as classic and American as apple pie, men go to the barbershop for a haircut and they let loose. They give themselves the liberty to talk shit and rag on women and act like barbarians. But that does not happen in the Rusty Razor. You wanna be a hooligan? Go somewhere else."

  The man falls silent. The whole barbershop falls silent. The only thing to be heard is the sound of Radiohead shaking through the speakers.

  "Sorry, man," the little chipmunk says quietly as thick, awkward air suffocates the atmosphere. I don't care.

  I walked away from the motorcycle club for a reason; to put all the garbage behind me. I did things right when I was leaving because I was leaving my mother and my kid brother behind with the president. I made sure that me and the bikers separated on amicable terms. I am talking about a motorcycle club so I use the word 'amicable' very loosely. But basically, I didn't want any negativity to follow me to this new town.

  Anyway, the drama still seems determined to find me. Just the other day, I walked in on two boneheads snorting coke in the toilet. I couldn't fucking believe it. I picked them up by their meaty necks, dragged them out the front door into the parking lot and gifted them with a beat-down they'll never forget. I want a new life and I'm prepared to guard it at any cost.

  The front door opens and all eyes go to Pastor Norman Becker as he steps inside. I've seen his picture all around town. I’ve studied his face, all smug and self-righteous, in those flyers announcing his run for mayor. But this is the first time I’m seeing him in the flesh. I observe him with a scowl. He's much shorter in person. And rounder, like a red apple with stubby legs. My eyes canvass his face—the thin slope of his nose, the dark waves of his hair, his shadowy eyes. He's got a little pin on the lapel of his coat. Becker for Mayor. What the hell is he doing in here?

  He doles out a smile to every person in the room and they all seem to cower with reverence. Not me. I squeeze my jaw tight and drop my head down as I snip away at my customer's hair.

  "Good day, gentlemen," he says, addressing the room with the kind of authority that comes naturally after delivering bullshit from a pulpit week after week for 40 years. "I'm looking for the owner." His eyes instinctively settle on Cruz, the pretty boy dressed in a black button down shirt, designer jeans and leather shoes.

  The customers motion to me.

  I turn around and the two of us are face-to-face, sizing each other up. He lifts a gray brow as he examines me thoroughly, tattoos and piercings and scars and all. He seems surprised that guy like me is the boss.

  "You have a problem, old man?" I grind out and take a step closer.

  His lips turn down but he stands his ground. "I was chatting with the lovely lady at the cupcake shop next door,” he tells me, “and she tells me that your music is a bit of a disturbance."

  My limbs go tight with anger. "What are you? Her spokesperson? If she has a problem with my music she could say so herself." I hear a few chuckles in the background, reminding me that this is nothing but a show to them. They're looking for entertainment. They don't understand the significance of this moment.

  "Take it from a man who's worked in this tight-knit community for over 40 years. You don't make friends in this town by being un-neighborly."

  "Not looking for friends," I mumble like a wayward child. I pick up a rag and brush the scraps of hair off of my customer’s back.

  He takes a deep, patient breath and tries again. "All I'm saying is she'd greatly appreciate it if you turned the music down."

  My eyes move out the window to where she's standing on
the sidewalk, looking at me. Those eyes...My fucking weakness.

  Fuck that girl for being so pretty and delicate. Fuck her for getting under my skin.

  I find myself marching over to the old stereo and yanking the cord out of the wall. The room falls silent. "You happy now?" I bark at him.

  The old man gives me a warm smile. I throw up a fortress against it. "You did the right thing, son." He pats me on the arm and my muscles flex in revolt.

  I clench my jaw to keep from tearing into him.

  As he breezes past the appointment desk on his way to the door, he pulls a small stack of papers from the inside pocket of his coat and sets them down. "I'll leave these here, if that's all right. Make sure you're all registered to vote." He casts another warm, fatherly smile over the place. "Have a wonderful day, gentlemen." Then he's out the door. I feel like a little child who's just been disciplined, put in my place. Why the hell did I let him handle me like that?

  Stomping up to the appointment desk, I snatch up the papers he left behind. Little political pamphlets with his big, red face printed boldly at the top. Growling, I crumple them up in my fist and toss them in the trash.

  Pastors or politicians? I can’t figure out which I trust less.

  I stare out the window and watch Vivian thank the pastor profusely, clapping her hands together and giving him a little bow, grinning from ear-to-ear so relieved to have won this battle between us. When she casts a glance toward the shop, our eyes lock. I hold her glare for a moment past ‘awkward’.

  The old couple climbs into their car and Vivian turns away, her flouncy skirt fluttering around her as she heads back toward her bakery. I move back from the window with a growl.

  God! The woman gets under my skin.

  She thinks she's all prim and proper, with her little sunflower-print skirt and her perky tits hiding under that boring button-up blouse.

  But I have a secret.

  I know how to have her clawing the fitted sheets right off the mattress. How to have her spine curving and her toes curling as my name spills out of her raw, hoarse throat. I know how to turn this good girl bad.

  And if she continues to piss me off, I just might.

  Chapter 7

  Clinton

  Predawn light creeps up the horizon as I roll my motorcycle to a stop and cut the engine. I give myself a minute to sit and absorb the silence, to clear my mind.

  It's true that the barbershop doesn't open until 9:00 but sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and nothing I do will put me back to sleep. Sometimes, I close my eyes and all I see is my brother’s blood-speckled face and his trembling lips, the moment his innocence evaporated like smoke and he was sealed in his inevitable fate once and for all. On days like those, I come to the shop early, turn on some music, recline on the sofa. It's a change of scenery. And at least, it doesn't smell like stagnant water and mothballs like my apartment does. That's a win.

  As I'm sitting on the bike, I sense someone on my periphery. When I shift my gaze, I see her rounding the building. Her head is down, her hand digging through her purse. I stay there, frozen on my motorcycle, just staring at her. Fuck. She looks like a dream with her pale skin glowing under the light of the street lamp and her brown hair falling in thick waves around her face. Beautiful and delicate in her chunky, little cardigan and polka dot dress.

  She looks up and her steps falter. She gasps, her features painted in absolute vulnerability for a fraction of a second. The last thing I want to do is to scare her so I pull off my helmet. But when our eyes meet, the hard expression she’s perfected just for me slips back into place.

  While I struggle with the breathless feeling in my chest, she gives me the evil eye. Go figure.

  Without a word, she turns toward the door to the cupcake shop, still fumbling for her keys. I climb off of my bike and march across the pavement to the barbershop's front door. She sneaks a peek my way just as I'm doing the same thing. Her pretty lips go flat. Her gaze scorches. She turns away quickly.

  I have my key in hand but I dawdle around, waiting for her to open her door and go inside, locking the door behind her. I know this is a safe town but the protector in me wants to make sure she gets inside unharmed. Now, I’m pissed at myself for caring. These conflicting emotions are throwing me off balance.

  As soon as I get into the barbershop, I tear off my leather jacket and plop down into a chair. I check my phone. There’s a text from Lisa.

  Lisa: Heads up. Mortgage is due.

  Grrr!

  After the way Vivian's acted toward me, I should hate her. Sending that shady, old pastor to talk to me yesterday was bullshit. Made me mad. She wants me to lower the volume of the music? Damn, she could have just asked me. Okay, I'll admit that the loud music was a provocation tactic, just like the message board she continues to plant right in the middle of the sidewalk every day. Anyway, I wanted to get back at her for the things she was saying about me the other day. So I blasted the music even louder. It was immature. I know.

  But now it's time to end the stupid games. If we just face each other and have a conversation once and for all, we can avoid all of this awkwardness in the future.

  She doesn't like having me around. If she could, she'd have my business shut down in a heartbeat. But I'm not going anywhere. Lisa and the kids are depending on me. They need me. For the first time in a long time, someone needs me. So Vivian and I have to call a truce, agree to tolerate each other so we can both run our businesses in peace. It's the adult thing to do.

  That's the only reason I'm walking up to her door now and knocking on the glass. That's the reason I'm squinting my eyes to get a look inside the dark bakery. That's the reason my cock is getting hard as I watch the graceful sway of her hips as her shadowy form approaches from the kitchen.

  Huh? What? No! No boner right now! My cock isn’t very good at taking instructions.

  She freezes halfway to the door, hesitating when she sees me. I bang on the glass again. I need her to know that I'm not leaving. Not until we have this conversation.

  She's got a metal canister in her hand. She sets it on the counter and moves cautiously toward the door. She stands on the other side, shielded by the thick tempered glass between us. She gives me a challenging look—eyes narrowed, lips downturned—but I tilt my chin stubbornly and hold her glare. I'm. Not. Leaving.

  Her entire body heaves on a resigned exhale. She smooths her hands down the front of her apron before twisting the lock and shoving the door open. "What?" She's flushed and visibly upset to see me.

  I shove my hands into the front pockets of my jeans and snort. "Thought this was a nice town. Is this how you greet your neighbors?" I promised myself that I'd take this seriously but she's fucking cute when she's mad.

  Her arms fold across her chest. "Look, I'm very busy right—"

  Angling my body, I push past her and step into the bakery. "We'll talk while you work," I announce as my eyes drift over the room.

  The place looks different at this hour. Long shadows stretching across the floor. Chairs sitting on the tops of tables. Empty cake display. The scent of lemon cleaner in the air. It's a little bit spooky. And something about being alone with her—in the dark—sets my nerves on edge, makes my blood stir.

  "We don’t have anything to talk about," she snarls. She's trying to play tough but she sounds just as edgy as I feel.

  To break up the tension, I stalk over to the counter where she set down the metal canister and peek inside. Mmm...Raspberries. I grab the container and tip it into my hand. A few berries tumble into my palm.

  "Hey!" Vivian protests as she storms right up to me.

  Smirking, I toss the fruit into my mouth and chew slowly. "Mmm...juicy...sweet..." My eyes traipse over her figure. I'm sure that little body is just as ripe.

  She's not amused, though. She looks like she might just explode. She grabs the container from my hand. "Those were already measured out for the wild berry coulis!"

  "I'm sure everything in your life
is already measured out." And I get a wicked thrill disrupting the order in her world. She’s fucking infuriating with her painstakingly structured little universe. "When's the last time you did something spontaneous?"

  She narrows her eyes. "You need to leave because we really have nothing to talk about."

  "Oh that's where you’re wrong, Vivian. We have lots to talk about. Because I know you'd love to get rid of me but I'm not going anywhere, so we need to come up with a way to coexist in this strip mall. You're not going to keep sending messengers to my door and you're definitely not going to push me out."

  She straightens her spine defiantly. "Your music. It's a noise disturbance." She gestures to the wall that the barbershop and the bakery share. A few empty nails poke out of the brickwork. "I can't even keep my picture frames up."