Begging for Bad Boys

by Willow Winters

  “Dammit, talk to me,” I said. “I want to help you, but I can't if you don't talk to me.”

  “Help me? Why? You don't even know me.”

  I stepped away from her. How could I explain it to her? I'd seen some bad shit in my life, but one thing I could never handle seeing was a woman scared or hurt. I'd seen it too much in my own shitty life as it was. I didn't need to see another woman go through that and not do or say something to help. Even if I hardly knew her.

  “Because, I lost someone very dear to me once,” I said, looking down at the ground. “And I don't want that to happen to you—or anyone.”

  Isabelle was quiet for a few moments, but when she finally spoke, it wasn't the answer I was expecting.

  “Well, I don't need your help. In fact, I don't need anyone's help. Thank you, but please just leave me alone.”

  She turned away from me, sliding the key card into the reader and unlocking the door. The good guy in me wanted to stop her, to keep her talking, to find out what she was running from. The bad boy? Wanted to kick someone’s ass. But I knew from experience it would only scare her even more.

  “Your call, lady. I'm around if you need me.” I don't know if she heard me. She shut the door in my face and quickly slid the deadbolt into place.

  I stood outside and stared at the closed door for a minute wondering—hoping—

  she might come back out.

  But she never did.

  Chapter 3

  Isabelle

  I closed the door behind me, falling against it with a deep breath and tried to rub the sting out of my eyes. Squeezing them shut as tight as I could get them. I tried not to cry, but the sobs came out slowly at first, and once the tears started falling, I couldn't stop them. I fell to the floor, sliding down the door and pulled my knees into my chest. It was like the dam inside of me broke and the flood of tears was unstoppable.

  My mind played back the events from earlier, rolling them over again and again in my head like a video feed stuck in a constant loop—a video feed of pain and misery.

  “Who is she?” I’d asked, holding up his cellphone. “Who's Amy?”

  “She's no one,” Scott said, reaching for the phone.

  But I was too quick, I pulled it back and continued reading the texts.

  “'I can't wait to see you again' 'I had soooo much fun last night, Scott'” I read the texts back to him in a sarcastic voice.

  “Sure sounds like she's someone to me.”

  Scott had a temper, I'd known it from day one. But so did I. We fought, often going at it for hours on end but then making up with the best sex imaginable. He was always sorry, he always made it up to me. But this time, I wasn't sure I could forgive him, not so easily. Fighting was one thing—cheating was something I could never, ever forgive.

  Little did I know, there was more pain where that came from.

  I managed to stop torturing myself with the bitter replay and opened my eyes, gawking at the room around me. The place was a dump. Like no other place I’d ever seen. Didn’t they have health codes out here? More than that, how the hell did I end up here? Did I piss off one of the gods that be?

  The smell of stale cigarettes made my stomach churn. I glanced at the door, wondering if I should open it to let some fresh air in and hopefully—some of the acrid air out. On second thought, I figured it’d be better to stay locked up. I didn’t know who this Jameson character was, and if Scott found me—there would be hell to pay.

  Maybe Milling wasn’t such a bad idea. At least I was safe from Scott’s angry fist.

  I blew out a long breath and once I looked down at the carpet beneath me, I quickly jumped up on my feet. “Oh my God! It’s sticky!” I stared in disgust at my hands that had touched it.

  I rushed over to the bathroom sink, turning on the tap—a cold rush of brown water came flowing out at top speed, spraying me and my 200 dollar shirt. “Damn it!” I grabbed a towel and dried what I could, but the stain was there on my silky white blouse. I waited for the water to clear up and finally after about a hundred gallons of wasted water, it did. I slid my shirt off and washed it out in the small sink using the cheap motel soap. That’s when I caught a glimpse of my face in the mirror—my sorry, pathetic face.

  “How could you let him do this to you?” I asked myself, staring at my reflection. “You're better than this.”

  Obviously, I wasn't.

  With my shirt as clean as I could get it with nothing but cold water, I turned off the faucet, wrung it out and hung it across the towel bar, trying my hardest not to look at myself again.

  The room was, well, interesting to say the least. I don't know what I expected for a small town like this, but it was certainly worse than anything I’d ever imagined. The fact that the doors were to the outside and my window stared out into the parking lot should have told me everything I needed to know. But I'd never stayed in a place like this before.

  “You're a long way from the Plaza, sweetheart,” I said to myself.

  As soon as the word sweetheart came out of my mouth, I felt the need to wash it out with soap. That's what that man called me, the one who'd driven me to this shitty little motel.

  Jameson.

  What kind of name was that, anyway? I mean, sure, he looked damn good—most bad boy types do, right? But Jame-eh-son? James? Jamie? Jim?

  I cranked up the air conditioning, the noise blurring out any outside sounds. Brand new my ass. The thing moaned and grunted like it was about to explode—but it did kick out some frosty air. I tugged the biohazard blanket off the bed and plopped down, pulling off my heels and tossing them to the floor. My feet cursed me for my poor shoe choice when running for my life. It wasn't the first time I’d ran, but it definitely was the first time I had to walk on a gritty, deserted road. I probably should’ve gone right at that stupid intersection. I’d be in a better place than I was now.

  Maybe if I closed my eyes, I could pretend I was somewhere else. Somewhere beautiful and peaceful. With kind people who didn’t want something from me. If it even existed.

  It's only one night. I told myself. One night. I could stay here for a night, it wouldn’t kill me. Staying with Scott? That might have killed me. But a nasty, old roach motel out in the middle of the land that time forgot certainly wouldn’t.

  My mind moved from one thought to the next. One minute, I was on the verge of tears—the next—I was disgusted by my surroundings. But at least I wasn't falling apart. No, I wasn't falling apart. Not yet.

  There was an old phone in the room, so I dug out a phone book and looked through it for the list of tow trucks. None in Milling, just as Jameson had said, but I called the first one listed. It went straight to voicemail so I left a message.

  My poor car, left on the side of the road overnight. I'd be lucky if it wasn't up on blocks and stripped before morning. I'd be lucky if it was still there, actually. But there was nothing else I could do.

  Nothing but leave a message and hope they could pick it up bright and early and have it fixed by tomorrow afternoon. Then I could be on my way again.

  Where would I go? I had no idea. But getting out of Milling was my priority now.

  Getting out of Milling and putting as much distance between Scott and me as I could.

  Chapter 4

  Jameson

  The next morning, I waited for her. Call it stalking, but shit, I was worried about her. A woman with a black eye and a broken-down car, stranded in the middle of nowhere didn't exactly inspire confidence in her situation. Sure, she was a fine piece of ass, so there was that as well, but at the root of it all, I was worried.

  Of course, I wouldn't mind getting a piece—and I’d keep trying to get it—but I told myself I wasn't a fucking awful human being because the real reason I waited outside of her motel room the next day was to make sure she was okay. Or at least, as close to okay as she could be.

  She stepped outside into the morning sun, cleaned up, but still wearing the same pencil skirt and blouse she'd had on w
hen I'd come upon her the day before. Not that I was surprised. When I'd picked her up, I hadn't seen a bag with her. Just her purse and it was too small to hold anything. That made me think she'd left in a hurry and didn't have time to pack when she hit the road. Which lent credence to the idea that she really wasn't okay and was running from somebody really, really bad.

  Even still, in her day-old clothes, her hair falling over her shoulders in soft ringlets, without a trace of makeup on, her face was still beautiful and her eyes were just as big and pretty as they were the night before. Of course, her lack of makeup made the fact that she had a black eye—that was even more purple today—all the more noticeable.

  When she saw me sitting there staring at her, she started to go back into the room but stopped. She stood in the doorway, her eyes blazing with anger and her chin tilted up defiantly—a pose she had perfected. She looked torn—go back in and slam the door, or come talk to me.

  I walked toward her and she yelled at me, “I'm going to call the cops if you don't leave me alone.”

  “Chill out, sweetheart,” I said, snuffing out a cigarette with my shoe. “I just came by to make sure you got ahold of the tow company. Figured you might need a ride—”

  “No, I can call a cab, thank you,” she said, chin held even higher, haughtier.

  “Oh yeah? Have you tried yet?” I couldn't help but laugh. “Because Milling doesn't have cabs, sweetheart. No buses either. Welcome to small town America.”

  “You're lying.” She didn't look too convinced as she spoke, but she stood tall and proud anyway. As if she could convince herself by sheer force. Had to give the gal some credit. She didn't seem like the type who took a lot of shit lying down. Which made me wonder if that was how she'd gotten that shiner in the first place.

  “Don't believe me? Ask Jerry for the number to the local cab company and watch him laugh your cute little ass right out of the lobby.”

  Isabelle gritted her teeth, and I watched as she balled her fists up at her sides. She was—as they say—adorable when she was angry.

  “Fine then,” she snapped. “I can walk. Can't be too far.”

  She started walking out of the parking lot, wobbling a bit in those heels, determined to do just that, and I just watched, laughing loud enough for her to hear it.

  She turned on her heels to face me. “What's so funny?”

  “You're going the wrong way, sweet—”

  “Call me sweetheart one more time and I swear, I'll slap that smile right off your face,” she said.

  “Fine, sorry. I'll watch my mouth. But it's true. I'm being honest here. You're going the wrong way. It's that way, up Pine Street, take a right at the one stoplight on the corner and walk for about oh—two, three miles or so.”

  “Two miles? I thought this was a small town,” she said.

  “It is,” I said. “The shop is outside of town. Two miles down the road from Milling. But if you start walking now, you should get there before the hottest part of the day.”

  I knew she was stuck. She knew she was stuck. But it was going to be a cold day in hell before she admitted I was right. And it would probably be a colder day still before she relented and asked me for help. This girl was prouder than a peacock and more stubborn than an old mule.

  I watched as she thought through her options, trying to figure something out—something that didn't include me. She was stubborn as hell, but damn adorable, I had to admit. A little too cutesy for me normally, a little too snooty too. But hey, I thought if she got to know me, I could loosen her up over time. Considering the state of her vehicle, I figured we had a few days together. At least.

  “It's supposed to be 115 again today,” I said. “Maybe hotter.”

  That was enough for her. Isabelle reluctantly walked toward me, her cheeks burning red, her head down in defeat. Which was a pretty sad sight to see considering she'd had such a rough day yesterday.

  Isabelle didn't say anything at all, but she followed me as I walked her to my bike. I'd made sure to bring an extra helmet for her this time and handed it over without saying a word. The last thing I was going to do was twist the knife by forcing her to admit that she needed help. She took it without meeting my gaze or speaking to me. Her movements were slow. Defeated. Depressed.

  “What happened to you?” I asked, reaching out and lifting her chin so I could check out the eye.

  “Nothing,” she said, but her voice lacked the fire it had earlier. “None of your business.”

  “Which is it? Nothing or none of my business?”

  “Both,” she grumbled.

  Not wanting her to change her mind about going with me, I fell silent as I helped her onto the back of the bike and instructed her to hold on. I stared down at her tiny hands resting on my legs. So dainty. So soft and smooth. I imagined what her little hands would look like wrapped around my cock—a fleeting thought that caused my dick to get hard in an instant. Dammit. Just what I needed. The pain of blue balls and an erection pressing against my jeans as we rode.

  She seemed more relaxed than she had yesterday with her body pressed against mine. Or at least, more sullen. Whatever it was, it sure didn't help matters any. We couldn't get to the mechanic soon enough. It felt like my balls were about to burst just being as close to her as I was and feeling her body pressed against mine.

  I liked feeling her body on mine, her breasts against my back. But knowing that I was hard with no release in sight, it was uncomfortable, to say the least. And we still had the ride back to look forward to.

  Chapter 5

  Isabelle

  “What do you mean it's going to take four or five days? I don’t have that long!” I yelled.

  My fists were balled up on the counter at the filthy mechanic shop, and I wasn't sure if I was going to fly into a rage or cry. There was my shitty luck in action again—doing nothing but screwing me every which way it could.

  “Miss, I already told you, we don't carry BMW parts. We have to order them, and then there's the time it'll take to build everything,” a twenty-something kid with an acne problem named Dave said to me.

  “Can I speak to your manager?”

  “I am the manager.”

  I was taken aback. No way. There was no damn way he was the manager. He was too young. Not somebody who could make life or death decisions—like when my car was going to be ready. He was too young to know what the hell he was talking about. I needed some help here, and he wasn't giving it to me. I needed to speak to somebody who could. Preferably, somebody a little bit—older. Or perhaps, more experienced was the PC way of saying it.

  “Then someone above you,” I seethed. “I need to talk to somebody who can help me.”

  Jameson was standing nearby, and it was at that moment that he put a hand on my shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. I turned to face him, fire in my eyes and a chip the size of Colorado on my shoulder. Who the hell was he to presume to put his hands on me? I apparently looked so fierce and angry that even he took a step back.

  “What?” I hissed.

  But instead of talking to me, he leaned over the counter and spoke in a low voice to Dave. Dave's eyes grew wide as he listened, but he didn't say anything. He simply nodded along, agreeing with whatever Jameson said, before speaking again.

  “Listen, I know it sucks,” the kid said, licking his lips, “but the parts are already ordered and expedited. It could take longer if the warehouse doesn't have it in stock. I wish I could do something to help her. I really do. But I'm stuck here, man. I'm caught between a rock and a hard place. There's only so much I can do. It's not like we have Beemer parts and engines just lying around, you know?”

  “That's it?” Jameson asked. “Nothing else you can do to help the lady out?”

  I saw Jameson slip a wad of cash over the counter to the kid. Dave's eyes looked like they were about to bug out of his head when he spotted it, but he shook his head, and I could see the regret.

  “I'm telling you, there's nothing I can do. I swear it. I
f there was—well, do you think I'd be bullshitting you, Jameson? You, of all people?”

  Jameson patted Dave on the back, which made the poor kid's eyes nearly pop right out of his head. The look of relief on his face was immediate, and judging by the look on his face, you would have thought Jameson had given him a death row pardon or something. I idly wondered, though, what he’d meant by “Jameson of all people.”

  “I'm sorry, Isabelle—” Jameson started.

  That—those three little words—were enough to send me over the top. With my hands balled at my sides, feeling like I could—and really wanted to—punch something, I turned and walked out of the shop without saying another word. And after I exited the shop, I just kept walking, biting my tongue to keep myself from screaming.

  Jameson was right behind me, of course, calling my name and telling me to stop, but I was already crying. Again. For about the millionth time in the last twenty-four hours. I was surprised I had any tears left. There was no way in hell I was going to let him see me cry, though. It was bad enough I'd had to give in and accept his help. I didn't want his goddamn pity on top of it all.

  Even though I tried, I couldn't walk fast enough to get away from him. He caught me before I'd even gotten out of the parking lot.

  “Isabelle, wait!” he said, grabbing me by the shoulder.

  As he forced me to turn and look at him, I jerked out of his grasp and snarled at him, “Let me go! Don't touch me! Don't you ever fucking put your hands on me again.”

  I continued to fight back, smacking him across the face as I pulled away from him and took several steps away. As soon as I realized what I'd done, I felt terrible. I knew he hadn't been trying to hurt me—on some level, he'd only been trying to help me. But on a gut, animalistic level, all I could see was another man putting his hands on me. Another man getting ready to beat on me. And I wasn’t going to let that ever happen again.