Bad Boy

by Cassie-Ann L. Miller

  When he bends into the tattered suitcase at the far end of the room and starts digging around, I see my opportunity. Despite the thundering of my heart, I quietly pick up the beer bottle and tiptoe in his direction.

  God, I’m so wobbly on my feet.

  I’m not sure if it’s fear or if it’s whatever he used to drug me but I’m definitely not at my best. When I’m close enough to strike, I lift the bottle over my head…and a torrent of frigid beer gushes down on my scalp, drenching my hair and the back of my blouse.

  My startled scream pierces the air and Clinton jumps, spinning around with wide eyes.

  “Hey! Hey! Hey!” he yelps as he snatches the would-be weapon out of my hands. I shriek and fall flat on my bum. Frowning, he crouches down in front of me. “What the hell?!”

  My throat is too sore to scream but I’m not giving up. Growling like a wild animal, I fight back, clawing and scratching because my life depends on it.

  “What are you doing, lady?” Clinton restrains me with ease, sitting on my legs and pinning my arms to my sides. “Jesus—are you still high?”

  “What did you do to me?” I demand, tears running down my cheeks. “How did I get here?”

  The amusement in his eyes both angers me and scares me. “Vivian, relax. You’re making a scene and that’s really not necessary.”

  “Are you going to kill me?” I ramble on as I continue to wiggle against his hold. “Please don’t kill me.”

  His eyes widen in alarm. He scoots away and once he’s at a safe distance, he jumps to his feet with his hands held up appeasingly in the air. “What the hell, Vivian? Do you really not remember anything that happened?”

  In the commotion, his bath towel has fallen off. It’s pooled at his feet. And now his entire lean, inked body is on display for me.

  My eyes transfix to the ten inches of steely manhood hanging stiffly between his legs. My cheeks heat up and I feel a very obvious flutter at the apex of my thighs. And all of a sudden Stockholm Syndrome makes perfect sense to me. Take me now!

  He notices my staring. “Goddammit. I’m hard for you again,” he mutters. “You crazy woman. You’re going to ruin me for good.” He bends to pick up his towel and drapes it around his waist. I mourn on the inside.

  “What’s going on, Clinton?” I rise to my feet.

  He brushes a damp lock of his hair from his brow. “I saw you at the dentist’s office. You were high out of your mind after your surgery and you didn’t have anyone to take you home. I didn’t hurt you, Vivian. I wouldn’t. I was just trying to help.”

  His forehead creases with sincerity. He holds my stare to convey that he’s telling the truth. Vague, little fragments of memory start coming back like floating puzzle pieces. Oh man. Now, I feel like crap for spitting those ugly accusations at him.

  Lowering myself onto the back of the couch, I fold my arms across myself, mortified for yet again jumping to the worst conclusions about him. “Thank you,” I say quietly. “And I’m sorry.”

  He nods slightly and points to the portable stove sitting next to the sink in the corner. “I made you some soup. You like black bean?”

  “That’s my favorite…” I say in a breathy voice. My eyes travel down his chest again. My pulse hammers in my neck. “How’d you know?”

  He smiles. “Coincidentally, it’s one of the only things I actually know how to cook.” He opens the pot and ladles a serving of soup into a tatty little bowl he pulls from a cardboard box on the floor. He sets the bowl in my hand and takes a step away from me, putting a safe distance between us. “Look, I don’t want any trouble,” he says in a quiet voice, “so I’m going to go into the bathroom and get dressed while you eat and then, I’ll take you home. Okay?”

  “Clinton. I’m really sorry. I made some awful assumptions. You were only trying to help me and I was dreadfully rude.”

  “You were high.” He shrugs a shoulder. “I get it.”

  But there’s something in the depths of his eyes that makes my stomach twist with dread. I slap one hand over my face to hide. “Oh my god. I must have been such a jerk…”

  He chuckles a little. “You were, actually.” He leans against the bathroom’s doorframe. “But it was cute. You were cute. And harmless.”

  I set the bowl down on the table and walk over to him. “I’m really, really sorry for whatever it is I said.” I want him to see that I mean it.

  He cups his palms on my shoulders and brings his face close to mine. I feel breathless, a wave of intoxication rolling over me. But this time, it’s the scent of his skin, the grit in his voice—that’s what’s got me high. “Let’s just forget about it, Vivian. Okay? You’re all better now, so let’s forget about it.”

  I feel shame. Deep, deep shame. Pinpricks score the lining of my stomach as I nod. “Okay.”

  “Okay.” I instantly feel cold when he drops his hands from my shoulders and disappears into the bathroom to get dressed.

  Chapter 15

  Clinton

  I can still smell her fragrance on the sheet. That floral, feminine scent that makes my cock ache. Roses and honey and lust.

  After throwing on a T-shirt and some jeans, I jumped into the car and drove Vivian home. It was a quiet ride. Awkward. I could tell that she was embarrassed, imagining how she must have behaved while she was under the influence of that potent medical cocktail. I don’t hold any of it against her. I don’t have any right to. She was high off of that truth serum and she showed me yet again where I really stand with her. She has no intention of giving me a chance and I’m not surprised. A woman of her pedigree with a guy like me? She’s soft and pampered and virtuous. I'm not just rough around the edges. I'm rough to my core.

  But I want her, dammit.

  And every fibre of my being is telling me to fight for her, to show her that she’s wrong about me. To show myself that I’m wrong about me. To prove once and for all, that I’ve changed. I’m no longer that hopeless fool with a broken nose and short temper, dreaming of one day breaking free of the motorcycle club. I am free. Free to be someone new.

  My mind explores the possibilities. What would have happened if I hadn’t been there at the clinic yesterday when she was all alone with no one else there to take care of her? Maybe I’m just being self-important. But she needed me. She needed me and I just happened to be there.

  I want to be there for her more often. All the time.

  I wish that my faded sheets and my lumpy cot in this damp basement-apartment could be enough for a woman like her. But she has her cozy, little bungalow with her high thread count sheets and her memory foam mattress. She has her luxurious duvet when all I have to offer her is my body heat.

  Why can't I get her out of my head? If given the chance, she'd destroy me, she'd chase me out of this town. Yet I'm obsessed with the way she smells, digging my nose into the fabric for a whiff of her perfume. I roll over onto my back and stare up at the water stains on the ceiling. This is pathetic.

  I’m still trying to figure out what it is about this woman that gets to me so much. I’ve never felt like this for anyone and it makes me uncomfortable.

  Lisa’s high-pitched cackle travels into the basement as she talks loudly on the phone. I hear the thump-thump-thump of the children playing upstairs. This is my life. This is the choice I’ve made.

  With the baggage I’m carrying, with the secrets I’m keeping, Vivian Hartley is not an option for me.

  Chapter 16

  Vivian

  I find a parking spot on the tree-lined street, right across from Clinton’s house. At least I think it’s Clinton’s house. I wasn’t exactly clear-headed when he led me to his car and drove me home last night.

  Last night...

  I was an emotional wreck last night. I made a complete fool of myself. In my hazy, rambling, post-op state, I accused him of things, I called him names, I was downright nasty. I don’t want to be that kind of person. That’s why I’m here to apologize. Properly this time. With cupcakes. And without the lin
gering effects of Propofol.

  There's an explosion of jitters in my stomach when the taillights of the rusty, blue Tercel in driveway blink on suddenly and the engine rumbles to life. That’s definitely the crappy car he drove me home in last night…The living room curtains rustle as a muscular, tattooed arm points a remote starter at the car. Okay, that's Clinton's house, for sure.

  I grab my purse and the box of cupcakes from the passenger’s side seat and then pause, staring at my reflection in the rearview mirror. Jeez—I look like absolute crap after a long, busy day at work. My mascara is falling off in flakes and I could definitely use a few dabs of concealer on the dark circles beneath my eyes. I pull my makeup bag out of my purse and start slappin' on the face paint. I re-apply my eye makeup, I touch up my lipstick, I powder my nose.

  I sniff my armpits. Ugh! Not pleasant. Not pleasant at all. Good thing I have my fresh dry cleaning hanging from the grab-handle over the back seat. I remove a pretty floral blouse from the dry cleaner's clear garment bag and scoot low in my seat as I try to yank my sweaty shirt over my head. Of course, my nose gets caught on the neckline just as there's a tap at the window.

  I panic, struggling to rip the fabric over my skull. It takes some wiggling and wrestling before I finally manage to free my face but my arms are above my head, trapped in the tight sleeves. My attention whips up to the window and I find Clinton standing there, brows slashed with confusion, gaze dark and stormy as he takes in my condition. With an embarrassed squeak, I quickly pull my shirt back on.

  Clinton spins his index finger like a wheel, motioning for me to roll down the window. Cringing hard, I hit the window-button-thingy on my door. The glass lowers, allowing the cool autumn draft to pour in. "It's not what it looks like..." I spit out.

  He leans down to my level, his eyes sparkling with laughter. “Did you get evicted? Living out of your car now or something? Because you're getting undressed in your car. On the curb outside of my house. Kind of weird.”

  There's a bonfire in my cheeks, I'm blushing so hard. “I actually came to thank you for helping me yesterday,” I tell him, wiggling the box of cupcakes to draw his attention to them, “and also to apologize for the way I behaved...”

  "Was showing up at my door topless a part of your plan? Because I've gotta say, I love the way you think." His dark eyes twinkle. He’s obviously enjoying my fall from grace.

  "No, no! I was just changing my sweaty shirt..." I bury my face in my hands. "Oh...this is embarrassing..."

  I hear a woman's voice call out. "Clinton? Clinton, what are you doing out there?" She stomps down the front steps, the click of her heels echoing as her hips sway side to side.

  My gaze travels over her from her wild blonde hair to her slim-fitting blue coat to her thigh-high boots. She casts an impatient stare at us while she stands next to the Tercel in the driveway. My eyes widen as realization dawns on me.

  "Oh my god. You have a date! Oh my god! What was I thinking showing up here, unannounced? You have a date! You’re going on a date! And I’m sitting here across from your house like a stalker. Oh my god!"

  He chokes back a laugh. "Vivian, calm down."

  "I'm so, so sorry." I turn the key in the ignition.

  His fingers curl around the edge of the window. "Hey...relax..."

  "I'm sorry. I'll just leave." I turn the key again and the engine makes a really loud, sputtering sound. "What the hell?" I frantically wiggle the key back and forth. Will the universe put me out of my misery?

  "Do you want to come inside to talk?"

  I stop and snap my head in his direction, glaring hard. "Clinton—you're on a date. I'm not gonna come inside to talk." I turn away and resume my key-jiggling.

  He stretches into the open window and his fingers clasp around my wrist. "Would you stop that? You're gonna flood the engine."

  “Wait—you’re swingers, aren’t you?” My voice comes out low and threatening. "If you think you're about to lure me into some skeevy menage a trois like some sexual deviant—"

  He kicks his head back and laughs manically. "Says the woman who's ripping off her shirt in the car across the street from my house." I roll my eyes but I can't help the smile fighting to curve my lips. His gaze sharpens as he stares at me. “Vivian, I don’t have a date tonight. And I'm definitely not a swinger. I’m way too possessive." He brings his lips to the shell of my ear. "When I claim a woman...I don’t share.”

  The hollow of my belly quivers and fills with butterflies. But I can't just succumb to his seductive whisper. "I guess you're referring to the fancy woman standing in your driveway?"

  "She's not my date."

  “So who is she?”

  He throws a quick, guilty look over his shoulder. “She’s…she’s my…landlord. I live in her basement apartment and I watch her kids when she goes to her weekly book club meeting."

  "You babysit?" I examine him again in light of this new information.

  Clinton smirks in response. "The kids love the fuck out of me. I can introduce you to them, if you want.” He brushes a lock of my hair into place. “Just come inside. Please.”

  I spend a long moment searching his face for some sign that he’s making this stuff up. But he looks so very sincere. And then again, he’s offering to introduce me to the children, so chances are, he's telling the truth. “Fine…” I say begrudgingly. “I’ll come inside.”

  Draping my jacket across my shoulders and holding it closed over my chest, I clutch the cupcakes under my arm and follow Clinton across the street. My heart pounds against my ribs as we approach the small house with its worn, shingled siding and its cracked concrete walkway. My eyes are trained on the woman standing next to the little, old car. She sort of looks familiar but I can't quite place her. She’s probably just a face I’ve seen around town.

  "This is Vivian," Clinton tells her. "She's gonna hang out for a while. Watch the kids with me."

  "Hey." Her gaze flits quickly over my face before she deliberately looks away. Before I can even offer a handshake, her attention is fixed on Clinton. "So okay, Sonny is supposed to get his antibiotics before bed."

  Clinton nods. "I know."

  "And make sure Rachel brushes her teeth because she'll pretend she's sleeping just to avoid it."

  "Yup."

  "I left the mac and cheese on the stove—"

  "Mac and cheese again? Come on!" Clinton frowns.

  The woman rolls her eyes. "What do you expect me to give them? Kale? Brussels sprouts? We both know that mac and cheese is all they'll eat."

  "Not with me. They ate soup the last time I cooked for them."

  "Then make them soup," she says in frustration as she yanks open the car door. "I've gotta get going."

  "You're pretty dressed up for book club night," he says suspiciously and he motions to the thick paperback under her arm. “And that’s the same book you’ve been reading for the past three weeks.”

  Her eyes dart inside the car and she taps her foot impatiently. "Don't start with me, please."

  Clinton grunts. "You'd better not get into any trouble tonight."

  "Don't wait up." She gives me another quick, embarrassed look before she sinks into the car and backs out of the driveway.

  "Well that was weird," I say as the car peels away from the intersection and makes a quick right turn.

  "Ugh!" He grunts. "Lisa's weird. Come on. Let's go meet the kids." With his hand on the small of my back, he leads me inside.

  Chapter 17

  Vivian

  There's a beautiful, little, sticky face sleeping in my lap right now. Rachel. She's four and from what I've seen tonight, she is way too familiar with Justin Bieber lyrics, she's really good at drawing and she eats chocolate cupcakes like a champ.

  Clinton bends over and scoops her out of my lap. "Be right back," he mouths to me without making a sound. My ovaries do something funny when he leans down and drops a kiss on the little girl's forehead. I smile as I watch him go.

  This evening, I showed up
here not knowing what to expect. It was pure instinct that led me here. And throughout the drive over, I was thinking I was crazy. But the night turned out to be beautiful. Watching Clinton take care of those children, watching the way they respond to him and laugh with him. That's love. And it's so amazing to witness it.

  I may have been wrong about him. Wrong to judge him based on his tattoos and his scars and the anger on his face. Under all that rough stuff on the outside, there's something warm and kind inside of him and it's calling out to me. I’m so drawn to him and it finally feels safe to admit it to myself. There’s an excited tickle in the core of my stomach to find out what happens next.