Bringing Home the Bad Boy

by Jessica Lemmon

  Now she was here and worried that if they were alone, she might have to talk about it after all. Maybe she should go.

  “Hi, Aunt Charlie.”

  Too late.

  She turned to find Lyon, eyes on his iPad, back on the sofa, heel propped up on one knee with his other bare foot on the couch’s cushion.

  “Hey, honey.”

  “Dad’s in the studio,” he said without looking up from his game.

  “Okay.” No escape.

  She walked to the opposite side of the house, through the laundry room in the direction of the studio, and past a wall of windows facing her place but obstructed by Laney Edwards’s house standing between them. Not that Laney was ever in it. Save for the few weeks in May she and her husband, Hank, came to the Cove, they mostly stayed home in Michigan.

  Charlie heard rustling and, since the door was open in the studio, couldn’t resist poking her head into the private lair. As a photographer, she understood the sacred space where the magic happened. And this space was most certainly, where Evan, the artist, made the magic happen.

  He sat, back to her, hunkered over large sheets of drawing paper littering the floor. He’d changed into a worn, gray tee with some sort of black pattern on it, baggy cargo shorts, and sneakers. From the backless stool, he shifted his weight, wheeled over to a drawing, then picked it up and wheeled it over to another pile of drawings and dropped it on top.

  She was aware she was intruding but couldn’t look away, or keep from admiring the strong arch of one arm resting on his knee, or the way he scratched his scruffy chin while debating on what to do with any one of the various drawings of cartoon pigs.

  Not having noticed her yet, he shifted another paper, this one with not only the pig on it, but also Mad Cow. The pig, it seemed, was the character in progress. Every rendering showed a varying degree of features—from oversized versus dainty snouts, to big, floppy ears versus tiny pointy ones. One boasted a Mohawk. Another had a wooden leg.

  She was studying the one with a bandanna over its head when Evan noticed her. “Hey.”

  “Hi. Sorry to barge in,” she said, suddenly feeling as if she was barging in. Depending on the level of concentration, she knew interrupting an artist mid-creation was much like interrupting a churchgoer mid-prayer.

  “You’re not.” He lifted the drawings off the floor and walked them to the desk against the wall.

  Taking that as an invitation, she stepped into the room, liking the light, liking the space, liking that he’d set up a tattoo base camp in one corner. At the desk, she peeked around his wide back. “I like the one with the hair.”

  “Yeah?” He picked up the paper and examined it before adding, “I’ll put it in the maybe pile.”

  Figuring it’d come up sooner than later, she dredged up her courage to say what was on her mind. “I’m sorry about earlier.”

  He was standing over his desk, knuckles resting on the surface. When she spoke, he turned his head to the side, his thick, dark lashes narrowing over his blue, blue eyes. His longish hair was dry, and sticking out at every angle in a style she’d come to think of as his “perfect bedhead.”

  “Not sure what you’re apologizing for.”

  Her cheeks heated, but she’d committed to this path, so she continued. “You seemed mad in the lake earlier. I guess I’m apologizing for… whatever it is I did to upset you.”

  His brow crinkled like it had earlier. “You do that with Russell a lot?”

  She felt her head shake side-to-side, not to answer in the negative but because his question was not computing. “Sorry?”

  “There you go again.”

  She had to bite her lip not to repeat herself. “What do you mean?”

  “Noticed you do that a lot. Apologize and don’t know why,” then in a slightly louder, more demanding tone, he tacked on, “Russell teach you that?”

  “What does that have to do—”

  He pushed off his fists and moved to stand in front of her—way, way too close. “Don’t apologize to me, Ace, unless you know what it is you did wrong.”

  With that command, he started for the door.

  Angry, she opened her mouth, speaking before she knew what she would say. “Well, maybe you should apologize to me.”

  He halted in the doorway, his hands curling into fists. He didn’t turn around right away. She waited, her heart thrashing against her ribs. He hadn’t faced her, which was probably why she was brave enough to say, “All you’ve done is frown at me today. And now you’re being rude. I came over here to help you cook for Gloria”—oops, she hadn’t meant to put peeved emphasis on her name—“and Asher,” she added quickly. “Not get the third degree from you.”

  His shoulders raised and lowered with a deep breath and she crossed her arms, feeling half-satisfied she’d stood up for herself, and half-nervous he’d turn around. He did, a second later, and the same scowl resided on his chiseled face. He stalked back to her and it took every bit of her wherewithal to hold her spot on the floor and not back away from him.

  Especially when he lowered his face so that his eyes were level with hers.

  Eep!

  “All I’ve done is frown at you today?” he repeated. “What about when I had my hands on your hips, Ace?” The soft but rough tone of his voice undid her convictions. “When I tore off your skirt?”

  Her heart had made it to her throat and when she swallowed, she did so around her hammering pulse.

  “Was I frowning then?”

  He hadn’t been frowning. He’d been smiling—and eyeing her with a heat that… well, a heat that resembled the heat in his eyes now.

  His brows rose. “Was I?”

  “Uh—”

  “We’re here early!” came a female voice from the direction of the kitchen.

  Saved by the bell!

  “Gloria and Asher are here,” she pointed out, stepping to the side and attempting to dart around him.

  He stopped her by wrapping a hand around her arm. Warm fingers, and a warmer gaze, pulled her in.

  “Answer me,” came his soft command.

  A whispered “Evan” was all she managed. The hand around her arm tugged her closer. His eyes were unmistakably glued to her mouth.

  “Hey! There you guys are—oh, sorry, am I… interrupting?”

  He didn’t move, but she jerked at the sound of Gloria’s voice. Glo stood in the doorway, looking at the male hand most definitely wrapped around Charlie’s arm, her red lips poised in curiosity.

  Charlie patted the hand and untangled herself from his grip. “Arguing over the pig drawings.” She added an exaggerated eye roll. “You know artists,” she said, hoping Gloria did know artists because it was a throwaway statement she had no follow-up for. She stepped past Evan, this time because he let her, and said, “I think he should have hair, Evan is strictly no hair. You can settle it for us. Wine?”

  There. Talking ninety miles a minute ought to get her out of this pickle.

  “Uh… sure, thanks.” Gloria approached the drawings while Evan faced her, doing a dead-on impression of the statue in the city square. “Still struggling with Swine Flew, I see,” Glo said. “Can I help?”

  Charlie left them and hustled through the hallway and toward the kitchen, so relieved to be out of the studio’s oppressive air she literally sucked in a huge breath the moment she entered the living room.

  “They fighting already?” Asher Knight asked as she stumbled to a stop at the kitchen island. This was as close to a real rock star as she’d ever been. She hadn’t met Asher yet and now that she was seeing the singer of the swoony ballad “Unchained” in the flesh leaning on Evan’s breakfast bar, she’d admit to being a touch starstruck.

  “Fighting? No, um… no, I don’t think so.”

  He leaned his arms on the bar, his lips curving, the stubble prevalent on his chin and cheeks. His hair was a mess, but the style was purposeful, caused by hair products unlike Evan’s, whose style was less of a “style” and more a result
of nervous fingers and lack of knowledge about hair products.

  It was a good look for Knight, though. In a designer black tee with pale gray angel’s wings on the front, several braided hemp bracelets tracking up one of his wrists, and the array of chunky silver rings decorating his fingers, the man standing before her was not merely a sexy rock god. He was King of the Sexy Rock Gods.

  “Do they fight often?” She crossed to the counter and peeked inside a few reusable grocery sacks.

  He blew out a breath. “Like they’re fuckin’ married.” Then was quick to add, “ ’Scuse my French.”

  “That’s not French,” Lyon pointed out from his perch on the couch.

  “Hey, don’t say anything I say. Ever. Okay, bud?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because your dad will throttle me.”

  Lyon grinned like he might not mind seeing that.

  Charlie grabbed the grocery sacks and pulled out foam, plastic-wrapped packages of ground turkey, beef, and bottles and jars of various burger fixings, then began arranging them on the counter.

  Ash moved to her side. “What can I do?”

  She searched a drawer, then another before finding a knife and a cutting board. “What’s your specialty?”

  He leaned a hand on the counter and hovered over her, a devilish smile on his devilish face. “My specialty… lies outside of the kitchen.”

  She took in his hooded dark eyes, the practiced smile affixed to his face, and the lack of space between them, and laughed. Honest to God, threw her head back and laughed.

  He straightened away from her—literally taken aback. “Somethin’ funny?”

  “You.” She shook her head as she rinsed a tomato under the tap. “Coming onto me.”

  “Was not,” he lied with a smile.

  “Were so.” She smiled back.

  “So you do recognize when it happens.” Evan’s voice cut in as he entered the kitchen. Gloria trailed behind him, her sharp blue eyes snapping from Asher to Charlie and back again.

  Charlie occupied herself by angling the knife and slicing the tomato into thick slices. “I hope you don’t mind I started without you,” she said to Gloria, suddenly worried she’d stepped on the other woman’s toes.

  “It’s fine.” But Gloria didn’t sound sincere. Her gaze fettered to Ash again as she casually positioned herself between him and Charlie. “I’ll make the patties. Evan, you have any seasonings in this house?”

  “Salt and pepper,” he answered.

  “Chili powder?” she asked. “Cumin? Granulated onion? Thyme? Any of these things sounding familiar?”

  “Off my back, lady.” He moved to a cabinet.

  Asher gestured to them while they were preoccupied and mouthed the word “married” to Charlie.

  Which she didn’t like at all. Because if Glo and Evan acted like this in front of everyone, maybe there was more going on between them than she’d originally thought.

  Subconsciously, or maybe very consciously, she moved to the cabinet and helped Evan locate the spices Gloria requested, as well as a few of her own choosing.

  * * *

  Dinner was informal. Evan ran the grill while Ash mostly tried to tell him how to run the grill. Charlie and Gloria had divided the work on the burgers—turkey was Charlie territory and Glo was on beef. And while he wasn’t a fan of turkey, and because the girls had formed some kind of competition with their seasoning skills, Evan ended up eating one of each. The poultry patty wasn’t half-bad.

  The girls cleaned up while Ash palmed two beers and stated that “the deck beckoned.” After the first cold sip, Evan found himself in agreement.

  Leaning on the railing, they watched the dark lake for a while. The party boat from the other night had either migrated to a different area, or the guys had gone home already. Hard to tell.

  “How’s Jordan doing?” Evan asked, not bothering to hide his smirk.

  “Asshole.”

  Evan tapped the bottom of his beer bottle against the top of the neck of Asher’s, pleased when the pop rang true and foam spilled out over the edge in a virtual cascade.

  Ash tipped his bottle, drinking down what hadn’t ended up on his T-shirt. When he lifted the edge to wipe his chin, he pointed at Evan. “You’re lucky the library signing is around the corner, or you’d pay dearly for that.”

  “That I’d like to see.”

  Ash let him have the jab, leaning on the railing and going quiet for a moment. Then he muttered, “Your girl’s somethin’ else.”

  He was talking about Charlie, and probably talking about her because he’d hit on her. “Cozy up to Ace and library signing be damned, there’ll be hell to pay,” Evan said, watching the water.

  Ash turned so his back was on the railing. “Yeah, yeah. You already threatened me.”

  “Not me. Gloria.” Evan turned his back to the railing, too, and both of their attention went to Glo and Charlie in the kitchen.

  “Gloria,” Ash repeated.

  “Watches you like a hawk.”

  “Charlie watches her,” he added. “Especially whenever Glo is talking to you.”

  The girls did dishes side by side amicably. No sign that one of them might pull a two-pronged fork or drown the other in the dishwater.

  Ash swirled the beer left in his bottle. “I may have helped that along by telling her you and Glo fight like you’re married.”

  “Siblings.”

  “Siamese twins,” Asher joked.

  “Accurate.” Evan chuckled. “Terrifying, but accurate.”

  “She didn’t like it, Ev.” His tone was so serious, Evan turned to face him. “She didn’t like it when I cozied up to her in your kitchen.”

  Neither had he.

  “And you didn’t like it, either. She’s into you, man. All I’m sayin’.” That statement hung on the air until Ash said, “You touchin’ me up while I’m here or what?”

  Shit. He nearly forgot.

  “Yeah, let’s do it.”

  Evan led the way to the corner of his studio where he’d set up his chair beneath ample overhead lighting, and a few lamps in case he needed more.

  Asher pulled off his T-shirt and revealed his tattoo-covered chest and the cross on his left arm. Evan pulled out a pair of surgical gloves and arranged the still-in-plastic needles, eyeing the uneven lines on the edge of the cross.

  “What’d I tell you about going to these new guys who open shops and go out of business a year later?” Evan asked.

  “Hey, I was drunk.”

  “Any respectable guy will not tattoo clients while they’re hammered.”

  Asher gestured to himself. “Celebrity.”

  Evan shook his head as he selected which color ink to use. “Shut up and hold still.”

  A few hours later, artwork done and his arm wrapped in plastic, Asher sat on the patio next to Evan, who had a pad of drawing paper open on his lap.

  While he’d done his ink, Ash had brought up Swine Flew and they’d talked over a few ideas that had Evan’s muse sitting up and begging. Never one to lose the moment when the bitch started to obey, he snagged the first sketchbook he’d laid eyes on and a few graphite pencils, and darted outside.

  In the background, he was vaguely aware of Charlie and Gloria going in and out of the house, opening wine, and chatting about something or the other. Asher had commented back once or twice. Not Evan; he was in a zone.

  The lighting was shit out here, but the night was clear and the wind light enough not to blow the paper. Since relocating might mean breaking the flow, Evan worked with what he had. The flicker from a citronella candle on the small side table, and Ash hovering over the sketchpad putting in his two cents.

  Evan had drawn several different incarnations of Swine’s outfit, headgear, and expressions. At last his buddy pointed to his most recent one and said, “That.”

  “Fucking finally, man.” And that wasn’t an understatement.

  “I’m going,” Glo announced out of nowhere.

  Aft
er hyper-focusing on the cartoon superhero on the page before him, Evan had to blink her into focus. “What time is it?”

  Asher lifted his phone. “One.”

  “Lyon.” He’d zoned out drawing and had no clue where his kid was. Way to go, Downey.

  “I tucked him in,” Charlie said.

  All the air left his lungs in a rush. She’d saved his ass again.

  “He came out, man, didn’t you hear him say good night?” Asher palmed Evan’s shoulder and shot him a quizzical look.

  “Yeah,” Evan lied. Because he hadn’t. His imagination had hooked onto a cloud of thought and dragged him away from this world and into another. This one’s the only one that matters, baby, he heard Rae say in his head.

  An old, and not fond, memory hit him front and center.

  “Why are you awake—gosh dang, baby.” Rae’s voice had faded into a soft note of concern, her eyebrows bowed, her hands clutching her robe tight around her pajamas.

  The utility room had been cold, but Evan had turned on the space heater. Maybe it was the hum coming from the unit at his feet, or the headset he pulled from his ears and hooked around his neck that had him detaching from the real world so efficiently.

  Her arms crossed, her brows rising in challenge. Shit. He was screwed.

  “ This is what you’re doing while I’m breastfeeding our son?”

  He felt his own brows lower. Not this again. “Don’t know if you noticed, but I lack the equipment to perform that function.” They’d argued about this before—how she wasn’t the only parent in the house, always stressing the words “our son” as if he’d forgotten Lyon was half his.

  “I have an idea.” But it wasn’t a solution she was speaking of, he could tell by her tone. It was a finger-snap away from an all-out turf war. “Why don’t I carry the baby, give birth to the baby”—she was ticking each item off on her fingers to annoy him—“and why don’t you just come out here and play.”

  “ Play?” He hated when she referred to his paintings—tonight a few new tattoo designs to add to the board at work—as play. Lyon had already woken them both, and Evan hadn’t been able to get back to sleep. “You think this is play?” He gestured to the paintings of the tattoos, this one a series of dragons. “Knowing my life’s work—”