Sexy Bad Halloween

by Tami Lund

  “What’s her preference?”

  “I’m pretty sure she wants you to move in. And I think she’s hoping I will too.”

  I arch my brows and wait for him to explain. He grins.

  “She seems to be under the impression that you’re the one. For me.”

  I’m the one for him. I glance down to the papers in my hand. “Did you accidentally say you loved me earlier?”

  He laughs as he sidles up to me and slips his arm around my waist, pulling my body flush against his. “It wasn’t an accident, although I don’t think I actually said the words, ‘I love you.’ But I do. I love you, Vicks.”

  “Oh, Alex.” I swear, I’ve cried more in the last twenty minutes than I have in the last ten years.

  “Well?” he demands, giving me a faux stern look.

  “Well, what?” I tease, grinning. My heart is so light right now it’s trying to float out of my body.

  “Do you love me too?” There’s doubt in his voice, like he’s afraid his affection is unrequited. Guess I’m going to have to work on convincing him otherwise. I don’t expect it will be much of a hardship.

  Wrapping my arms around his neck, I stretch onto tiptoes and kiss his nose. And then I lean close and whisper against his ear, “I love you, too, Alex Darling.”

  He lifts his hands and cups my face, staring into my eyes for a few seconds before slamming his lips against mine, kissing me with the fervor of a man who has been starved for too many days. In no time at all, I’m practically climbing him, one hand on his ass, grinding him against me, while the other is under his shirt, my nails raking across his back.

  And then Artie says, “May I have another slice of pizza?”

  With a groan, I reluctantly peel myself away from Alex’s body.

  “When the movie’s over, let’s go to my place,” Alex suggests. “It’s much bigger. We can put Artie to bed in the second bedroom and then make up properly.”

  I wink as I walk past him to retrieve Artie’s plate, and I add a little extra sashay to my hips. Making up properly sounds like a fabulous idea.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ALEX

  There’s a tap, tap on the back door. I straighten my skinny black tie and check to ensure the gold chain is properly attached to the breast pocket of my pinstriped suit coat, and then head that way.

  Artie beats me to the punch, though. He’s in his striped shirt and black short pants, grinning with obvious pride as he flings the door open and greets my mother with an overzealous hug.

  She responds with equal enthusiasm before holding him at arm’s length. “Oh my goodness. You are the most perfect Pugsley I’ve ever seen.”

  “Thank you,” Artie says with exaggerated politeness.

  “Here,” my mother says, thrusting an orange and black bag into his hand. “All your favorite candy.”

  I reach over Artie’s head and snag the bag. “I’ll take this, thank you very much.”

  “But…” Artie pouts, so I pull out a roll of Starburst and hand it to him.

  “One at a time. And what do you say to Grandma?”

  After much stressing on my part, we told my mother about Artie, that he was my father’s son. I expected her to slide backward a few steps, that we’d have to work through figuring out how to adapt to this new twist in our lives. Instead, she’d wrapped her arms around him and, with tears in her eyes, said, “I’d be honored if you called me Grandma.”

  Artie grabs the candy and dives into another hug. “Thank you, Grandma!” And then he rushes from the room, Toby hot on his heels.

  Mom reaches out and straightens my tie. “And you are a handsome Gomez Addams. I can’t wait to see Morticia.”

  “Thanks. And I keep telling you, you don’t have to knock.”

  “I remember what it’s like to be young and in love. I will most certainly always knock.”

  I chuckle, but the laugh dies on my lips when Vicks walks into the room. Her long hair is parted down the middle, straightened and hanging halfway down her back, and is so black it’s practically blue. Her eyes are smoky and her lips are painted burgundy. The dress, as black as her hair, has a plunging neckline and sleeves that end in a triangle at her fingertips. It clings to her body like a second skin as she sidles into the room with her hand on her hip.

  “I…” I can’t even formulate words. Vicks is beyond beautiful on a normal day, but this, this is almost more than I can handle. I don’t even want to go to the party. I want to send Artie to my mom’s, lock the doors and close the blinds, and peel that costume off Vicks while I lick every inch of skin I reveal in the process.

  My mother smacks my chest with the back of her hand as she moves toward Vicks with open arms. “What he means is, you look lovely, dear,” she says as she embraces my girlfriend. When she pulls away, she’s fondling a lock of Vicks’s hair. “Did you dye it? I thought it was a wig at first.”

  Vicks grins at me. “I decided I don’t need to disguise myself anymore.”

  I smile and then glance at my watch. “We need to get going.”

  Mom waves her phone. “Pictures first. Come on, outside, with the flowers in the background.”

  We obediently traipse next door to her house. We don’t have flowers in our yard yet. We’ve been too busy fixing up the interior. There’s still a great deal to be done, but at least we were able to move in last week. Artie started at his new school on Monday, and the transition has, so far, been incredibly easy, although the fact that his school has a program dedicated to those with learning challenges helps, I’m sure.

  After an insane number of pictures, I work on herding Artie and Vicks toward the car so we can finally get going.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to leave Artie with me?” my mother asks as she follows us to the vehicle.

  “The family that Halloweens together, stays together,” I quip. Vicks snorts. I know she’s nervous, but she’s a trooper, and I appreciate her willingness to get to know my friends. Because one of these days, they will be hers, too.

  “What about Toby? Do you want to leave him with me?”

  My mother almost sounds lonely, which is weird, because since we moved in next door, it seems like we are always in her hair.

  “I think he has a crush on the goat,” Vicks says. “He’d never forgive us if we left him behind.”

  “The goat?” my mother says, blinking owlishly.

  I laugh. “I’ll introduce you one of these days. Oh, speaking of, before I forget, we’re going to Nashville for Thanksgiving.”

  “Oh,” Mom says, her face falling. Clearly, the woman likes having us underfoot.

  “We’d like you to come with us. If you want to.”

  “You would?” She’s looking at Vicks for confirmation.

  Vicks grins. “Aunt Laura and Uncle Jack aren’t very good cooks, so we need someone to help make Thanksgiving dinner,” she says, and then bursts out laughing. “Of course we want you there. It wouldn’t feel like family if you weren’t.”

  Mom presses her hand to her heart and blinks rapidly. “I would love to.”

  “Good,” Vicks says. “Oh, and I was serious about Aunt Laura and Uncle Jack. So if you want to take over dinner prep, we’d all be thankful.”

  Mom laughs and then steps away from the car. “Go on, you’re going to be late for your party.”

  “Bye, Grandma,” Artie calls as we pull out of the driveway and head toward Myra and James’s house.

  ***

  The first people who greet us as we enter the house are Erin and Garrett, dressed as…Morticia and Gomez Addams.

  “Oh my gosh,” Erin says, laughing heartily. “Hang on, you have to see this. Abby!” she calls out, and the little girl comes running, Spot the goat trotting along behind her.

  “Wednesday,” Artie says, pointing at Abby. “My sister!”

  “Pugsley. Cool. And you brought Toby!” Abby says. “Do you want to meet the rest of the pets? Uncle Danny even brought Pucker the swearing parrot.”

 
; Garrett rolls his eyes. “He and Ronnie are pirates, and he insisted the parrot was part of their costumes.”

  “Hey there,” Myra says as she joins us, dressed as Wilma Flintstone with a baby Pebbles on her hip. The little girl even has a tiny bone pinned to the base of the ponytail sprouting from the top of her head.

  Myra thrusts her free hand at Vicks. “So nice to finally meet you. I’m Myra Frost.”

  “Hi, Myra,” Vicks says with a shy smile. “I’m Vicks.”

  My grin is so wide I’m surprised it isn’t splitting my face in two. Vicks has always been my nickname for her. But my mother and Artie have recently adopted it, and now, apparently, she’s giving Myra permission to use it too. I love it. Just like I love her.

  “I hope your new landlord is treating you well,” Myra says.

  Vicks chuckles. “He is. Even lowered the rent on the costume shop, although I suspect that might have something to do with the fact that I’m sleeping with his assistant.”

  Myra laughs. “I’m so glad you’re here. And I’m so glad you two are together. It’s obvious you make Alex happy.”

  Vicks glances at me. “He makes me pretty happy, too.”

  “Hey, if you guys decide to get married, I bet Paynt and Chloe would let you have the reception in their backyard, like the rest of us have,” Myra says.

  I hold my breath and reach for Vicks’s hand. Marriage isn’t something we’ve discussed yet. I didn’t want to spook her. Figure she needs time to adjust to being in any sort of relationship, let alone one her own mother never believed in.

  But she doesn’t run. She doesn’t even flinch. Instead, she smiles serenely and says, “Not if. When.”

  THE END

  Hey, Sexy Bad Readers!

  Thank you so much for joining us on this journey. We hope you enjoyed Sexy Bad Halloween, and fell in love with Alex, Vicks, and Artie—oh, and Toby—just like we did.

  If you want to keep in touch with us, so you know when we’re releasing more Sexy Bad Books, you can sign up for our exclusive mailing list at: http://www.subscribepage.com/SexyBadBooks

  Or if you want more of the Sexy Bad Universe you can join us on Facebook at The Sexy Bad Lounge.

  And if you have even three words to say about this book, such as “Sexy Bad Awesome,” consider leaving a review. We’ll sexy bad thank you for it.

  Turn the page to read the first chapter of Sexy Bad Neighbor, the first book in the Sexy Bad series. And after that, there’s some info about the other books Misti and Tami have to offer.

  Misti writes dirty talking bad boys with hearts of gold. And Tami writes kinky chefs and brooding FBI guys.

  Misti & Tami xx

  The Sexy Bad Family of Books

  Sexy Bad Neighbor

  Sexy Bad Daddy

  Sexy Bad Boss

  Sexy Bad Valentine

  Sexy Bad Escort

  Sexy Bad Halloween

  Coming soon

  Sexy Bad Frosty Christmas

  SEXY BAD NEIGHBOR

  What happens when your neighbor hires you a stripper?

  It starts one hell of a prank war. A war that involves goats, phallic chandeliers, stolen kisses in the rain, strawgasms, and eating out on the kitchen counter.

  A war that could damn well involve two hearts and a plan. Her plan doesn’t involve falling in love. His life doesn’t involve plans.

  This could be a problem.

  Turn the page to read the first chapter.

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHLOE

  What am I doing here? Taco Tuesday? Seriously? Tacos are sloppy and delicious and it’s far too easy to eat too many. I’m not an overindulging kind of person. And I really hate contrived social situations.

  But my boss said I need to do something to de-stress because otherwise I’m going to have a heart attack by the time I’m forty, and that isn’t as far away as I’d like it to be. Actually, he suggested I get laid, but I don’t do messy, nor do I do sex with strangers, and who has time to get to know someone? I suppose that’s ironic considering I’m about to walk into a room full of strangers and pretend I want to befriend them.

  At least it’s supposed to be exclusively women at this shindig. Women don’t intimidate me, which is the only reason I agreed to James’s ridiculous idea. “Who knows,” he said earlier today as he pushed me out the door, “you might actually make a friend or two.”

  “Maybe a new client,” was my response, and he’d rolled his eyes and told me not to return to the office without at least one outrageous story to tell.

  I consider not opening the door, not stepping into the sports bar where a group of strangers are likely becoming friends over spilled guacamole and too much tequila. But I will never hear the end of it if I turn around now, and besides, I’m not a quitter, whether the task is climbing the corporate ladder or attending a stupid function I have no interest in.

  So I grasp the pilsner glass-shaped door handle and walk into the dark, loud place that smells of nachos and spilled beer. This is not my scene.

  Bitch face in place, I pause to let my eyes adjust to the dim lighting. I can feel gazes on me. Lecherous, sleazebag gazes. Guys with names like Paul and Chad and—the worst of them all—Marcus.

  Conveniently, my bitch face is seriously scary, so they all leave me alone as I smooth the front of my silk skirt and straighten my already flagpole-like spine. Sticking my nose in the air, I strut through that bar like I own the place. Actually, one of my clients does, so I know there are a handful of semi-private rooms toward the back, and that’s the most likely location for this silly gathering I’m supposed to attend.

  When I reach my destination, I note that semi-private means there’s a party on each side of a smaller bar area, with one bartender tending to both. He’s one of the tall, dark, and handsome types, so the females in one group, which appears to be some sort of birthday party, are all gathered around the wood and laminate boxing him in, trying to garner his attention. Several of them are doing that classic grab-a-guy’s-attention stance, leaning against the bar, resting on their elbows, which are pressed against their sides, so the girls are pushed up and together, no doubt providing the lucky tender plenty of fodder for his fantasies later tonight. Assuming, of course, he goes home alone, which doesn’t seem likely.

  The other gathering is a bunch of bored-looking middle-aged women wearing expensive yet understated clothing and each holding a glass of wine in one hand. No margarita in sight, and the taco station is pristine, like everyone is afraid to touch it. I’ve been out of touch with the social scene for far too long if this is what a Taco Tuesday after work party looks like.

  A young woman with blue hair and black lipstick separates herself from the birthday party and heads my way. I deliberately make eye contact. “What’s that party over there?” I ask, nodding at the other crowd.

  She shrugs. “Some party for old, working women.” After giving me a quick once over, she adds, “No offense.” And then she hurries through the heavy wooden door.

  “None taken,” I mutter while narrowing my eyes and watching the group of women who are probably just like me: Career-driven, single-minded, determined to shatter every glass ceiling we encounter. My stomach grumbles at the sight of all those delicious taco toppings, yet I know I will be just like all these other women and snub my nose at a perceived uncouth display.

  I need wine if I’m going to make it through this shindig. Since he’s at least ten years younger than me, I don’t feel as intimated by the hot bartender as I might if he were closer to thirty-five, so I belly up and let out a shrill whistle to get his attention.

  “What the fuck was that?”

  I whip my head to the side, prepared to provide a tongue lashing to whomever dared approach me in a bar. Ugh. It’s another sexy guy. And sloppy. That shirt looks like he swiped it off the floor and dragged it over his shoulders as he made his way out the door without stopping to look in a mirror. And it’s flannel. Why won’t that particular fashion statement die?
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  In ten seconds flat, I’ve determined he is everything wrong with the male species, and he hasn’t even smiled at me yet. Actually, he’s looking at me like I’m a loon.

  “What’s your problem?” Might as well get defensive right off the bat. That’ll scare him off for sure.

  “I think you blew my eardrum with that whistle. What, do you train dogs for a living?” For emphasis, he grabs his earlobe and shakes it, like that’s going to do anything except draw my attention to his slightly too long hair and the glasses that frame his face way better than they should. He probably doesn’t even have a prescription. I bet he wears them deliberately to pick up women.

  Not this woman.

  “Do you have a better idea? In case you haven’t noticed, the bartender’s rather preoccupied at the moment.”

  “I noticed. But I’ve also been to a bar before, so I know if I do this—” He pulls his wallet out of his pocket, giving me a glimpse of a far too tight ass under that wrinkled shirt, and then he waves a twenty in the air. Like a dog sniffing out a juicy steak, the bartender drops his entourage and hurries toward us. Tall, Dark, and Sloppy tosses a smirk my way while the younger version asks for his drink order.

  “What are you drinking?” my worst nightmare asks. Why won’t he leave me alone? Can’t he see that I don’t remotely belong to that other party, so clearly I must be associated with the prim and proper ladies hovering in the other corner? And what guy in his right mind would want to hit on someone surrounded by other powerful women?

  Except I’m not, because they are all clustered as far away from Wrinkled Hottie and the group of people clearly having a grand old time on the other end of the bar as they possibly can and still be in the same room.

  “I can get my own drink.”

  “You sure can. Although I’d do it while he’s standing here in front of you, because I don’t think your dog whistle is going to work once he heads back to his fan base.”