Begging for Bad Boys

by Willow Winters

  Jameson

  “Did you grow a pair and change your mind?”

  The voice—I assumed belonged to her ex—came from a doorway that was partially cracked open. I stood at the door and looked through the narrow opening. I saw a staircase that led down into a basement, but I couldn't see anything else clearly.

  He was down there and I had a strong feeling that Isabelle was down there with him.

  “Neil?” he called again. “Oscar? Get your ass down here. Time to have some fun with this bitch before we do her. Let's go.”

  That told me all I needed to know. Isabelle was down there and she was still alive. And apparently, the sorry piece of shit was planning to torture her before he killed her. Just knowing I'd gotten there in time sent a wave of relief rolling through me.

  There was some small part of me that wanted to be smart—it told me that I should call the cops and wait. But then, I looked around at the house, saw the kind of money this asshole had and knew he'd be able to find a way to weasel out of it. Rich fuckers could always buy justice. And though Isabelle might still be alive, she'd have to spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder, waiting for this prick to make another run at her. No, the cops weren't an option.

  I stood at the doorway and weighed my options. On the plus side, the two clowns who'd been with him at the motel were gone. I’d seen them leave a few minutes ago. I assumed by what he'd said he was down there alone with Isabelle. That worked in my favor.

  What didn't work in my favor was that if I went down the staircase, this asshole was going to know I wasn't one of his two stooges before I got to the bottom step. But it was something I’d have to risk. If I didn't, Isabelle was as good as dead. And that wasn't happening. Not on my watch.

  Taking a deep breath, I opened the door and started to descend the staircase. One foot in front of the other. I slipped the gun out of my waistband and held it at my side as I came down the stairs. I was nervous as fuck and felt my heart thundering in my chest—not for me, though. I was worried about Isabelle getting caught in the crossfire. The last thing I wanted was for her to get hurt.

  As I hit the ground floor, I'd expected a hail of bullets or something once he figured out it wasn't one of his stooges coming down the stairs. But there was nothing. I turned the corner and found him—with his back to me—looming over Isabelle. He didn't even see me.

  “Glad to see you decided to stop being such a little bitch and man up.” He didn’t even turn to look at me. “And since you did, I may just let you fuck this bitch before we put her down.”

  Isabelle peeked around his body and her eyes widened when she saw me standing there. Tears welled in her eyes and a hopeful smile touched her lips.

  “Jameson—” she gasped and then clamped her mouth shut.

  I'd hoped to preserve the element of surprise until I had my gun pressed to the back of the man’s head. But Isabelle had already alerted him by saying my name. His head snapped up, he turned around, and I saw the knife with the long, curved blade in his hand. Goddamn rookie. If he'd had any sense at all, the moment he heard my name, he would’ve put Isabelle between me and him, and put the blade to her throat to get me to back off. Instead, he stood there with the blade in his hand, his eyes wide with shock, and an expression on his face that said he was about to piss himself.

  I raised the gun in my hand, pointed it square at his face, and cocked it.

  “You were supposed to be dead,” he said. “They told me they killed you.”

  “Drop the knife, asshole,” I said.

  The knife fell to the concrete floor with a clatter. He stood there looking at me in disbelief—looking at me as if he saw a ghost. He cleared his throat and stood up a little straighter, looking at me with an expression that was calm and collected. But his eyes that told me an entirely different story.

  “How did you find me?” he asked.

  “Doesn't matter,” I said. “Get down on your knees.”

  He took a step toward me and raised his hands a little. I could tell by the way he positioned himself that he was going to take a run at me. I'd been around the block a few times, and amateurs like him didn't have any moves I hadn't seen before.

  “Down,” I said. “On your knees.”

  “Yeah, that's not going to happen,” he replied. “I can, however, offer you a large sum of money to walk up those stairs and forget all about me and this little slut.”

  “Large sum of money, huh?” I asked.

  I could see the hope in his eyes. He thought he had me.

  “How does a hundred-grand grab you,” he said.

  “A hundred grand?” I said. “That grabs me just fine.”

  He clapped his hands. “Fantastic,” he beamed. “Let's go upstairs, and I'll cut you a check right now. I knew you were a reasonab—”

  The shot sounded like a cannon going off in the basement. It took a moment for it to register on his face, but the man looked down and saw the hole in his leg just as a gush of crimson colored blood came pouring out of it. He screamed in agony and put his hand over the wound, trying to staunch the flow of blood. Crying out in pain, he fell to his knees, still clutching his wounded leg.

  “As I said, down on your motherfuckin' knees,” I repeated. “If you really think Isabelle's life is worth a hundred grand and that I can be bought, you're even more pathetic than I originally thought.”

  “You shot me,” he wailed. “You fucking shot me. Call an ambulance right this fucking minute!”

  “And you were about to do far worse to Isabelle,” I said. “So shut the hell up. Now, lay down flat on your belly.”

  “Fuck you,” he seethed.

  I raised the gun again. “On your stomach or I'm going to put a fucking bullet in it to make you do as I say.”

  With gritted teeth, sucking in air, he lay down on the concrete floor of the basement. Keeping my gun trained on him, I moved around to where Isabelle was strapped to the chair. I loosened her bonds. It wasn't long before her hands were free and she reached down and untied her legs.

  Once she was standing, she threw her arms around me and hugged me tight. She started to sob into my shoulder and only squeezed me tighter. Still holding my gun on her ex, I felt a smile creeping across my face. The feel of her body against mine was something I could really get used to.

  “Go on upstairs now,” I said. “Wait for me. I'll be there in just a second.”

  She looked from me to Scott and then back again. “What are you going to do about him?”

  I looked at her and smiled. “You go on upstairs now,” I said gently. “I'll take care of everything.”

  Slowly and reluctantly, she turned and walked up the stairs, never even bothering to look back. It seemed that as far as she was concerned, out of sight, out of mind. And after everything she'd been through, I couldn't say that I blamed her. I cocked the gun and held it at my side.

  I kicked Scott’s wounded leg and he rolled over, his hands up in a pleading surrender. “Come on, man, don't do this,” he pleaded. “We can work something out.”

  “Sucks, don't it?” I asked him. “To be the one on the receiving end? To know that you're about two seconds from having your damn head blown off?”

  His eyes widened as I spoke. “Let's make a deal here, bro,” he said. “I'll still give you a ton of cash to let me walk away. A quarter of a million sound good to you? A quarter of a million just to walk away from this and let me go. Come on, man.”

  “And have Isabelle spend the rest of her life wondering when you’re going to pop up like some goddamn evil Jack-in-the-Box?”

  “I swear to God, I'll leave her alone,” he begged. “I swear it. I'll never look for her. I'll never bother her again. Just let me go, and Isabelle will never have to worry about me showing up again. I swear to fuckin' God, man.”

  As he looked up at me—and at the gun in my hand—he started to cry and actually pissed his pants. I chuckled and shook my head. Bullies were all the same—holy terrors to those they could
push around, but when somebody finally stood up to them, they pissed themselves. In Scott's case, quite literally.

  “Do we have a deal, man?” he asked. “Come on, Jameson. That’s your name, right? Jameson? Take the money. I'm giving it to you free and clear. A quarter of a mil and Isabelle will never see me again. That works, right?”

  I didn't kill people lightly. It wasn't something I enjoyed doing. I'd only done it when absolutely necessary—in every case, it was very clearly self-defense. But this was different—for a lot of reasons. And I had to admit that I was more than a little conflicted about it. I would have been lying if I said there wasn't some small part of me that was relishing the idea of putting a bullet into this scumbag. That made pulling the trigger difficult for me.

  But as I stood there looking down at him, I saw Isabelle's face. Saw the purple bruise beneath her eye. And as I recalled that image, my old friend—that dark and abiding rage—welled up within me again. It had been my constant companion since I was a kid and saw my mom—it didn't matter. The rage filled me up entirely and begged for release.

  “Do we have a deal, Jameson?” he asked.

  I raised my gun and aimed dead center of his forehead. He opened his mouth and screamed at the same instant I squeezed the trigger. His voice cut off, and the echoes of his screams slowly died out along with the sound of the shot. I looked down at his corpse, stared at his eyes open wide, focused on nothing, just staring off into the great beyond. It wasn’t self-defense—but it certainly was justified.

  I walked upstairs and pulled out my cell phone. I needed to call the club's fixer to take care of the body. I walked out to the backyard where Isabelle was waiting for me. Her body stiffened slightly when I pulled her in tight, giving her a squeeze. After a moment, she relaxed and melted against my body. Tears still rolled down her cheeks, but rather than tears of sadness, I saw the relief—and even happiness—in her face.

  “You'll never have to worry about him again,” I said. “You'll never have to look over your shoulder and wonder. It's done.”

  She nodded and began to cry, her body shaking by her heaving, gut-wrenching sobs. She had a lot of pent up emotion to get out, so I just held her tighter and let her cry.

  “It's going to be okay,” I said. “You're free now. You can do whatever you want and not have to worry about that prick.”

  She nodded and finally looked up at me, the relief in her eyes more than apparent.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “You're welcome.”

  Chapter 17

  Isabelle

  I wanted to get as far away from Palm Springs as possible as quickly as I could. I threw some clothes in my Gucci backpack and slid it on my back. When I climbed on the back of Jameson's bike, I had more sensible shoes on. Black flats by Manolo Blahnik. I didn't even look back on my old home. It didn't feel right even calling it my home anymore. It hadn't for a long time. There was no way I'd ever step foot in that place again. No way, no how. The memories I was saddled with made damn sure I'd never miss that place.

  “Where to?” Jameson asked me.

  “Anywhere,” I said with a sigh. I leaned my head down and rested it on his back. I was tired. Oh, so tired. “I just wanna get out of here.”

  He’d made a few phone calls and said everything was taken care of. We could go anywhere. Anywhere at all.

  “Milling okay with you for now?”

  “Yeah, sure, whatever.” I just honestly wanted to be with him, that was all that mattered to me now.

  “At least until we get your car up and running,” he said, revving up the engine on the bike.

  Then I could go anywhere. Anywhere I wanted.

  The drive was long, hot, and my head was still spinning. I was still in shock over everything that had gone down. Everything that had happened after I was rescued was a blur in my mind, just like the desert landscape was a blur as we drove through it. If I never set foot in Palm Springs again, it would be too soon.

  The town of Milling was actually a welcomed sight, I had to admit. As we drove down Main Street, places that had become familiar stood out to me. We drove past the motel without stopping—which I was thankful for. There was no way I wanted to go back there. I'd likely have dreams of Scott kidnapping me from that room for the rest of my life. It was yet another place I hoped to never see again.

  That, of course, left only one place.

  “I figured you wouldn't want to go back to the motel, but if you'd prefer—”

  “No,” I stopped him, staring at Jameson's humble home, “this is perfect, actually. I just need a place to relax for a little while.”

  “I figured,” he said.

  He took my hand and walked me inside. The place was cozier than before, cleaner too, I noticed.

  “No parties lately?” I said as I walked into the living room, noticing the lack of pizza boxes on the floor.

  “Nah. Besides, I figured if you ever came over again, I should try to clean up a bit.”

  I noticed that there were photos on the wall now, too. Photos of a woman who looked a lot like Jameson—the same woman who was in the photo in his locket. She smiled back from a picture hanging on the wall, holding a little boy in her arms. Her smile was comforting, sweet and full of love. It brought a warmth to the house that had been missing before.

  Jameson came up behind me. “Figured it was about time I stop running from my past,” he said. “You made me realize all I was missing out on by denying my mom a place in my home.”

  “I'm sorry, Jameson—” Tears welled up in my eyes, and I couldn't fight them so I let them fall.

  He pulled me close to him and held me tight. “Nothing to be sorry about, Isabelle,” he whispered, “I'm just glad I got to you in time. I couldn't save her, but I could save you.”

  “And you did,” I said, hugging him tightly. “You saved me. You came for me. Even after I was nothing but an evil bitch to you.”

  I looked up and met his gaze, he was staring down at me, a gentle smile creasing his face.

  “I wouldn't call you that, maybe more like a—” he said with a laugh.

  But I stopped him from talking with a kiss. I pressed my lips to his—the same lips I'd been staring at since the day we'd met. From day one, I couldn't stop staring at him. I'd tried but had felt compelled regardless. I'd considered him off limits because was “bad” and all that jazz. But over the last few days with him, I'd come to see him for who he truly was. And if I thought he was sexy before all of that, well, call me shallow, but saving my life made him even hotter in my mind.

  “Isabelle,” he muttered, tightening his fists in my hair. I nipped at his lips, silently pleading with him to give into me. He didn't resist my kiss, but he took it slow. His tongue only pushed past my lips once I made the first move, and from there, it was on. He kissed me hard with everything he had in him.

  I pressed my body against him and could feel his cock growing in his tight jeans. I slid my hands down and started working at his belt buckle. I dropped his pants and took hold of his cock, a smile growing on my face as I watched him grow harder in my tiny little hands. He moaned softly as I started to stroke him—a look of pleasure crossed his face. He stared at me with need, a look so filled with unabashed desire, I wasn't sure I could handle it.

  Jameson pushed me down onto the couch, his body landing gently on top of me. He shoved the ratty old skirt up to my hips and smirked wide when he took sight of my bare pussy. His cock pressed against my opening as he kissed me long and hard, the scruff on his face scratching at my skin, tickling me ever so gently.

  “Please, please, please,” I muttered.

  My body ached for him. All the adrenaline from today—the last few days, actually—had built up inside of me and that anxiety had turned into fuel for an intense desire. This man saved my life, and there was no one in the world sexier than him in that moment. I didn't care that he smelled like cigarettes and leather, or that the couch we were on needed to be cleaned. Nothing else mattered
but him and me—and the fact that I needed him inside of me more than I needed anything else in the world.

  And he obliged.

  With one long thrust, he pushed past my opening and plunged his beautiful thick cock deep inside of me. We locked eyes, mine wide with surprise as he filled me up, stretching my most intimate parts with his girth.

  Together, our bodies found a rhythm that worked. He moved in and out of me with such care, taking his time to please me. To tease me. To kiss me all over. He was gentle, sweet, and considerate.

  My legs wrapped around his body, holding him there inside of me as I bucked wildly underneath him. I was taken by the pleasure of it all, and I could feel my climax building ever so rapidly. From his breathing, I could tell he was close as well. So close.

  “Yes, yes,” I cried out, digging my nails into his back and thrusting my hips upward to take him in deeper.

  I clenched my pussy down tightly around his thick cock, spasming out of control as I came hard. And that was it. My walls squeezed and contracted, milking his dick, and the wanton groan escaping from my throat spurred him to thrust deeper, harder, quicker, until…

  “Oh God... Isabelle...” he cried out, his eyes squeezed shut as he shuddered and came, kissing me hard—with purpose and passion.

  We came together until he collapsed on top of me, sweat dripping from his face onto mine. He kissed me again, this time slower than the last. Then he smiled.

  And that's when I knew. No matter where I went, I wouldn't be able to go far from this man. I needed him in my life, somehow, some way. As I stared up into his eyes, I was so thankful for him. Not only for saving my life, obviously, but for everything else he’d done.

  He showed me that good men do exist. Even where you’d least expect them.

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