I Need A Bad Boy: A Collection of Bad Boy Romances

by Sophie Brooks

  “He’s into all kinds of stuff besides climbing. There’re books on wilderness survival, music, brewing…” Her long fingers smoothed her hair.

  “Brewing? Like beer?” I perked right up. Beer brewing had been a great experiment of mine some years back. Homebrew had been well worth the effort back before microbrewery beer became both affordable and ubiquitous.

  “No, he’s using mash, and a copper coil, and he has these thermometers up here…” Vicki pointed to a large plastic tub full of equipment worthy of a medieval alchemist.

  I’d seen stuff like that before.

  “It’s a still!” I exclaimed.

  “A what?” Chico asked.

  “A still. A piece of equipment used to distill whiskey. Or moonshine, hooch… you know, the illegal side of brewing?”

  “Oh that. How revolting. I’d never drink that – moonshine can make you go blind if you’re not careful. You can even die.”

  “Yeah. If you don’t separate your methanol from your ethanol, you’re screwed.”

  Taylor looked at me with curiosity. “You seem to know a lot about it, Evelyn.”

  “Yeah…” I gave him a sheepish grin. “Someone I know has a still on the roof of his apartment building. Moonshine isn’t just for rednecks anymore.”

  “Whatever, guys. This is irrelevant. Booze doesn’t let us know what happened to Celia.” Taylor was the voice of reason once again, and we bent over our tasks, restoring Blaine Kirby’ humble abode back to its original state. When we were done, Taylor photographed the copies of Blaine’s brewing records.

  “Just to be thorough,” as he put it.

  Then we filed out of the apartment and I locked all three locks. Taylor’s camera was back in the mesh sack full of white and purple pompoms. Our mission may have been accomplished - unfortunately, it managed to raise even more questions than it had answered.

  WE WERE silent on our ride down, lost in our thoughts and our doubts. The ancient, rickety elevator shook and groaned and I ignored it – until it jostled hard, and stopped.

  “What the heck?” Vicki gasped as the sudden movement tossed her right into Taylor Nolan.

  “We better not be stuck in here in these stupid getups,” I groaned. “Who has a cell phone?”

  Not all of us did. Girl clothes, especially cheerleading uniforms, were not known for their profusion of pockets. This was one of those times when I chose not to stuff my iPhone in my too-tight bra.

  “Let’s use the service telephone,” Vicki suggested and removed the panel, which was supposed to hide the simple phone. Except the phone had been ripped out, probably by a frustrated resident who got stuck in this elevator once too often.

  “Here you go,” Taylor Nolan said, fishing in the large net bag full of pompoms. He produced a simple flip phone. “So, who do we call?”

  I peered at the control panel. There was a toll-free number to call in case of an emergency.

  “Here, this one!” I pointed to the number. Taylor dialed and listened for a while, then he flipped his phone shut. “The robot voice says the number has been disconnected.”

  “We can’t call Rafael,” I said, my voice kind of small as the words broke into the thick elevator air. The guys looked at me, all serious, and nodded. We all remembered the scene after Raf and Blaine tangled at North Face, and Raf still had the remnants of bruising under his eyes.

  “Okay. Frankie’s out of town, Craggs would throw a fit, Rosalie only has a learner’s permit… how about Honore?” Chico’s question stunned Vicki. Her tall frame fell against the cold wall of the elevator, her eyes wide and incredulous.

  “Honore? Oh, you have no idea! When he showed me how to pick locks he never figured I actually meant to… no. No way.”

  Taylor sighed, rolled his eyes, and dialed a number.

  “I’d like to report an emergency,” he said. He stated his name and location, cool as a cucumber, and all of a sudden it occurred to me that the pompous jerk called the bloody police on us.

  “Act natural. Just, act natural, everyone,” I said half an hour later. My voice was a bit tight, which made it somewhat higher pitched than usual.

  “Evelyn, you sound like such a girl,” Chico snorted, covering his well-proportioned mouth with his even better-proportioned hand.

  “Just, act natural, asshole!” My face felt red and hot, my cheap black wig made the back of my neck itch, and I was checking the elevator out for hiding places for my lock picks.

  “Vicki… you don’t want the police to find those lock picks on you,” I said, stashing my own set into the dark recess of the removed elevator control panel.

  “They will find it in there, Evelyn,” Vicki said, unwilling to part with Honore’s precious tools.

  “If you stick it all the way in the corner, yeah, there…maybe they won’t. And wipe your finger-prints off of it.”

  Vicki wiped the lock picks on the pleats of her white and purple skirt and stashed the small metal set where I told her. Her expression was sullen. “It better be there tomorrow.”

  “Or not. Relax… for now, just act natural. We’re four chicks and we’re cheerleaders and we got stuck in an elevator, and all we need to do is go to the subway and go home. No big deal.”

  IT HAD been hours and my bladder was full before the elevator began to jostle and creak again, moving us to the lobby with exaggerated care. The door slid open and we stepped out into a small entrance area full of people.

  The police were there, the firefighters were there, the maintenance workers in their navy blue jumpsuit uniforms and yellow leather tool-belts swaggered all tough and masculine, having just fixed a problem.

  Flashes of light blinded me as we stepped forth.

  “And here they are, the residents who had been trapped in an elevator for five hours in this lower East Side building…”

  More flashes. Two black, fuzzy microphones appeared before my face.

  “Tell us about your ordeal, Miss…Miss…what is your name?”

  “Pearson,” I answered, stunned and stupid.

  “What happened, Miss Pearson?”

  I gave the TV person a stupid smile. “The elevator got stuck.”

  “Yes, and you and your fellow teammates were stuck in there… for how long?”

  “For too long.”

  “Of course.” The ditzy blonde smiled at me.

  “Your companions aren’t all women, are they?”

  “Uh… does it show much?”

  WE CONGREGATED in Chico’s apartment, where we changed into our ordinary clothing. Once again I felt normal.

  “I can’t believe you talked to that woman from Chanel 22,” Taylor said once again. “Which part of ‘No comment’ don’t you understand?”

  I shrugged, buttoning my jeans, searching for my cushy socks.

  “At least you could have told her we were a singing telegram or something,” Vicki quipped, brushing her hair out and braiding it into a long plait.

  Only Chico was unperturbed. “Nobody asked me if I was a guy,” he said, very pleased with himself. Nobody cared.

  I STOOD at the stove, sautéing chicken the way I saw Jacques Pepin do it in a TV special, with just salt and pepper and rosemary and making the skin nice and crisp on the bottom, when I heard a funny sound from the front door. I smiled, pressing the sliced chicken thighs into the hot pan while the potato gratin baked in the oven. It was so cute of Raf to use lock-picks instead of his keys. It seemed I’ve started a trend.

  The door clicked open behind me. I didn’t turn around, having just rinsed the green beans, ready to toss them onto the hot olive oil on the pan.

  “Hello, Loverboy,” I sang out while tossing the beans on the hot pan. I put the pan back onto the burner, topping the softening beans with grated lemon peel, capers, and a minced anchovy.

  Light steps approached me from behind.

  “Pull a bottle of white wine out of the refrigerator, will you?” I asked as I tossed the green beans some more and flipped the four chicken thighs
. It was always good to have leftovers, after all…

  “Of course, darling.” The amused baritone behind me made me spin around so fast, I almost spilled my beans.

  The man wasn’t Rafael.

  I looked up to meet the eyes of the impossibly tall man, his black hair slicked back and a wide, toothy grin meeting my shocked expression with incredible arrogance.

  I guess I’d have to put another plate on the table.

  “Blaine?”

  CHAPTER 20

  “DON’T JUST stand there, Eve, your food will burn.” Blaine took two long steps and stooped his tall body to peer inside my fridge. He extracted a pale green bottle of wine, then he fished in his pants pocket and pulled out a Swiss army knife with a corkscrew.

  “You’ll break the cork using that,” I commented while rescuing dinner.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Raf and I always break the cork with those cheesy little cork screws that come in survival knives.”

  I heard a pop and turned around only to see Blaine remove a whole, unblemished cork from the neck of the bottle.

  “I am more patient than the two of you combined.”

  “Hmm.” I shrugged and bent over to pull the potato gratin out of the oven. The surface was still napalm-hot and bubbly; the edges had begun to brown. I slid the piping hot dish onto the trivet on the table and, not bothering to ask, I reached for an extra plate and utensils to add on the table.

  Blaine just raised his eyebrows; then he sauntered over to the living room, propped his feet on the glass coffee table and clicked the television on.

  Thoughts were roiling under the surface of my calm.

  Did Blaine know?

  How much did he know we knew?

  How mad would he be if he knew?

  Did he really not do it?

  Who was Toussey, really?

  My cell-phone rang just as Rafael’s lock-picks began to rattle in my lock. I went over to watch my mercurial lover’s progress from the other side as I stuck the phone to my ear.

  “Hey, Vicki!”

  Vicki’s voice was strident and filled with urgency. She talked for a long time while I nodded into empty air and made all those “Yes, I see” and “Uh-huh” listening noises. Vicki kept talking while I kissed Rafael’s cheek hello, while I filled three glasses with wine and while I served chicken au jus with green beans onto three plates – a dish that was, to date, a pinnacle of my culinary accomplishment.

  “Okay, Vicki. Thank you. That’s… disturbing. No… no I won’t drink anything. Don’t worry, and let Honore and Taylor Nolan know that I thank them for the intel.”

  I clicked the phone shut, only to see Blaine and Raf sitting on opposite ends of my oatmeal-colored sofa, staring at the television.

  The Channel 22 news broadcast was down to those regional, juicy tidbits with a bit of humor and local color. Now the funny news of the day revolved around two cheerleaders and two cheerleader drag-queens stuck in an elevator. Blaine’s amused smirk was a direct counterpoint to Rafael’s appalled glare as the newsreel showed me come out of the elevator wearing a purple and white pleated skirt and a skimpy top, with my long, black wig slightly askew. Vicki towered behind me looking like sex on wheels with her sultry glare and long, crimson hair spilling down her neck and shoulders. Taylor Nolan came across as the punk he probably was; serious on the outside, mischievous on the inside, while Chico strutted out with a toss his polished, black hair and swaying hips: catwalk time.

  “Uh…does it show much?” I asked the reporter while on camera, looking stunned and stupid in the glare of all those bright flashbulbs, with the emergency lights still strobing outside, lighting up the whole street.

  Rafael took the remote from Blaine’s hand and clicked the television off. Then he stood up and faced me, somehow making his extra height suddenly more apparent. His eyes were solemn in that kind of stiff, controlled way that always told me he was keeping a tight grip on his short fuse.

  “Care to explain that, Evelyn?” His level voice betrayed a hint of fear and, immediately, I was transported to a tough conversation we’d had what seemed like ages ago.

  “Do you realize that I’m violating my probation by consorting with a known felon? That’s you, sweetheart. By not turning you in like I ought to, I’m aiding and abetting. You’re screwing up your life and taking me down with you. And for what? A few lousy bucks?”

  Our big fight – the one right before Ernie the Lawyer shot me in the ass. Rafael still had a bit of probation left; I’d tried to be good, I really had, but this was different.

  “The gang and I had a small mission. Don’t worry about it. Here, dinner’s on the table.”

  “Small mission?” Blaine spat, incredulous. “Then how do you explain these?”

  He fished inside his warm, plaid shirt pocket and produced several long strands of purple and white plastic.

  Pom-pom dandruff.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t handled anything like that. What is it?”

  “It’s part of your cheerleading uniform, just like on TV,” he bit off, making his voice extra sarcastic. “You and your buddies broke into my place and tossed it. You made an effort not to make a mess, but some things were put back the wrong way, and somebody dropped these under the table. You have a bit of explaining to do.”

  I remained seated; good food was going cold on the table. Both men stood, one on each side of me, glaring at one another and then at me as though they couldn’t decide who to yell at first.

  “All right. I’ll tell you what went down, but only after dinner. Please sit down.”

  Raf cleared his throat and his hands gripped the back of his chair so hard I saw his knuckles go white.

  “I won’t sit down to eat or drink with the man who murdered my sister.”

  I nodded. “I know. I wouldn’t expect you to, Rafael. Won’t you please trust me on this, just this once? What we’d found – all those things… Blaine didn’t murder Celia. He failed to prevent her death by accident, and her death was engineered, but it had been done by a third party. We’re still digging for the details in that respect.”

  I saw Blaine’s eyes widen. They seemed charcoal gray the way they glistened as he looked away, not meeting my eyes and not looking at Rafael, either.

  “Blaine, won’t you please sit down?” My voice sounded like paper ripping. I hated having to beg these guys. To my surprise, his shoulders slumped upon a forced exhale and with his head bent, he pulled out the chair to my right and settled upon it with care, as though it might break under him.

  “Raf – I promise, there is solid evidence. He didn’t do it. Won’t you sit down with us?”

  I met my lover’s gaze straight-on, eyes unflinching. There was a barely contained fire behind those impossibly blue eyes and his shoulders were stiff with suppressed rage – a rage that had been brewing for almost a year now. Grief comes in stages, I’d been told, but those stages rarely come in their preordained sequence and on a train timetable schedule. Anger was one of those stages, and it seemed Raf wasn’t entirely done with it.

  I watched his nostrils widen.

  Bad sign; my stress level skyrocketed.

  His powerful, long-fingered hand picked up his plate and hurled it across my whole apartment, right into my front door.

  I relaxed, feeling the hint of a smile tease the corners of my mouth.

  Blaine jumped from his seat, wild and startled. An unshed tear detached from the outside of the corner of his eye and rolled down, unfelt and forgotten.

  “What are ya doin’?” He demanded, his voice still clouded over.

  I watched Raf look around, his eyes skipping from object to object.

  “Hold on,” I said quickly, forestalling action on his part. Ducking into the kitchen, I removed a stack of seven dinner plates from the cupboard and placed them on the table before him. They were smaller than the modern one he just broke; their baby blue forget-me-not garlands were almost washed off along with the bits of ancient
, gold trim. Several were chipped; one had a hairline crack that wasn’t going to survive the dishwasher anyway.

  “What’s this?” He husked, barely able to speak.

  “I got these at a thrift store for you. There’s more. Go right ahead.”

  Rafael’s breathing slowed as he eyed the stack of old, beat-up fancy china that was being sacrificed to him and his temper. From just the corner of my eye I saw Blaine fix his gaze on a point far, far ahead, not seeing and not reacting, and definitely not laughing out loud as he probably wanted to do right then and there.

  Blaine knew Raf well, it seemed.

  Raf hefted one of the old plates. His eyes glazed over; he put it down and sat in his chair, eyes downcast.

  “Will you eat now?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  I took the topmost plate, shoving the remaining six next to Raf in case he had a need for them later. Then I loaded the remaining chicken thigh and beans onto it and placed it before him. I lifted my glass in a toast.

  “Guys. Here is to strength, to love, and to new beginnings.”

  They both looked at me with bewildered eyes. Then they glanced at each other and and, as though they had wordlessly decided to be on their best behavior, they lifted their wineglasses and we all clinked together and drank.

  Then we ate.

  I suppressed a smile. It had taken me two days of hard-core hunting before I managed to locate a set of old china even vaguely reminiscent of Celia’s old Limoges serving platter. The way to make Raf actually feel his grief, it seemed, was through old china with bits of painted flowers, glistening with wee bits of gold.

  WHEN OUR meal was over, I cleared the table and handed a second bottle of inexpensive Chardonnay to Rafael, who opened it with the same absent air with which he had eaten his dinner.