by Nora Flite
ALSO BY NORA FLITE
Bad Boy Royals
Royally Bad
Royally Ruined
Royally Arranged
Big City Billionaires
Billion Dollar Bad Boy
Other Books
Never Kiss a Bad Boy
The Bad Boy Arrangement
My Secret Master
Last of the Bad Boys
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2018 by Nora Flite
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503904620
ISBN-10: 1503904628
Cover design by Tammy Seidick
Cover photo credit: Wander Aguiar Photography
This story is for the middle children.
All the second bests. Never first at anything, never last. Never indulged for being the baby or truly trusted as the oldest.
Only you will understand the pain that comes with this role. It’s not so much of a burden that it feels worth discussing at length. Even so, it digs at us from the day our little siblings come into the world. Because just as we looked up to our elders, they do the same, skipping us entirely in the process. And we can tell ourselves it’s all right. It never mattered.
But it does.
There’s a reason they named a syndrome after us.
While we grimace and grow sick of being stuck in the center of every family photo, every family road trip, think of this comfort unique to our position—something that being in the middle brings that first and last have no claim over: there is always a loving heart on either side of us.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
EPILOGUE HAWTHORNE
EPILOGUE NOVA
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- CHAPTER ONE -
NOVA
Six months ago I met a beautiful man who said ugly things.
Not to me, of course. Hawthorne Badd didn’t speak a single word to me for the entire hour I sat across from him. But to others there, he was quick to let a sarcastic remark bleed from his tongue at every opportunity. He was especially crisp toward my father.
Secretly I loved that.
I’d never liked the way Dad did things. I’d also never say that to his face; I was a good daughter where it counted. I bowed my head and went wherever I was told to go. But I still hated it.
My father’s personal life had long ago mixed with his corrupt business, and there was no way to pull the two apart. It was like mangling a wad of gum into your scalp and then trying to clean every individual strand of hair. He was tangled in sin, and we, as his children, were tangled up, too.
Not that my brothers cared. Both Larchmont and Richard had been eager to come to this meeting between our family and the Badds. They were reveling in having the upper hand, an advantage brought on by gruesome violence and the fear of more to come.
I was different. I’d hoped to go on forever keeping my distance. Neither Mom nor Dad had asked me to dirty my hands. Not yet. The reality is that you can’t separate yourself from family just by wishing. And you definitely can’t walk away once blood has been spilled.
So I sat at the table in the middle of the Badd family’s ballroom, breaking bread with our enemies and waiting for Maverick—the patriarch—and his two other sons to show up. We’d been sitting in near silence for fifteen minutes already.
Like the ballroom we were in, their whole estate was gorgeous. I was especially jealous of all the land they had. My parents were more interested in the clean lines of modern architecture than in greenery and dirt. I’d grown up crawling across cement and marble. I’d wandered nervously down dark halls past the array of warped statues that my mother fancied. They’d watched me with their dead eyes, their arms wound tight over their chests, unable to hold or hug or touch.
Maybe that was why Mom liked them so much.
My attention kept zipping to the door, to the security guards—theirs and ours. If I wasn’t so afraid of the consequences I could walk out of here, get in my car, and be back in Boston within the hour. Even accounting for the time needed to get some Dunkin’ coffee, I’d be snuggled in my bed with a sketch pad before dinner. It’d be heaven.
“What’s wrong?” a feathery voice asked in my right ear. Darla, my younger sister.
“I don’t want to be here,” I mumbled. I wanted nothing to do with any of this. And I was ignorant enough to think that if I just sat there and stared at my chocolate strawberries, I could walk away from this meeting unchanged.
Then he entered the room.
He was shorter than his father and his older brother, Costello, who had entered with him. But somehow he defied reality, his presence looming, filling every crack in the ballroom. Thorne wore long sleeves and a high-necked shirt the color of fresh wheat, things that only hinted at the shape of his body. But I could tell his shoulders were broad, his torso lean and powerful.
Maverick scanned the room with his piercingly icy eyes. Thorne’s were starkly different. They were like those of his mother—who hadn’t stopped watching us from the head of the table—black as a galaxy. He moved with ease, comfortable in a roomful of people who would have loved to see him dead. This was a battlefield seconds before someone began the charge, and he didn’t care.
His strong chin cut the air, his gaze sweeping across the table, ultimately falling on me. I wasn’t ready for that. I don’t think anybody could be. It was like jumping into a swirling storm when you’d been promised a sunny day.
Instantly I ducked my head. In my ears I heard Darla’s muffled giggle, then the warm, heart-pulling sound of Thorne’s chuckle. I glanced up in time to see him whisper something to Costello as they sat down. He didn’t look at me again after that.
I prayed he would, but . . . it never happened. It drove me mad.
I couldn’t explain what had created such a yearning inside me. Why was I so focused on getting this man to notice me? Maybe it was because I’d heard so much about him. It was no secret under my roof that my family was obsessed with his. I’d seen photos and videos and even had intel recited to me about the Badds.
I’d always thought Thorne was interesting. Unquestionably handsome, no doubt. But a picture can’t compare to flesh and blood. Hearing his gritty, lo
w voice as it purred casual insults that were hard to counter . . . seeing him relax in his seat and swirl his glass and not care at all about what his family or mine thought of his behavior . . .
It was fascinating.
But Thorne Badd didn’t find me nearly as interesting. Through all the back-and-forth discussion between his family and mine, he acted like I didn’t exist. And I began to feel like I didn’t. Selfishly, I wished that something would happen. Something that would make him look at me, see me.
My father was speaking—things were heating up. I saw how Costello hunkered in place, his frown severe. His knitted eyebrows pulled the long scar across his face tighter. “We’re not at war,” Dad said carefully. “Because if we were, none of you would be here. Not one.” He lifted his glass. “You’re all part of a grand family . . . a grander heritage. Though it’s funny you’d choose a name like the Badds.” He winked. “What was wrong with Fredricson?”
A ripple moved through the other side of the table. Thorne didn’t flinch, but he did glance at Maverick. This was a bomb my father had been waiting to drop: that we knew exactly who the Badds used to be before Maverick changed his last name.
People didn’t change their surnames without good reason when it gave them access to the advantages of a royal lineage. I knew the reason. But did they know why we knew? Covertly I watched Thorne—he was facing away, showing me his sharp profile. He was gorgeous from every angle.
With a soft sigh, my father said, “We’re a simple family that profits greatly from all of you remembering your place.” His dimples deepened with his wide smile. “This peace was almost broken by one man’s simple mistake.”
He was talking about my brother Darien. He was the reason we were all here.
My dad kept talking. “In the future there will be no more mistakes of such magnitude. If none of you chase the power your father abandoned . . . we’ll all live long, happy lives.”
He was promising them a truce. I was sure that deep down he didn’t mean it; my father had always spoken out of one side of his mouth while lying out of the other. I didn’t get the feeling that any of these people believed him. But I wasn’t focusing. I was distracted beyond reason in the middle of this political tension. All I wanted was to catch his eye one more time. I had no clue how to make it happen.
Darla was the one who made guys’ heads spin. She fought off their advances with a tilted smile and perfectly timed hair flips. I didn’t have her skills—I was too shy, too afraid of making some sort of mistake. The boys I’d grown up with wanted their girls to be bold.
I was not bold.
I had never been bold.
But I wished I could be. Because I had the sense that my whole world would open up if I could be less afraid. People would look at me and see me. I’d be capable of slouching as comfortably in my own skin as Hawthorne was. And men like him wouldn’t forget I was sitting within arm’s length.
I wanted that so much that my very being ached like a pulled muscle. So I sat there and silently made my pathetic wish. I couldn’t have known then that I was curling a finger on the proverbial monkey’s paw. My parents had told me many times that for every gain there must be a sacrifice. Nothing in life comes free. Not money, not power, and certainly not love.
I assumed that, to become who I wanted to be, I’d have to suffer.
I didn’t know I’d have to die as well.
- CHAPTER TWO -
HAWTHORNE
Was it wrong to mourn the death of a strip club?
Staring at the yellow tape crisscrossing the black, locked door of the building, I experienced mixed emotions. It was too easy to imagine the neon sign, shaped like a girl in a martini glass, never lighting up again.
No more dancers.
No more late-night rounds of tequila.
No more girls trying to charm me so they could get away with skipping stage sets or being late.
For the past eight years, I’d helped run the Dirty Dolls. I’ve never been known as the responsible one in my family, so I should have been relieved that the chore was off my shoulders.
I wasn’t.
Don’t get all psychoanalytical, I quickly told myself. I’m only bummed because I hoped to kill a few more years stretched out on that VIP couch.
Thanks to Darien Valentine, it wasn’t going to happen. Seven months ago I’d nearly lost more than a strip club because of that psycho. I’d thought he was just another suit-wearing asshole getting handsy with whatever pair of legs got too close.
I couldn’t have guessed he was dangerous . . . or that he’d hurt Gina. She’d been dancing at the Dirty Dolls long enough for it to be her career. People asked for her because she wielded a healthy pair of tits. But me? I’d loved her no-nonsense attitude. She didn’t take shit from anyone.
Unfortunately, that included our lawyers.
My father had confided to me weeks ago that the club would be running once we settled out of court with Gina. Except she was dragging her feet, asking for more security, more rules, more everything. And she was right. If we’d done our jobs she wouldn’t have gotten hurt.
And I wouldn’t be missing my cotton-candy-and-cocoa-butter-smelling VIP couch.
Sighing, I adjusted my jacket and turned away from the building. Without the Dirty Dolls, I didn’t know how to spend my days and nights. I didn’t even have my siblings around to mess with. Each of them was busy with their own shit.
Life was quiet.
Life was . . . boring.
After climbing into my Escalade, I floored it down the street. A ribbon of blue peeked above, sometimes hidden by the tall buildings. The humidity was oppressive, and it had only just rolled over into June. Another reason I miss the club, I mused bitterly. The low lights and air-conditioning were hard to beat. I’d spent many a summer wasting away in glorious slothfulness on my beloved couch.
Determined to break free of my poor mood, I sped up until I exited onto the highway. Here I could drive faster than the tight city streets allowed. But my freedom was short; without any traffic, it didn’t take long to make it into Newport, where my family’s home was.
Gliding up to the huge twisted-metal gates, I tapped a button near my steering wheel. The gates split apart like a giant raven’s wings. The sun lit up the slate driveway that curved down toward the sprawling estate.
When I was small, I used to run around the corridors of our mansion with wild abandon. It drove my father into a furious state. But I didn’t care—I was too busy searching for the inevitable doorway to some secret world. A place full of magic and adventure. Somewhere I could feel like I had a purpose.
I never found it.
Home sweet home. Red lights blinked at me from different positions in the yard. You see, Darien Valentine had been just the tip of all the drama this past year. His whole family was a bunch of psychos who, for reasons I’m still not sure of, would prefer me and the rest of the Badds buried in the cold ground.
My father had ultimately arranged a sit-down with their whole crew. I’d been there, too—we were all expected to attend. It had been strange to eat finger sandwiches with the people who’d caused everyone so much damn trouble.
Kurtis Valentine—the dad of the filthy bunch—had offered us a truce that felt like a warning. Like he knew everything about all of us, about my father and his history, and he’d be more than pleased to use it against us if he could.
But here we were now, all boring bliss and nothing gained but security cameras. Oh, and guard dogs. Lots of those. Francesca, my little sister, loathed them. She was sure the German shepherds would eat her little terrier, Mic.
It didn’t help that I’d made one . . . or five . . . jokes about it. It was too easy to ruffle her feathers. I hadn’t meant to drive her away on some “vacation” to Miami. Fran hadn’t said it was my fault, but I knew.
After parking my car in the massive garage, I stepped out and scanned the vehicles. We owned everything from yellow Mustangs to violet-and-gold motorcycles. That wasn’
t my sort of thing. Kain—Fran’s twin brother—was Mr. Bad Boy Extreme. I preferred walls of metal surrounding me as I floored it at ninety-five miles an hour. Most noninsane people would agree with me.
I considered the shiny cars. Maybe I’ll drive a different one tomorrow. It would be a change in my routine. A minor change, but these days I’d take what I could get.
Entering the mudroom attached to the garage, I draped my thin jacket over a brass hook on the wall. “I’m home,” I said, wending my way toward the kitchen. The second I passed through the front room with its curving staircases, a young woman in a dark gray dress and crisp apron spotted me. Sucey was one of our many maids. “Sir,” she said, bobbing her head so her chin-length red hair swayed.
“You know I hate when you call me that.” Sighing, I scratched at the back of my neck. “Is anyone else home?”
She pointed upward. “Lulabelle is in her room.” Her finger changed direction. “Your father is in his study. Mrs. Badd was with him, last I saw.” Without turning she gestured over her shoulder to the back of the mansion. “And your mother’s guests are eating in the garden.”
Mom had hated how empty our house was. She’d gone and invited several relatives to stay with us. I didn’t know most of these random aunts, uncles, and cousins who’d come to live with us for the summer. I didn’t care to. But it was nice for Mom; she had people to entertain. I liked seeing her happy.
“Thanks,” I said, starting to walk down the hallway toward the parlor.
“Of course, sir,” Sucey said, ignoring my request that she not call me that.
My shoes glided over the maroon rug. As loud as I tended to speak, I naturally walked with a silent ease. I’d startled many enemies—and delighted many women—when I’d appeared behind them without notice. I’d been told it was a skill people were jealous of.
Would they be so envious if they knew I’d gained it by spending my childhood tiptoeing around my father?
Maverick Badd had always been a pillar of intense anger and not much else. You could probably set him in front of a movie about a dozen cute puppies dying in a plane crash and he still wouldn’t shed a tear.
