Exposing the Bad Boy

by Nora Flite

  EXPOSING THE BAD BOY

  A Last of the Bad Boys Novel

  Contemporary Erotic Romance

  USA TODAY Bestselling Author

  Nora Flite

  Copyright © 2015 Nora Flite

  All rights reserved. EXPOSING THE BAD BOY is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Also from Nora Flite:

  Last of the Bad Boys

  Only Pretend

  For the Thrill

  For the Fight

  For the Bond

  Hard Body Rock

  Slow Body Rock

  Flawed Body Rock

  True Body Rock

  Watch Me Fall

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  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  Exposing the Bad Boy

  - Prologue -

  - 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 -

  - Epilogue -

  ~ABOUT THE AUTHOR~

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  EXPOSING THE BAD BOY is part of the Last of the Bad Boys brand.

  These stand alone stories are known for their alpha bad boys; inked men who love wild sex, bad decisions, and own up to their filthy mouths.

  You can read these books in any order, they are all complete stories that follow new characters and are free of any cliffhangers.

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  - Prologue -

  Pike

  My fingers were bloody. It was a small cut; a stupid mistake in a place where mistakes could kill. The sting was numb to me. Adrenaline was as good of a shield as anything, better than any drug you could find.

  I'd become addicted long ago.

  Cresting the top of the crane, I settled on the edge to catch my breath. It gave me a moment to enjoy the field of stars below; Los Angeles was a wonder at night. Wiping my hands on my jeans, I stopped thinking about the wound. It was nothing when faced with the potential in front of me.

  Shifting, I rose up until the wind threatened to claw me down towards the ground. Too eager, I mused silently. Hang on a bit longer, sugar.

  The hood of my sleeveless sweater drifted from my head. With nothing to protect it, my hair tangled in knots, tickling my skin. I swelled with life, chest stretching to the limit. My lungs burned and I didn't care. This one breath meant everything.

  It could be my last, after all.

  I wanted to taste the sweet blackness. To remember it. If I closed my eyes, I could focus on the white noise of the city. Compared to what I was about to do, that energy was a dulled blade.

  With a smile, I threw myself over the edge.

  My ears roared, swept up in the rumble of velocity. There was nothing in the world but me and the fall. The sensation of being pulled and yanked by unseen hooks; flying and sinking, all at once. This was what I hungered for.

  Nothing else compared.

  The high-pitched whistle ruled my hearing. It could have pierced my eardrums, left me confused. But I was better than that. My body knew exactly what to do. I was made for base jumping.

  The weightlessness of diving towards death removed all sins. I didn't take that for granted. I had many sins to cleanse.

  It was brief, at most six seconds. The crucial moment rose up, the instant where I could let myself explode across the ground or try and save myself. I say try, because frankly, you could never be certain you'd live.

  My knuckles vibrated, fist wrenching the cord of my parachute. The force yanked me upwards, surged through my shoulders and into my heart. Fuck, I loved every jump I made. Each one was another fingerprint on my soul.

  If—when, more likely—I encountered my death at the hands of a failed leap, they'd find me smiling. Well, if there's anything left of me. It was a grim thought, but as I soared down towards the parking lot, I started laughing.

  The landing was easy, I scrambled to gather up my canopy. I'd been caught by the cops before. It was a risk I was fine with taking, but I wasn't stupid. Trespassing, reckless endangerment, breaking and entering... another arrest would ruin me financially.

  I couldn't handle another chunk of my life wasted behind bars. Not with the sky out there, calling my name and weeping without me.

  But, if they never saw me make the jump, they couldn't prove anything. The times I'd been arrested had been due to my stupid mistakes; getting cornered by security guards in buildings more protected than I had anticipated.

  Hiding my parachute in my trunk with the rest of my gear, I hopped into the car. The thrumming of my chest slowed when I pulled onto the freeway.

  Another clean jump on my record.

  If I had my way, I'd parachute during the daytime; anytime. If I ever stop valuing my freedom, I'll go for it. Twisting the radio knob, I blared some forgettable tune. Falling with the sun shining, seeing the city and the sky and the clouds all at once.

  My addiction, like many, was illegal. I had to make of it what I could. Quitting wasn't an option, so the cover of darkness was my safety net.

  I'd been jumping off of things since I was able to stand. My father had hated it at first, even more than my mother. Which, considering she'd eventually left him for his own dangerous obsession, was a shocker.

  After I broke my leg leaping from the roof of our shed, things changed. He'd sat with me in the hospital, looked me in the face with his serious blue eyes. He'd told me if I was going to jump, I was going to do it right.

  With his guidance, I began sky diving.

  It drove a wedge between my parents. It also ripped open my heart and showed me what living really was. That edge of danger, of swimming with the clouds like no human was meant to.

  Walking felt like being in prison, after that.

  Prison, I mused, parking in the mouse-hole of a garage my apartment had. I'd experienced plenty of cuffs and cops. Most people would have quit, been scared into line.

  Not me.

  The idea of seeking out new heights, new perches, just to embrace that energy as I stepped out into nothing... I could never abandon it. I might as well have stopped breathing.

  Moving around the world to avoid detection was logical. One look at my bank account was a bitter reminder of how impossible that was. It's funny how much cash you need to move. All my money went into maintaining my gear.

  Tugging my chute from the trunk, I cradled it under my arms. My apartment was silent as I entered, a cramped space big enough for just me. I'd rented it for the price, but also for the access to the roof. I'd never jumped from there, no. It was too easy to be spotted and tracked by the cops to my own door.

  Having the ability to sit on the ledge in the early hours, wind grazing my throat, was enough.

  Flicking on the light, I knelt and went through the steps of perfectly f
olding and repacking my chute. It was almost spiritual. My motions were practiced, never absent. I dabbled with injury and death often, but if I did die, it wouldn't be because I fumbled with my own gear.

  Finishing, I hung the backpack-like package on my door.

  Crossing the room, I threw my hoodie onto the floor. In the scuffed mirror of the medicine cabinet, my reflection was a foggy mess. The bruises and scars on my body told grim tales.

  A life of tangoing with death had scratched a pattern over my flesh. The artists I'd hired over the years had done a wonderful job disguising much of the damage under my vivid tattoos.

  I stretched wide, flexing my arms and making the ink across my body writhe. I was sore; I was also starving.

  My fridge groaned, arguing with me while I stared at the scant interior. Well, shit. I'd forgotten to buy myself anything to eat again. I'll snatch something at work in the morning. The money wasn't great at my coffee shop job, but no one cared if I ate some of the day old pastries. I mean, if I didn't get caught, no one cared.

  Cracking my neck, I settled on a pack of peanut butter crackers. I didn't know how old they were, I was too hungry to care. The bottle of bourbon behind my sink would wash away any staleness.

  With a hot bath running, and alcohol searing the tension from my muscles, I sat down to wrestle with my wind-blown hair. I should have worn a helmet, I knew that, but mine had taken a beating recently and was out of commission. It should have been replaced years ago.

  Tilting my chin for a deep swig from the bottle, my eyes fell on the far wall. A photo of my father stared back at me, his face obscured by aviator glasses. He'd always worn them, even when it was cloudy.

  “You'd give me hell for not wearing all my gear,” I said, my smile strained. “Call me an idiot. Reckless. Guess I didn't turn out as great as you thought I would, huh Dad?” My nose wrinkled. “And now we can add 'talks to himself' to my list of negative behaviors.”

  Looking away, I winced through my aches and stood. What I need is some scalding water to help coax me off to sleep. I had work in the morning. Coffee shop server and cashier. So glamorous, I thought with a chuckle.

  It wasn't a career, or anything to aspire to, but it paid my bills.

  It let me indulge in my addiction.

  And in the end, as far as I was concerned...

  That was all I needed.

  - Chapter One -

  Ellie

  Everything tasted like vinegar and aged tequila. I couldn't be sure I hadn't drank the former, but I could say with confidence that, yes, I'd finished off the latter. Between the shots I'd done, to me allowing THE Michael Ferris himself to splash it across my teeth straight from the bottle...

  How could I really forget why my tongue was so numb?

  Rolling over, my senses told me I was on something soft. Under my palm, pliant flesh shivered and a female voice mumbled. Oh, right. Blinking through the haze, I spotted the sleeping red-head tangled with another blonde.

  I didn't know who either of them were, just that I hadn't touched them. Drunk as I'd been, I didn't swing that way. It was a great tactic to pretend I did, though.

  Clients ate that right up.

  It occurred to me that the women must have attended the club—or was it clubs? I hoped they hadn't somehow followed me from the street to my apartment.

  Assuming this even is my apartment.

  Sitting up, regretting the sharp stab that warned me to 'quit fucking moving around, dumb-ass,' I eyed the room. Dark purple walls, beaded curtains, and three more people stretched out on the pale rug.

  Nope. Not my place. Shit.

  It wasn't strange for me to end up elsewhere after partying with a potential client. It didn't make me feel any less like a sack of dog piss every single time, though.

  On the floor, I spotted my grey dress. Ignoring the mumbles of the naked girls, I slipped off the mattress and hurried to change. My tights were still on, assuring me that things hadn't gone too far. I had access to company money to pay others to sleep with whoever. I'd never do it myself.

  Had Michael screwed any of them?

  Doesn't matter. Gotta find my phone, call him and see if he's going to sign the contract or—

  “Holy shit, Ellie.” The voice was hoarse, a slim man stumbling from a side room. Ferris was trim, cut as a diamond, but he looked haggard as hell. That smile, though, eased my worries. “How you feel? Last night was nuts.”

  “Fine. I take it you had fun,” I said, smoothing—or trying to smooth—the wrinkles on my dress. I was sure I looked as much like death as he did. “You know where we are?”

  Rubbing his thumb over his nose, he gazed at the sleeping girls on the bed. “My place. Think we stumbled here after the third club.”

  Three clubs, Jesus. I'd only been recruiting for Maximal Energy Inc. for two years, but the process of courting athletes for the sports drink company was taking its toll. Maybe I had to find a better way than drunken stupor. “You party hard, Ferris.”

  “Hah! You too,” he said. Ferris bounced a meaningful leer between me and the women. “It was a good time. Real fucking good.”

  I cleared my throat, moving his way with careful steps over the bodies. “Then you'd be up for doing this again. Yeah?”

  “Yeah, hell yes.”

  The smile that tugged at my cheeks grew. Between us, I extended my hand. “You already know that Maximal is willing to sponsor you. You'd get to do this every night, if you wanted.” Easy, easy, don't push too hard. My fingers twitched. “I'll be honest, my memory is fuzzy from last night, but am I crazy, or do I remember you saying something during those shots off that red-head's stomach about being ready to sign with us?” That last part was a lie. I didn't recall Michael saying anything about signing.

  I was hoping he didn't, either.

  In front of me, his forehead wrinkled. It was a mere beat, maybe two, but my lungs screamed as I held my breath. Had I pegged him wrong?

  Michael’s palm crushed onto mine, shaking vigorously. “Let's do it. Sign me up for whatever the fuck Maximal wants to give me. I'll take it.”

  Now I could relax. Slapping his shoulder, I scanned the room. I was relieved to find my purse on a nearby chair, and more so, my phone inside. “You're going to love it, trust me. The perks are amazing. Let me make the call, and we'll get all the official junk squared away. You just relax next to those titties over there.”

  He said something, but my ear was clamped on the phone already. It didn't matter what he was saying at that point. Plus, he sure looked pleased to be bouncing on the mattress besides the stirring women.

  Gripping the front door, I stepped out into the hall. I did it, I got him! I was thrilling with delight. Ferris had been on Maximal's radar for weeks. Heck, he'd been on everyone's. We knew other sponsors were going after him. They had money, power, perks...

  But they didn't have me.

  Even if the drinking and partying was scraping me down by layers, I soared at the chance to pull in another whale. At twenty-two, I was the youngest recruiter on the team, and one of the only woman in the company. Every athlete under my belt got me a bonus, more respect, and extra fame among my peers.

  Who didn't want that?

  “Corbin,” I said when the line clicked, “Don't be too shocked, but guess who I just won for us.”

  “Ferris. I know.” My boss sounded less than impressed. “I need you to do something else, Ellie. Something more important.”

  Heat bloomed along my neck. “Sure. Something more important than landing Michael Ferris—which I just did. Michael Ferris, current BMX star roaming the circuit. Formerly unleashed. Now hooked. To us.” I paused for emphasis.

  Corbin laughed, throat sand-papery from too much tobacco. “Okay okay, sorry. Yes, good job signing Ferris. I promise, I'm impressed.”

  Tension slipped from my shoulders. Calming my voice, I settled on the bottom of the stairwell. “Ignore my sour mood. I had a rough night.”

  “Three clubs, I saw the receipt
on the company card.”

  I held back an embarrassed chuckle. “What were you saying was so important?”

  “Come to the office. We have someone we'd like you to chase down.”

  “'Chase down?'”

  “You'll understand. I'll see you in twenty.”

  Glancing at my phone, I noted the time. “Corbin, let me go home and change first. I'm not fit to be seen by anyone.” And I hope my car is where I parked it.

  My boss snorted. “I don't care how you look.”

  “I care.” My fingers tugged at my sticky, dark hair. “Give me an hour. I'll even bring you lunch.”

  ****

  Maximal's headquarters was a giant building downtown. Glistening like morning dew, the windows dripped from top to bottom. There was a statue in the middle of the court, dark metal that had been shaped into a surfer riding on a wave. At night, they lit the water spouts.

  The company had gotten off the ground years ago by leaping on the hardcore surfing craze. From then on, they'd spread their brand in the form of energy drinks and gear worn by every extreme athlete they could find. The perks for those we sponsored were great, but the company always gleaned the biggest rewards.

  Once we signed someone, we rolled in money gained by the athlete. They wore our brand, we put them in commercials, and the masses bought our products by the bucket load.

  In the shine of the main lounge's mirrors, I straightened my hair. I'd taken a shower, fixing my bed-head and replacing it with a wind-tossed look. My stained dress was now a crisp sports jacket and dark jeans.

  I didn't look like a business woman, I wasn't supposed to. Signing athletes meant blending in with them, getting their friendship and appreciation before offering a deal.

  No one trusted you if you looked like a stuffy lawyer.

  At the rounded reception desk, a young woman with curly hair and thick rimmed glasses—no doubt false lenses meant to cater to her hip look—acknowledged me with a smile. “Afternoon, Miss Cutter.”

  I adjusted my purse. “Hey, Becky.”

  She tapped a button, listening in her headset. “Mr. Mathews says to go on in.”

  “Thanks.” Giving her a polite nod, I pushed my way into my boss's office. It was bright and airy, windows taking up the entire back wall; another typical, sunny day in lovely Los Angeles.