Bad Habits Box Set

by Staci Hart

  I sighed again and shook the polish, my brain as noisy as the clinking of the little metal ball inside.

  They weren’t seeing each other, and I knew it. I really did trust Cooper. Mostly. It was easier when I was with him, but when we were apart? Well, then I just drove straight off into Crazytown, thinking about the image of him. The one plastered all over US Weekly and Just Jared. The one featured in my brother’s favorite tales of debauchery.

  Again, not that it mattered. Because we weren’t a real thing. It was just for fun, a fling, a diversion, that was all. I was not ready to date. I needed it to be easy and simple. That was the theory, at least. I just wasn’t sure what easy or simple was.

  I’d been with Jimmy for seven years, since I was sixteen, so I’d never really had the opportunity to date, to play the field. I had no idea what I was doing once I’d left Jackson. Really, I’d had no idea what I was doing, ever. Catching your fiancé having sex with your ‘best friend’ on your wedding day was proof of that.

  So now was the time for me to cut loose. New life in New York, full of oat sowing and being young and stupid. That was the plan. Cooper was a little close to home, but that was why I had the rules. And everything would be just fine. Pretty soon, I’d have Passion Pink toes and skin smooth as a baby’s sweet little ass, which was nearly the same thing as being unstoppable.

  Cooper

  I nodded to the doorman as I stepped into The Compass. It was built in the 20s, a beautiful deco building perched on 5th Avenue. The gleaming foyer was welcoming, warmly lit with gold and cream walls. I walked across the gold compass inlaid in the elevator well and hit the call button.

  I’d grown up in this building and had walked the edge of the compass rose a hundred times as a kid as I waited for the elevator with my mom. The gold doors opened in front of me, closing once I waved my key fob over the sensor pad.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket with a text.

  Simone: Hey, stud. Where can I find you tonight?

  I smiled to myself and slipped my phone back in my pocket.

  What? If I responded, she’d never give up. In fact, I had dozens of unanswered texts stacked up in my messages.

  I told Maggie I’d be monogamous, and I meant it.

  When the doors opened again, it was to my private foyer. I walked across the black-and-gold starburst to the black door, unlocking it to step into my quiet apartment.

  ‘Apartment’ was maybe an understatement, but calling it my penthouse just smacked of douchery.

  It had been my parents’ ‘starter home’ — a three-thousand-square-foot penthouse overlooking Central Park. I’d inherited it and had it gutted when I redecorated, but I kept the flooring. Losing it would have been tragic, even though it was a little old fashioned. They were the original parquet floors from 1928, with intricate patterns through the entire apartment. My interior designer brought in dark leathers and deep colors to match, though all the design was clean, bringing it up to date without having to do anything destructive. The woman had talent.

  She was a great designer, too.

  I headed into my room and kicked off my shoes, reaching behind me to pull off my shirt as I made my way into my closet. The long space was lined with suits and coats, pants and tailored shirts, a few tuxedos. I had more shoes than I was comfortable admitting, and I walked past them all to the built-in drawers, digging around for a T-shirt and jersey pants. And when I was sufficiently comfortable, I headed back into my room, flopped onto my king-sized bed with a sigh, and grabbed the remote to my seventy-inch TV.

  Cooper Moore — liver of The Life.

  The Habits crew thought I was out living it up with the rich and famous. The rich and famous crew thought I was out just living it up. The truth was that I watched a metric fuckton of Netflix.

  Don’t get me wrong. I partied enough. I slept a lot. I went sailing. I read books. Okay, I read comics, but I read a lot of comics. I mean, what else is there to do? I can only survive so many brunches. I’d done the whole party all night, out until dawn, sleep all day life. Drinking, drugs, girls. Summers boozing my way through Europe with my childhood friend Ash and the rest of the elites we grew up with. I can’t say it isn’t fun — it’s definitely fun. But it’s empty. Like trying to exist strictly solely on a diet of candy and Mountain Dew.

  Don’t look at me like that. Try eating nothing but candy for one entire day and tell me how you feel.

  For a long time, it was enough. In fact, I honestly hadn’t thought all that much about my satisfaction with The Life until recently. Until Maggie, if I were being honest.

  I didn’t know how it happened, exactly. Maggie was just West’s little sister, and for much of our friendship, she was just a kid in my eyes. The first time I’d met her was on the day we moved into our dorm, and she was just a sixteen-year-old, big-eyed, brace-faced kid, compared to my very adult eighteen. We weren’t even living in the same universe. I saw her a couple times every year after that, but West was always around. We were never alone, never really hung out. Not even when I went to Jackson with West for Christmas, or when she came to New York to visit.

  Plus, she always had a boyfriend. Not that it would have stopped me, if I’d really decided to go after her. But I had more respect for her than that. More respect for West.

  But the night of her would-be wedding, everything changed. I saw her for the first time.

  I don’t know what made me turn around at the reception that night, but I did.

  She was standing just behind the entrance to the party tent, staring at the parquet with shining blue eyes and her brow bent in pain. No one had seen her outside of her family since we all got word that the ceremony was off. No one had seen her in that dress — the dress she was meant to get married in.

  The light was soft and low, illuminating her pinned-up curls like a halo, casting shadows across her arms and hands clasped in front of her as her fingers gently squeezed and twisted. The dress fitted her perfectly, the curve of her hips and legs swathed in lace, fitting her body close until it dropped behind her in a short train. My eyes followed the line up to the high collar, the loose cap sleeves, and to her trembling chin.

  She took a breath. That breath stole mine.

  I’d never seen anything so beautiful and broken. Not in all my life.

  Her bridesmaids materialized behind her, smiling, and one touched her arm. Maggie’s face changed, brightened to mask the hurt that had been so clear only a second before. She looked brave. And she was.

  She said she still wanted to have the party. Said the booze had been paid for, and that we should drink it. God knew we all needed it, Maggie especially.

  Everyone drank too much that night except me. I carried around the same glass of scotch for two hours, watching West get tanked as I tried to defuse his desire to find Jimmy and beat him unconscious. They danced to a new setlist that Rose compiled, jam-packed with girl power and pep. But at one point, a slow song came on, and Maggie stood in the middle of the dance floor to catch her breath, smile slipping as everyone paired off. I set down my drink, and in seconds, she was in my arms.

  She’d smiled up at me gratefully, her eyes wet with tears. I made jokes, as I do, but with every step, she fell into me a little more until she was flush against my chest. West and Lily were dancing nearby, laughing. Patrick sat alone at the table looking world-worn, and Rose was at the bar. But Maggie was in my arms, and all I wanted in the world was to take away her pain.

  It was late by then — most of the guests had already gone, the party having died down after a long night of drinking. And so we danced, shifting in a small circle with her arms hung around my neck and head tucked under my chin. My fingers grazed the tiny buttons on the back of her dress, and I squeezed, pulling her closer to me.

  She leaned back when the song changed, and for a long moment, we didn’t move. Just stood still in each other’s arms.

  “Come with me, Maggie,” I whispered.

  She nodded, never breaking eye contact.
<
br />   I glanced around — everyone was occupied. So I took her hand, and we slipped out of the tent and away.

  We hurried out of the garden and into the hotel, my heart thumping in my ribcage, holding her hand while we waited for the elevator with eyes on us, on her, probably thinking she was my bride, and part of me didn’t mind. And then I stepped into the elevator and into her, until we were breathing each other, until my lips were on hers like they were meant to be there.

  The doors opened, and I broke away, my arm around her waist as I swept her out of the elevator and down the hall to her honeymoon suite. She dug out the keycard with shaking hands and unlocked the door, and we slipped into the cool, quiet room. The door closed behind us, taking the light with it.

  I reached for her arm, turned her around and cupped her face. And then I looked into her eyes and made her a promise.

  “I’ll make you forget he ever existed.”

  I kissed her with everything in my heart, hoping that if I did, she would be all right.

  There are some things in life that can’t be forgotten, no matter what you do, no matter how you try. I dreamed of my fingers unbuttoning the back of her wedding dress. My hands slipping down to her garters. Unhooking her corset. Her lips. Her eyes. The feeling of waking up with her against my chest, my fingers tangled in her curly hair.

  But when she woke, she was flustered, embarrassed. Ashamed. She didn’t have to tell me she thought I was a mistake.

  I told myself that we were only caught up in the emotion from the night. I wanted to kiss her pain away, and for one night, I did.

  So I turned the charm up to eleven. I made her laugh, made her feel like it was all right, that I felt just like she did. Gave her a final kiss and told her I’d see her around. And then I went back to New York and tried to forget about her.

  I’d recently determined that it was impossible.

  When I came home, I couldn’t shake her. I dove back into my social life, but it just felt off. Different. I even called a couple of my sure things — the wild, late night girls who gave and gave and gave. But I was just … disenchanted, I guess would be a good word.

  Then Maggie came back. I have to admit, when I saw her for the first time again, nothing went as planned. West had sent me to pick her up from the airport, and when I saw her, there was a moment, a long, stretched out moment where we slowed to a stop in the busy terminal, eyes locked on each other across a dozen feet. But then time started again. She brushed me off. So I needled her to cover for the fact that I was hurt.

  After the failed reunion, we circled each other like magnets, the tension a force between us, keeping us apart.

  Until the club.

  Everything in my life had come easy to me — girls, friends, money, even my degree from Columbia. In fact, if I had to work for it, it didn’t happen. There were only two exceptions to that: sailing and Maggie.

  Her resistance amused me, mostly because it was so plain to see that she wanted me. Maybe I wanted her to admit that she was into me more than she’d say, more than she would be a no-strings hookup. Because I’d done those before. In fact, it was all I did. And that didn’t feel like this.

  I didn’t want to break her. I didn’t want her to submit. I just wanted her to admit it. Preferably to me.

  Aside from all of that to intrigue me, there was the matter of her innocence.

  She’d only been with one other man, the same one she’d been dating since high school. Which meant he’d had no time to learn anywhere near the number of tricks I’d acquired, aside from all the fucking around he did. I’d discovered that he didn’t know anything about a woman’s body. It was pretty standard missionary with the occasional request for what she found to be obligatory oral. But only for him. The asshole didn’t even go down on her.

  The thought made me irrationally angry.

  I’d spent the last two weeks digging through my bag of tricks, showing her what it was like to have her body worshiped. There was something unbelievably fulfilling about making her happy, making her feel good. In fact, it was addicting.

  She was addicting.

  She’d left Habits in such a hurry, and she hadn’t texted. I glanced at my phone, wondering how mad she was for only a split second before picking it up and shooting off a text.

  Hey. You left too soon tonight.

  My phone buzzed after a second. Sorry. It’s hard to be around you sometimes when everyone’s there, you know?

  I do. Intense. Did Astrid have something to do with it?

  Nah.

  I smiled as I typed out a response. She wouldn’t mind if you came with me to the Gala instead. Imagine it. Me in a tux. You in something sparkly with a long zipper for me to unzip.

  That breaks the cardinal rule. No dates. I’m not equipped for public consumption via paparazzi.

  Oh, trust me. You are.

  Nice try, Coop. Although I wouldn’t mind seeing you in that tux.

  I settled back in my pillows, still smiling. We could go as friends.

  The rules are in place for a reason, Mr. Moore. Thanks for checking up on me.

  You know she’s just a friend.

  I know. And anyway, it’s fine as long as you promise you’re not banging anyone else.

  I promise. I wouldn’t lie to you, Mags.

  You’d better not. Pretty sure I could get West to commit a felony by telling him we’re hooking up.

  I chuckled. I like feisty Maggie.

  I bet you do. Sleep well, Coop.

  I’d sleep better if you were here, I typed back, not wanting to let her go.

  Ugh lol. Rule breaker.

  Rule enforcer.

  So I’m the cop and you’re the robber? I feel like this makes a lot of sense.

  Tell me you have handcuffs.

  Omg, Coop. And what do you rob? Unsuspecting ladies of their hearts?

  I smirked. And panties. Among other things.

  LOL.

  Night, Maggie.

  Night, Cooper.

  I set down my phone with a sigh, relieved that she was all right and a little high from talking to her. I might have also imagined her lying in bed, smiling at her phone like I had just been.

  I scrolled through Netflix, trying to decide how best to spend my Saturday night. I was all caught up on Arrow and The Flash. I’d watched Firefly at least six times and Doctor Who three. Maybe I’d watch Supernatural again, or Star Trek: The Next Generation.

  What, did you expect? Porn? Cooper Moore — International Man of Mystery.

  I blame my father for the sci-fi addiction. He was always working, even when he was at home, but one night a week, we’d pile onto the couch and watch sci-fi together. Star Trek was our favorite, but when I quoted Spock at school in the second grade — an elite private school packed with bluebloods — my best friend Ash made a huge joke out of it.

  And that was when I decided to keep it to myself. West only knew a little, just about my comics collection, though I’d occasionally make a reference that would get me eyed. But the fact that it was my own little secret made it that much more comforting. Like a security blanket of nerd.

  The secrets that I had made me feel safe. If I kept enough of myself hidden, I couldn’t get hurt. In a world where everyone wants something from you, it was easier — smarter — if you play it close to the vest.

  So that’s exactly what I did.

  4

  GROWN-ASS WOMAN

  Maggie

  I STRETCHED AND ROLLED OVER in bed the next morning, sighing at the serenity of the morning. Everything was still and quiet, though I could hear Lily in the kitchen. Our room was bright, the light diffused by the curtains, everything soft pinks, creams, and grays. Lily’s bed was across from mine, her wall graced with a display of ballet shoes from important performances. She’d scribbled the date and show on the toe of each pair and hung them on her wall, the most recent being her Swan Lake debut.

  The shoes framed a large painting of a ballerina in the shadows, only parts of her
body visible — profile, shoulder, tutu. I admired it often — the darkness and lightness of it, that it felt heavy and feather-light all at once. Patrick had painted it for her years before, after he went to his first ballet. He’d painted something for everyone. In fact, most of the art in our apartment was Patrick’s work.

  My mind drifted to the day ahead, wondering what I’d do to occupy my time. I’d be alone again — Lily would be at the theater, West would be at Columbia grading papers as part of his TA duties. Rose would sleep most of the day. So I’d fill out applications and look for something to occupy my time, besides Cooper.

  It had started off casually, but in the last week, we’d ramped up to seeing each other every day, without fail. The closer we came to the end, the more … I don’t know, frantic I felt about him. Like the binge brownie session before a diet. I told myself it was just because he did stuff to my vagina that I’d only read about in Cosmo. It was forbidden and exciting — there was something thrilling about being near him with everyone around, knowing they had no clue we were seeing each other in the buff, on the daily.

  Plus, Cooper was thrilling on his own. He was a walking dream — tall and dark, rich and charming, cheerful and reckless.

  He was dangerous.

  That made him infinitely more appealing. All the more reason for the rules.

  My phone buzzed on my nightstand, and I picked it up to find a text from Cooper. I smiled thinking about him lying in his gigantic bed, thinking about me.

  Sleep well?

  I texted him back. Decent. You?

  I had this dream about you last night.

  I snickered. Oh, yeah? What about?

  Come over and I’ll show you.

  My cheeks heated up. I’d love to, but I’ve got some stuff to take care of today.

  Ah, yes. The job hunt. What’s on deck?

  I’ve got a few things working. Gotta fill out some applications and send some emails.

  I want to see you.

  My heart skipped. He was just so … direct sometimes. I think it affected my pulse rate. You just saw me yesterday.