Client 5: A Bad Boy Next Door Dark Romance

by Alexis Angel

  Anyways, that’s all. Ashley’s lying in bed in this fucking small as shit negligee she got from Fredericks and I’m going to fuck the shit out of her. So unless you want to join us, then I have to go.

  Oh, and if you want to join us, just click here and you’ll get it soon.

  30

  Another Goodbye From Alexis

  Hey babes!

  Amazon has a problem with Page Flip. If you’re hitting the end of this book, and it asks you to go back to the first page, then PLEASE DON’T. If you’re reading on Kindle Unlimited, none of the pages will get counted as a read.

  Even if it’s asking you to go to the beginning and review, please close the book at the page you end at after the story - there is a bonus book after this - and then review if you need to.

  The Page Flip issue seriously kills page reads for me, so I’m thanking you in advance!

  Love!

  Victoria xoxoxox

  31

  Yet Another Goodbye From Ashley

  Wait, Arsen just went and talked like that to you?! I swear, sometimes I think that man grew up in a cave or something.

  After you went through 78,000 words and read about all that thrusting, sweating, grunting, uhmm…you get the picture.

  So this story is like, all about sex. It’s intensely sexual because our love is very sexual.

  But Alexis wanted to include something that’s a bit more suspenseful and gritty as a thank you for making it this far. It’s a quick read, and people loved it when it came out. I think you will too, because it’s got some new chapters in there now too.

  The description or blurb is on the next page so see if you’re interested!

  Bye!

  Ashley Hawke

  Description

  Jailbait: A Secret Baby Bad Boy Romance

  I’m a bad man. That’s why I’m in jail. And I’m gonna use her as my ticket out…

  She’s sexy, sassy, and cute. But she’s never met anyone like me. I should have no trouble getting what I need from her and moving on.

  I’ve done it before. Broken hearts when I left ‘em after I got what I needed. I can do it again.

  I can’t let that curvy body sway me from my goal. I can’t let those wide eyes and beautiful lips make me forget what I am – an inmate looking to escape.

  Ain’t no way I’m falling in love while I’m using her if I know what’s good for me.

  There’s just one problem. I’ve never done what’s good for me. That’s why I’m in jail, remember?

  Incarcerate yourself with this secret baby bad boy romance—filled with brooding bad boy alpha-males and the women they love! No cliffhangers, but it’s a scorcher with super-steamy scenes. Happily Ever After? You know it.

  Kerri

  The house is quiet. I place my keys on the dining table and walk through the living room. It's dark, but I hear the steady hum of a fan. He must have left it on and then got called into work because I don't hear him, I think to myself. But then I hear a noise coming from an upstairs bedroom. Was that a giggle or a cough, or maybe something else? I can't tell. The sound is too far away.

  I slowly make my way up the stairs. "Hello?" I call out. But I don't receive a response. Maybe Jonathan is home and taking a shower. I approach our bedroom. The door is closed but there is a light on. I turn the knob and push the door open. The stereo is on and I hear our familiar song playing its soulful melody:

  "If the stars don't shine, if the moon won't rise, if I never see the setting sun again, you won't hear me cry, this I testify, please believe me, boy, you know I won't lie, you and me, you and me…"

  I blink back the light of the room as my eyes adjust. At first nothing seems amiss. I notice our rumpled white comforter on the bed and it's moving rhythmically. "Jonathan?" I ask. But before I hear anything else, I now know what I'm looking at, and I'm having a hard time believing it. My eyes burn, and I blink, but when I open them again, I know everything is now changed. My life is irrevocably altered.

  "Babe, what are you doing home? I thought you were working?" Jonathan stammers, holding the comforter up to his chin.

  At first, I'm too stunned to say anything. And then I scream, and once I open my mouth, I can't stop. Words spill out of my mouth like water from a fire hose. "Get out! You bastard, get out! Now! Just get out!" Hot tears are spilling out of my eyes, and I hate myself for crying. I should be stronger than this. My strong-willed mother raised me, and if she were here right now, she'd tell me to be tougher than this. I can almost hear her voice in my ear, with its deep, serious tone, telling me that this man doesn't deserve me. He isn't worth crying about. But I'm devastated—there is no question about it—and the hurt that's coursing through me drowns that all out.

  "We can work this out," Jonathan pleads. He's getting out of our bed, naked, and holding a pillow in front of his erect cock. His hair is a mess and he runs his fingers through it. His face is flush; he seems scared, but he's forcing his mouth into a smile, and I can't help but look at his rows of perfectly white, straight teeth. I used to think they were a thing of beauty, and now I think they make him look fake, like a real-life talking mannequin, which reminds me of a horror movie. He extends his hand to mine, but I don't let him touch me. I swat it away and turn my body before crossing my arms defensively.

  Before this moment, I thought he was the perfect man, even the man of my dreams. I believed that the fairy tale was possible—I bought into the Disney dream that said everyone had their soul mate—their hero on a white horse would come along, so long as you waited for him. I pictured us in this house with kids. I pictured the wedding. I even found myself day dreaming about what kind of flowers I'd use for our arrangements. Hell, I even thought we'd eventually have the mini-van and the weekday soccer practices. It was such a clear picture.

  "I made a mistake," he pleads. "I swear this'll never happen again." I snatch his pillow and throw it across the room. I want him to feel just as exposed and vulnerable as I do in this moment.

  "You're joking, right?" I ask, not waiting for an answer. "It's over."

  And then I look back to the bed, and I see a woman looking for her bra. Her hands are fumbling through the sheets. She's trying to hold her beasts in her hands, but her bra is on the floor and when she finally sees it, she has to reach down and pick it up. Her breasts spill out and I am disgusted with how perfect they look. She refuses to make eye contact with me and her discomfort is palpable. Her hair has that "just fucked" look and she doesn't bother touching it. She's not the one I'm mad it. It's clear she's an unknowing victim.

  "Get out!" I scream again. It's the only thing I can say. It feels as if the walls are crumbling around me—the home Jonathan and I built together, the rainy nights spent in front of the TV cuddling up to a movie, the laughs, all of the good memories—that is all replaced with what feels like a punch to my gut. Everything feels dead and the only way I know how to staunch the pain is to remove these people—to get them out of my sight for good.

  They scramble for their clothes, and hop around the room on one leg, quickly trying to pull their bodies through jeans. They aren't moving fast enough and I can't stop screaming. I'm seeing and feeling red. My entire body is pulsing. "Get out! Get out! Get the fuck out!" The minutes seem like an eternity and they finally leave with their shoes tucked under their arms. The woman runs down the stairs, and Jonathan follows after her. He stops mid-way and looks back at me one last time before leaving the house for good. It's a pathetic look and I hate him for it.

  As soon as I hear the front door close, I slump down against the bedroom wall and sob. It feels like my chest is cracking in half. Everything feels dark and broken. I vow to never trust another man so easily again—maybe ever. Maybe there's no such thing as a Mr. Right. Maybe it's all a lie.

  All I know is that there's now a before and after. I'm no longer the person I was yesterday, or even a few minutes ago. I was once blind and trusting, but time has split me in two. I don't even know who I am anymore. I'm a new person n
ow—the kind of person who has to reconcile the fact that the man who I thought was my best friend is actually part of a betrayal. It's sort of like being slapped and hugged at the same time.

  I don't know who I am any longer, or where I'm going, but I'll be damned if I'm going to let myself sit here, shattered.

  Lucien

  "—6, 7, 8, 9," I say out loud nearly spitting into the dirt next to me. Fuck, this place is hot. It must be 90 degrees out here. My arms and chest strain under the heaviness of the cast iron weights clanking against a steel bar. My muscles are shot and quivering, but I keep going at a steady pace. I feel myself growing stronger, and if I'm honest, lifting weights gives me the same euphoria as fucking beautiful women. Besides, I can't let myself get soft in a place like this.

  There aren't many weights in the exercise yard anymore. It ain't like the movies. The ones left are decades old and rusting, and you practically have to nut up on everyone around you just to use them. I guess some high and mighty prick judge somewhere thought it was risky to let ex-cons get "intimidating muscles," and before anyone could so much as bat an eyelash, the media had its panties all in a ruffle. Everyone was "crapping in their cornflakes" so to speak. Just like that. Boom. Everyone was afraid. And now here we are resorting to lifting library books and doing pull ups on our bunk beds. Lucky for me, this shithole still has a set of weights, and if it's one thing I refuse to do, it's to let myself rot here.

  I rest the weights back on the stand and wipe a thin line of sweat dripping down my temple. I blink back the Southern California sun. I catch my breath and grip the bar again. "One more rep," I tell myself. I release the bar from the stand and exhale sharply. It feels impossibly heavy and my veins are pulsing in my biceps. If this bar slips—if my arms give out—I will be in serious trouble. For a moment I wonder if I should call it quits for the day, but I shake the thought. Get your shit together, I tell myself. I start my new reps and count each press, "1, 2, and—"

  As I count, my mind drifts back to the moment that haunts me every fucking time I close my eyes at night, and every time I open them in the morning. That apartment. That woman. I can still hear her screaming. I can still see that look of fear in her wide blue eyes as she clutched her baby to her chest. "Do it!" Billy yelled at me. "What the fuck are you waiting for?"

  I remember holding the gun in my hand. My fingers frozen against the steel. That baby's perfectly round head nuzzled into her mother's neck like a fuzzy peach. I couldn't do it. I mean, not just in a moral sense, although only a sick fuck could make a move like that, but my entire body resisted too. I completely shut down.

  "You fucking coward," Billy snarled. He grabbed the gun and changed everything. BANG. BANG. There were two loud shots that ended two lives. I had never seen so much red. And then everything went quiet. I exhale sharply again, remembering the unsettling stillness of it all.

  "3, 4, 5—" I continue to count my reps at a faster clip trying to dull the memory.

  It was a revenge killing. Running drugs for the mob isn't pretty, and I've done a lot of shit things in my life, but killing a mother and a baby isn't one of them. Of course no one believes me. And why should they? Billy and the rest of 'em did a damn near perfect job of setting me up—my finger prints were all over the place, including the gun. When the judge slapped me with a life sentence, I swear that a fucking lump the size of a boulder lodged itself deep into my gut. I still have a hard time eating sometimes. I shake my head in disgust.

  I notice a shadow above me blocking out the sun. A voice says, "It's time you let the real men have a turn."

  A shirtless man looks down at me. His eyes dare me to react. He's young, maybe 26. He thinks he's invincible—they all do in this fucking place. A spider web is tattooed across his shaved, bald head and he spits into the dirt next to me. This guy must be new. People know better than to talk shit to me like that. I rest the weights back on the stand and get up off the bench. I stand inches from his face with my fists clenched and my tightened muscles swollen from the bench presses, defying the unsaid rules of personal space.

  "Says who?" I challenge.

  "Says me."

  "Yeah, well, you can go fuck yourself."

  The man's eyes flash hatred at me. He doesn't blink, but instead moves closer. "What the fuck did you just say?"

  "You heard me."

  "If I heard correctly, you've just signed your own death certificate," he taunts.

  "Right or wrong. It doesn't fucking matter," I say. "The only thing that matters in here is winning."

  I notice he is clutching a sock in his right hand. I wasn't born yesterday. I know what he's planning to do. There's a lock buried in that sock, and I'm not going to let him have the first swing. Without thinking or saying another word, I strike my right-elbow into the bridge of his nose and I hear it crack. It's like turning on a faucet because a river of blood runs down his face, across his lips, and under his chin.

  "You fucking bastard," he growls. He is beyond pissed now. He swings the sock. Predictable. I bend my knees and dodge it, and when I come back up, I bring my fist into his temple. He stumbles and I notice a small crowd has formed a ring around us. Some men are laughing. Some cheering. Some are even making bets.

  He charges me like a ram and slams his head into my collarbone. A sharp pain radiates down my chest but this spurs me on. He may be big, but he doesn't stand a chance. I put him in a headlock and we tumble into the dirt. He head butts me and I feel a hot cut form on my cheek. His neck is now in the crease of my arm and I squeeze harder. I'm on top of him and I put my knee into his jaw and pummel his ribs with my fist. Our brawling is kicking up a cloud of dirt and I blink rapidly, trying to keep it out of my eyes.

  My anger is boiling over and I deliver blow after blow. Finally, I release him and he stumbles back. His face looks like a child has used it as a finger painting canvas. Red smears are everywhere.

  Two guard rush in. They get between us. I see one guard has a can of mace on his hip. "There's a zero tolerance policy for violence boys," the first guard says. "This is going to land you both in solitary."

  The second guard adds, "But seeing as you've gone and messed yourselves up pretty good, we're getting you examined first."

  They grab us both and march us to the infirmary in handcuffs. Having my hands behind my back causes the pain in my chest to flare again. The bald-headed man is taken into another room while I sit in a hard plastic chair and wait. My anger has subsided but my head is throbbing something awful—like a marching band of pain. It's intense. I've always heard that the best way to combat pain is to face it head on. So instead of trying to ignore it, I visualize it as a small man with a spear, and I mentally tear him limb from limb. Just as I'm getting my pain under control, a woman walks in. She's a part of the medical staff. I read her badge: Kerri Curtis.

  She's standing in the doorway. Her body is nearly silhouetted against the fluorescent overhead lights. If I would've known what kind of women they employ in the infirmary, I would've injured myself sooner. Her fiery red hair cascades down her shoulders in waves big enough to engulf me. I tell myself that if her hair was a halo of fire, I'd gladly be scorched those flames. My eyes travel down all of her perfect curves. I can't help but watch the way her thin gold necklace nuzzles in between the secret crevice of her breasts, or the way the gold matches the brightest strands of her hair. I find myself swallowing involuntarily. My cock twitches in my pants and I realize it's been a while since I've fucked a woman.

  She looks at my scrapes and makes notes on her clipboard. She sees the cut on my face and grabs a square of gauze. She squirts an antiseptic ointment into the gauze, leans in close, and gently applies it to my cheek. She's so close to me now that I can pick up the faint smell of laundry detergent on her uniform. Mountain fresh.

  A strand of hair falls into her face and she pushes it behind one ear. "We'll need to do x-rays," she says. "I'm concerned about your limited mobility in your arm."

  "Anything you say."


  "I'm glad you agree."

  I wonder if she's really the most beautiful woman in the world or if my mind is playing tricks on me because I haven't had contact with any woman for nearly a year. She has no idea that right now, I'd agree to just about anything.

  Kerri

  Looking down at my clipboard I read the name "Stone, Lucien." I lift my gaze to the inmate sitting in front of me to put a face to the name. It's clear that this man has been in a fight. His hair is ruffled and I can see a small bleed on his cheek. His eyes are the color of granite and his jawline is just as chiseled. I think how fitting his name is. I glance down at his body and notice the muscular ripples in his chest and arms, and I wonder what he looks like outside of handcuffs. My pulse quickens for a moment and I quickly divert my eyes before he notices. What's wrong with you? I ask myself. Keep it professional. Its been six months since I left Jonathan and I couldn't be happier. It wasn't easy getting to this point; it's been a painful journey. But this job saved me. This is a good job. I can't allow myself to be attracted to a good-looking man locked up in this place.

  Being a medical assistant in a correctional facility isn't easy. Being a medical assistant at San Simeon County Jail is something else entirely. This jail was built in the 1890s. And it’s got more nooks and crannies and idiosyncrasies than I can imagine. Despite the risk, the age of the jail is one reason I said yes to working there. Too bad it came with a patient base that were hardened criminals. It boils down to medical necessity. I can't make personal connections. In a hospital I can give the confused dementia patient a hug, or show empathy by sharing a funny story with the guy wearing a finger brace about the time I dislocated my own pinky finger in a bet that I wouldn't try out for my school's softball team. But in here? Forget about it. I can't do that. I have to stay focused on the care. It's all about boundaries. Without that, inmates can—and from the stories I've heard—will walk all over me. Without boundaries, I set myself up for being taken advantage of. I've been here for six months and I know all of this, but there's something different about this man sitting in front of me, humbled by handcuffs, but still proud despite his situation. His presence threatens to seep between my own limits.