Bad Boy

by Cassie-Ann L. Miller

  My suspicion is confirmed when her disdainful gaze sweeps over my face and she scrunches up her nose. She jots down some notes in my file.

  Suddenly, I'm just a little bit nervous. "Umm...Is that going to be a problem?"

  She sighs heavily then leans close and speaks in a low voice. "It's just that people who've never taken drugs tend to get a bit loopy under the effect of the anesthetic." I cock a brow and she nods in response. "One time, I had a girl kick me in the shin with her four-inch pumps. Don't get me wrong—she was a nice girl before they drugged her up—but that anesthetic brought out the devil in her."

  Well...

  I take a quick glance at the door. If I hadn't been in absolute agony for the past week, I'd bolt right now. But the thought of spending one more night in this kind of pain is the only thing that keeps me from running out the door. I need to get this surgery done.

  Braving a smile, I flick my wrist dismissively. "Drug me up," I say. "I drink no less than four cups of yerba mate per day. I can handle a little sleeping pill."

  She gives me an unconvinced look but I smile self-assuredly. With a long sigh, she rises from her desk and moves around her desk. “Follow me.”

  I check my phone as we go down the long, brightly-lit hallway. There's yet another panicked text message from my sister.

  Reese: Tell receptionist to call me as soon as ur done ur surgery so I can come pick u up. Dont forget, ok?

  My sister is sort of freaking out about this. Apparently she watched YouTube videos of people having their wisdom teeth extracted and more often than not, things got really gnarly. She wanted to come with me and sit in the waiting room the whole time. I told her that was plain ridiculous. She's needed at the shop more than I need her here holding my hand. I'm a grown up. I can handle it on my own. And besides, she's been so sick lately. The last thing I want is to have her hanging out in some clinic where she could pick up a nasty infection to add to whatever the hell is going on with her.

  She's pregnant. I'm sure of it. She just doesn't want to tell me because she thinks I'll feel bad. It shouldn't be that way. My sister should be able to come to me and be open about what's going on in her life. She shouldn't feel the need to hide her joy just so I don't have a meltdown.

  The problem is me. My insecurities. My expectations. They're getting in the way of my relationships with the people I love most. I really need to take a good, hard look at my life.

  It gets pretty lonely on the inside of these walls I've built around myself. Sometimes, I wish I could let someone in. But I don't know how. I've spent so much time trying to act like I've got it all together that now, I don't know how to be vulnerable and admit that I have no idea what the hell I'm doing.

  I've been feeling this way a lot over the past few weeks. Ever since that incident with Clinton at the cupcake shop. The encore performance in the storage closet the next day only compounded my confusion. That kind of behavior is so out of character for me. I'm still trying to process it. Yes, Clinton is gorgeous and sexy and his hair is pretty much pornographic, but I despise him so I can't figure out why I'd have sex with him! Twice!

  I’ve been avoiding him ever since I awkwardly snuck out the backdoor of the barbershop. It was the best sex of my life, though. Jesus—I was limping for two days and even now, whenever I close my eyes I feel the pressure of his erection digging through my tunnel with a friction that makes the hairs on my neck stand on edge.

  I shove the thought aside as the receptionist leads me into a large sterile room with bright, overhead lights. A pretty dental anesthesist smiles widely at me as I climb into the dental chair. I absentmindedly slip my phone into my pocket, completely forgetting to text Reese back, as I chat casually with the woman readying me for surgery.

  I wince when she inserts the needle. She explains to me that once the drugs are administered, I’ll be out cold until the surgery is over. I scoff internally. Everybody’s just overreacting about the power of this silly anesthetic, I'm sure. How bad can it really be? I’m tough. I can handle it.

  Before I know it, the surgeon is standing beside me, all gowned and gloved with a blue mask over his face. “Okay, Vivian. I’m going to ask you to count for me. From one to twenty. Can you do that?”

  Full of conviction, I nod and start counting. “One…two…three…fooouuurrr…”

  I don’t remember very much after that.

  Chapter 13

  Clinton

  When I walk into the medical clinic's empty waiting room, the receptionist has the phone lodged between her shoulder and her ear. She gives me a smile that tells me she remembers me from earlier and wordlessly hands me Sonny’s stuffed animal. I mouth the word ‘thanks’ then turn toward the door, grateful that I didn't have to wait behind a long line of sick and sniffling patients just to pick up Mr. Ducky. But just as I’m about to step outside, I hear a familiar voice speaking in an unfamiliar slur.

  “…And people just seem to have forgotten the magic of a good Crock-Pot, y’know?” Her words are garbled and unclear. Her cardigan is disheveled. Her ever-perfect hair is a chaos of dark curls. Vivian is a startlingly hot mess as the dental assistant rolls her wheelchair into the waiting room. “I set it on low this morning and when I go home tonight my braised beef ragu will be ready for dinner.” She tries to snap her fingers but somehow, she misses and her limp hand drops into her lap like a stone. "Just like that!"

  The dental assistant leans down to make eye contact with her, forcing her to focus. “Now remember, Ms. Hartley, you aren’t allowed to eat solid meals for seven days after a wisdom tooth extraction. Liquids only. All the information is in the after-care packet that we’ll give to your chaperone when she picks you up.”

  Vivian tries to stomp her low-heel clad foot which apparently is no easy feat. Her eyes are fluttery and unfocused and there's a lazy smile on her lips. She’s clearly drugged. “I told you. I’ll drive myself. I’m an adult!”

  “Yes, you are an adult. An adult with diminished faculties because of the anesthetic. As we discussed, we won’t allow you to leave here on your own. You’re going to need to call someone to pick you up.” The young woman speaks softly and patiently.

  Vivian blinks and her gaze falls to her lap. Her voice is so sad, so broken that it stings my heart. “I don’t have anyone…I’m all alone…” She looks so small. Not much bigger than Rachel when she says that.

  Her words strike a chord with me because god knows I’ve been left on my own in this life. I feel a tug of curiosity in my chest. A woman like her, why doesn't she have someone she can depend on?

  The assistant speaks to the receptionist. “Becky, can you check Ms. Hartley’s file and call her emergency contact please?”

  Becky hangs up the phone and rises up from her seat. "Honey, it's 5:05 and I have to pick up my kids from daycare. You're gonna have to make the call yourself." She slaps down Vivian's file on the counter and disappears into a back room.

  “I told you, I don’t need anyone to help me,” Vivian protests, her eyes are heavy with tears and her tongue seems to weigh a ton.

  She’s such a far cry from the feisty, confident woman who’s been making my life hell for the past few weeks.

  Ever since we had sex, the strain between us has gotten worse. She's unwittingly become the bane of my existence. Deliberately avoiding me and giving me the cold shoulder in the day. Torturing me with memory of her curves and her lips and her taste all night. I can't get any peace. As much as I thought I couldn’t stand the sassy version of her, this vulnerable version makes me a little sad. I hate seeing her this helpless and feeble. I guess it means I’m weak but I can’t just look the other way.

  Speaking up isn’t a conscious decision. The words just sort of pour out of my mouth. “I’m her boyfriend. I’m here to pick her up,” I interject.

  The assistant's eyes spin in my direction.

  With a dashing smile on my face, I stroll over to Vivian and crouch down in front of her. “Hey babe, how was your surgery?” I brush
a strand of hair from her face.

  Vivian frowns in my face. “You!” she sneers through tight lips. “You stay away from me!” She jerks back suddenly and growls like a wild animal. Then, without warning, her skull hurtles forward.

  I fall onto my ass, narrowly avoiding the head butt.

  “Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!” The dental assistant yelps, restraining Vivian by the shoulders.

  Vivian points a finger at me. “You are not my boyfriend right now. You are just some tattooed-up guy with an enormous penis who pisses me off and lures me into sex in inappropriate places.” Her drunken voice is full of accusation and severity. I’m doing everything in my power not to laugh right now.

  Anesthesia makes you loopy. Don’t believe me? Google it. The post-op videos don’t lie. Apparently, even Vivian Hartley, the classy Queen of Uppity Ville, can fall from grace under its effect.

  “Sunflower, please. Not here,” I scold her softly, pretending to be self-conscious about the airing of our dirty laundry in public. “Let’s just go home and discuss things privately.” I turn to the bewildered-looking medical professional in front of me and cup a hand around my mouth. “We had a bit of a fight last night. I think she’s still harboring.”

  The woman bobs her head knowingly. “Oh, secrets and grudges tend to slip out when that anesthetic gets involved. Here at the office, we call it the truth serum.”

  “Babe, let’s not embarrass ourselves,” I tell Vivian. “Let’s just get you home to rest up and we’ll talk later. I’ll even make you that black bean soup you like.”

  She watches me dumbly. “I do like black bean,” she confesses, clearly mystified. “How do you know that?”

  I smile caringly. “You think that I don’t listen when you speak to me but I know you, Sunflower. After three years together, how could I not?”

  The dental assistant coos, clutching her hands over her heart, completely blown away by how great a boyfriend I am. As for Vivian, that whole soup thing must have really gotten to her. She’s quiet now, looking at me with dazed, enchanted eyes.

  Without further questioning, the clinic worker hands me Vivian’s after-care instructions and releases her into my custody. She helps me wheel the petulant patient out to the old Tercel.

  As I'm opening the backdoor for her, Vivian leans toward the assistant and cups a hand around her mouth. "How many days until I can kiss him? Y'know, just in case I’m feelin’ frisky." She jerks her shoulders back and forth suggestively.

  The nurse and I exchange a look that Vivian doesn't even seem to notice. “You can kiss him all you like. Just maybe keep your tongue to yourself for a few days.”

  Vivian continues to ramble, mouthing off a bunch of nonsense from her wheelchair. The woman rolls her eyes and smiles faintly. “Please be patient with her. She probably won’t remember a thing that she’s said once she sobers up.”

  In some ways that sounds like a blessing. In some ways it sounds like a curse. “Oh boy…”

  I toss Ducky into the car seat and help Vivian out of her wheelchair. Her body slumps against me as I maneuver her inside. I try to ignore the stirring in my blood but her weight feels so good against me, her body feels so right in my arms. Now, isn’t the time for my cock to start getting all perky. The woman is an incoherent mess. But the smell of her, the sound of her little grunts—that turns me on despite the inappropriate circumstances. What the hell am I doing? Why am I helping her? This woman hates me.

  She’s silent as I prop her up against Sonny’s car seat and pull the strap across her chest. I feel her eyes on my face. Her gaze is soft and confused. Hunched over as I click the seatbelt into the lock, I angle my face to look at her. “What?”

  She pouts defiantly, slurring as she speaks. "I'm not allowed to like you," she says quietly.

  "Says who?" I tease in a faux-serious tone, cocking my eyebrow.

  "Says me."

  "Oh really?"

  She nods like a child who is just learning the basics of human communication. "Yes.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because I'm the boss." She jams a pointer finger into her own chest.

  Holding back a chuckle, I nip at her ear. "Really? I thought I was the boss."

  She shakes her head. “No, you’re not. You’re just a bad guy.”

  Her words are like a stab to the chest. I don’t say anything. I just let her keep rambling on. But that statement keeps replaying in my mind. She’s completely unfiltered right now. There’s no mask, no shield. The meds have her emptying her heart out and it sucks to know that her true opinion of me is that I’m a bastard. It’s true that I’m a bastard. I just wish she saw me differently. I wish she saw more in me. I push those thoughts away and deal with the situation at hand. My mission right now is getting her home and delivering Ducky back to his rightful owners.

  Minutes later, we're cruising along the back roads toward my place. I never realized she could talk this much. It would be really annoying if she weren’t so cute. Anyway, she's in no state to be alone right now. She'd probably face-plant by the front door and wake up tomorrow morning in a pool of unpleasant bodily fluids. So, I'll keep her at my house until she's lucid again.

  She seems to have run out of things to say by the time I’m turning onto my street. She’s nodding in and out of sleep. I park in the driveway and help her out of the car. She laces her arms around my neck and buries her face in my shirt. The rest of her body is completely lax but her arms are tight around me, like she’s holding on for dear life. I manage to unlock the door and get her down the stairs into my basement apartment.

  “Anything else you need to get off of your chest?” I tease, chuckling to myself as I lay her down on the pull-out couch.

  She's conflicted and it's written all over her pretty face. "You're the worst person I know..." she whispers as tears gather in her big, black eyes, "and I hate that I want you so much..."

  Man—that hurt.

  When I asked the question, I was expecting her to spew more incoherent nonsense. I wasn’t expecting her words to stab me straight in the chest like a rusty dart.

  Before I can form a sentence, she’s already fast asleep. With downcast eyes, I run my tongue over my lips. “I’m not as bad as you think, Vivian. At least I hope I’m not.”

  Chapter 14

  Vivian

  The stale, metallic taste on my tongue is the first thing the seeps into my groggy consciousness. Running my tongue over my dry lips, I force my heavy lids open. I blink a few times in the half-lit room. My body is sluggish and my mind moves even slower in its effort to put the pieces together. My arm is asleep and I feel like I got whacked over the head with a brick. I haven’t been this hung-over since…since…Oh, never mind.

  I roll over on the scratchy fabric and the room tilts ever-so-slightly. Panic slams into me like the blow of sledgehammer. Where am I?!

  A croak of terror rips through my chest as I sit up. My head snaps to the left and then to the right. I’m sitting on a faded, threadbare sheet covering a lumpy couch. It creaks under my weight. There’s a dirty plate and a half-empty beer bottle sitting on the coffee table in front of me. The only light in the cold, damp room comes from a dusty, little hopper window all the way up near the ceiling.

  I’m being held in a basement!

  I spot a child’s stuffed animal on the floor. There isn’t much decoration aside from the hand-drawing of a family of stick-figures on the wall above the old floor-model TV. I can hear children running and stampeding upstairs.

  Apparently, my kidnapper is a devoted family man.

  Yeah, that doesn’t put me at ease. Not one bit.

  At the rattling of a doorknob, my attention shoots over to the door in the far corner of the room. I hear whistling. An AC/DC song.

  Without a second thought, I drop to the floor behind the couch and wrap my fingers around the base of the beer bottle. I may be wobbly and cotton-headed right now, but at least I’ll have the element of surprise on my side. It’s my only hope if I don�
�t want to end up in individual meal-portion Ziplock bags in this guy’s freezer.

  The door swings open and a cloud of steam pours out of the bathroom as he wraps a towel around his narrow, tattooed waist—holy sex god!—for a moment, I forget that I’m his captive as my eyes devour the sight of this gorgeous creature shrouded in a plume of smoke. Lust swims freestyle in my veins.

  As I’m crouched there, drooling, the fog dissipates just enough for me to realize that it’s Clinton! My kidnapper is the rough-looking, foul-mannered, short-tempered barber. Oh my god!

  Yes, he’d looked upset when I told him that I didn’t want see him anymore but I didn’t know he’d take it this far. This guy is shadier than I thought! Kidnapping me? That’s beyond low. It’s criminal! And I won’t let him get away with it!