Goode To Be Bad

by Jasinda Wilder

  Lex scoffed. “You’re on drugs.”

  “The video evidence, if you please, Señora Claire.” Corin gestured with a dramatic roll of his hand at Claire, who’d been recording it.

  Claire stepped forward and squatted near Lex, cueing up the video and handing it to Lex. Who watched the entire three song video silently, eyes wide.

  “I…” She seemed to have to gasp for breath. “I sound…like that?” Her eyes went to mine, still disbelieving. “That’s me?”

  I nodded. “That’s you, Lex. The real you, all you.”

  Liv had been hanging on the outside of the circle, watching and listening. She now came through, parting the sea of Badd and Goode with her slender form. She was crying, tears sliding down. Aerie saw her coming and moved aside to make room for Liv, who sat down and wrapping Lexie up in a Mama Bear hug.

  “Your father was wrong, Alexandra,” Liv whispered. “He was so, so wrong.”

  Lex pulled away, glanced at Charlie. “You told her?”

  “Of course, silly,” Charlie answered. “Did you think I wouldn’t? Was I not supposed to? Would you have?”

  “It hurt so bad, Mom,” Lex whispered, choking back a sob. “I thought I knew pain, but when Dad told me I was never going to be good enough to be a professional musician, I…I think part of me died. Because at that point in my life, my music was all I was living for, all I had to live for.”

  Liv reared back as if slapped. “All you had to live for? What do you mean?”

  Lex shook her head. “No, no. Nope. Not going there.”

  “Lex.”

  She shot to her feet. “No. Not another word. Not talking about that. Not with you, not now, not with anyone, not fucking ever. Yeah, I’m a fucked-up mess. Yeah, there’s a reason. Dad breaking my spirit and crushing my purpose in life is a big, huge, massive part of it. Yeah, there’s more. No, I’m not going to talk about it, so fucking forget it.” She grabbed her ukulele case—hard-sided, black, and hand-painted all over with pastel daises and roses and pieces of lyrics—latched her ukulele in it, and moved for the exit. “I appreciate what you’re all trying to do, I appreciate your…your support. But this was a mistake.”

  “You can run, but you can’t hide!” Corin called out. “The Badd Clan has officially adopted you, Alexandra Rochelle Goode! You’ll be back, and we’ll all be here for you when you do.”

  “I appreciate the sentiment, sweetheart,” Tate said, rubbing his shoulder, “But I’m not sure that was the best way to express it, in that moment.”

  “Sure it was. We’re like an infectious disease. Once we’re in you, you can’t ever get us out.” He pointed at each person in turn, everyone who wasn’t Badd by blood. “You all showed up and fell in love, not just with one of us, but with all of us.” He pointed at the stairwell, down which Lex had vanished. “I can tell when someone’s gotten bit by the Badd bug, and she has. She just has to run away from it for a while. Sometimes it just takes a minute to really feel it.”

  “An infectious disease, Corin, really?” Canaan whacked him on the back of the head. “I’m not a fucking disease, you idiot. You are, maybe.”

  “We’re identical twins, you moron. Whatever I am, you are.”

  I glanced at Claire. “Can you send me that video?”

  She nodded. Then her eyes widened. “Does that mean I get your personal phone number?”

  I laughed. “Yeah. And you can even use it to message me.”

  “I’m getting Myles North’s phone number,” she said, doing a silly little dance.

  Harlow faked a pout. “God, whatever. The second another famous person comes along, I’m no longer special. I get it.”

  Claire shoved Harlow. “You’re old news now, bitch. I’ve been in the bathroom with you, helping you pee because you were drunk off your ass on tequila. You are officially no longer a celebrity, but a sister. Sorry.”

  Harlow hugged her, laughing. “It’s fine, I’d rather be a sister anyway.”

  Claire faked gagging, pushing Harlow away, who clung like a leech, laughing. “Too sweet, too sweet! Keep hugging me and I’m gonna barf.” She pretended to shudder as Harlow let go. “I’m allergic to sentimentality.”

  Claire handed me her phone, and I put my name and phone number in it, and then she sent me a message; I saved her contact info and she immediately sent over the video. I had an idea brewing, but I knew I’d need a bit more footage for it to work. The trick would be to get Lexie to play and sing again, and to let me record her, and then put her out into the universe.

  But first things first…I had to find her. Again.

  Lexie

  Myles, and everyone else, seemed to realize I’d been pushed to the max, and backed off the personal shit.

  The rest of the week was just plain fun—the most fun I’d had in years, if I’m honest. Every day the Badds shut down one of their bars and had everyone over. They had several bars, it turned out—the original, Badd’s Bar and Grille; a second location co-owned by Bast and the triplets, Badd Kitty Saloon, where we’d met the first night Myles and I arrived; Badd Night, a third location owned by Bast, the triplets, and Zane, and was more of a live music venue than a mere bar. The newest location, and the first outside Ketchikan, was The Badd News Bar in Anchorage, which the triplets, Bast, Zane, and the two sets of twins all co-owned, run more as a franchise with Badd management oversight.

  Every night that week was different, because not everyone showed up at the same time every night. It all depended on kids and work schedules and other obligations, but everyone showed up at some point, and every night, after the kids were in bed, the musical people ended up sitting together and jamming. And honestly, I fought it at first. I tried just sitting and listening and pretending my fingers didn’t want to play, that my voice didn’t want to lift. But it was a futile fight. After the first night, I knew I was hooked. I knew Corin was right, knew Myles was right.

  I’d played and written songs consistently since Dad’s disastrous talk with me, but it was like a dirty secret. Something I hid from everyone, my roommate included. If I could have hidden it from myself, I would have. Because I had believed Dad. I’d believed him. He’d told me I sucked, that I should give up, and I’d believed him.

  I’d given up.

  But music wouldn’t give me up. During college I’d be lying awake half the night, restless, irritated, exhausted. And eventually I’d roll out of bed, grab my ukulele, and find somewhere to be alone. The communal bathroom was usually the best place—I’d sit on a toilet and play, sing, and hate myself for it. I’d sing my songs, sing the songs I was listening to on the radio and couldn’t get out of my head. Sing the songs I loved, my old favorites, the classics. I learned new ones. It was a habit, like a secret drug habit. One I couldn’t quit, no matter how hard I tried. I’d go two days, three, but I’d always end up with my ukulele in the dorm bathroom or under a tree outside, singing and playing, and hoping no one was listening.

  And then…Myles happened.

  Back on the bus, during his tour when we’d first met, he’d bribed me to play for him. He’d told me he’d give me an entire night as my own personal sex slave if I played one of my own songs for him. I hadn’t been able to resist that offer, so I played him a song I’d written a few months before, as a way of expressing some feelings for a guy I’d been struggling with. I’d been quiet, timid, nervous, and he’d listened, and told me I was talented and that he wanted to play with me sometime. I’d told him he could play with me anytime, and that, of course, had led to a really long, fun night. I’d given the man a hell of a tongue workout, that’s for sure. I must’ve had at least a dozen orgasms that night, hadn’t let him get even one until I’d been ready to pass out, and then I’d finally let him plow me as hard as he wanted. I think he’d probably thought I’d want something more creative, more acrobatic, or something most men would find degrading or emasculating. But really, at the end of the day, I’m a simple girl. I just want to come as hard as I can, as many times as I can, fo
r as long as I can, until my body stops letting me come. And good goddamn, but Myles North could make me come like no other man ever has, and I took full advantage of that.

  That had been the start.

  Playing for Myles.

  Then we’d sing along to songs together, sharing an earbud.

  He’d play a song and I’d sing along. I’d let myself play my ukulele now and then, in front of him.

  But that was it. Nothing major.

  Then I’d heard them jamming. Heard his distinctive guitar style, his unmistakable voice. I heard other voices, other instruments. And I’d been pulled physically, bodily pulled, as if by a rope around my waist. Up, to the roof. Ukulele in hand. I’d had to play. Had to sing. It had been impossible to resist the need. Like an addict being offered a free hit of the purest grade substance.

  While I’d played, I had been alive.

  And it was terrifying.

  Because now I was truly addicted.

  To the rush, the aliveness, the attention. I needed more. Like any drug, the more I used, the more I needed. And every night that week, I got hit after hit. Sitting in the circle surrounded by Crow and Myles and Tate and Aerie and Canaan and Corin, playing every song we knew and jamming improv jazz style when we ran out of songs we knew. Singing, and having people watch and listen and validate me. Pay attention to my singing and playing as if I was good. Like I had something of value to add. Being appreciated for my talent.

  Being appreciated for me.

  Not for my body or, for my sexual prowess.

  Which was, honestly, the only thing I ever let anyone see, aside from my bold as brass balls, take-no-shit attitude.

  Which was a front.

  Fake.

  I’d been faking for years, and you’d think it’d just be real by now, but I wasn’t.

  I mean, it was me, it was the only me that existed anymore. But deep down, there was another Lexie. And music was bringing her to life.

  Playing for people—being seen, being heard—was breathing life into her.

  And that, more than anything, was what terrified me, was what kept me awake into the smallest hours of the morning, no matter how late I went to bed.

  Myles was true to his word: he never made anything deep or personal. Never asked me to talk about myself or my past, even when we were alone and naked together and nooking in the afterglow. He would just hold me and let me pretend we weren’t snuggling, and that I didn’t love snuggling in his arms more than just about anything in the world, including the sex itself, which was in turn better than sex had any right to be.

  See, my pretenses were vital to my worldview:

  I had no heart;

  I didn’t know how to love or have feelings;

  All I knew was sex;

  I had no talents beyond sex;

  Sex defined me as a person and as a woman, and I was okay with that;

  I didn’t want, have, or need a purpose in life;

  My secrets would stay secret forever, because I could not and would not ever trust anyone enough to reveal them.

  * * *

  But Myles was eroding my belief in my pretenses.

  Chipping away at my ability to hold on to them.

  Good thing I’m the stubbornest woman alive. He could chip away forever, but he’d get tired of it eventually. He’d said so himself. I just had to outlast him and eventually he’d give up.

  And that was what I wanted.

  I dared not admit to myself that that was yet another pretense, because that one was rooted way down deep, way under the rest, hidden under the others.

  That week was, honestly, one of the best of my life. Myles and I had very little time alone, what with Mom and Lucas being up at the crack of dawn every day, and being hauled all over Ketchikan for day trips with Mom, and hiking with Lucas, and impromptu recording sessions for Myles and Crow at the twins’ record label/studio, where Myles and Crow put down acoustic stripped-down recordings of their favorite songs as well as a few Myles North originals, including a handful of songs Myles and Crow had written on the spot. A surprise release, Myles was calling it, but it wasn’t a Myles North album, it was a one-off: Myles & Crow Unplugged.

  Damned Myles and damned Crow—they sweet-talked, bribed, threatened, and coerced me into playing on two songs with my ukulele and sing harmony.

  And damn, damn, and double damn if the songs on which I appeared didn’t sound…fucking amazing.

  Despite me, my insecurities shouted.

  Because of me, my newly reborn dreams whispered.

  I was both dreading and anticipating the resumption of Myles’s tour. It was going to be a whirlwind, and I’d get to see places I probably never would have otherwise. It’d be just me and him again, mostly. Close quarters, lots of alone time. But that also meant more time for Myles to sink his hooks into me. More emotional attachments for me to pretend I wasn’t forming.

  I was in denial, and I knew it.

  I had shit to face, and I knew it.

  But I had every intention of avoiding as much as I could for as long as I could. Because deep down, despite the bluster and bravado of my personality, I’m a coward. Afraid of being hurt even worse. Of being rejected. Of being used. Of being betrayed. Of putting my heart in someone’s grip and being crushed.

  Of baring my secrets, because to put them out there would make them real all over again and I’d spent years forming a nice hard calcareous exoskeleton of emotionless armor to keep the dark agony contained. To bring them up and out, to really deal with them meant breaking open that shell, and once the shell was compromised, my tender, sensitive insides would bared to the vagaries of what life had taught me was a cruel, wicked world.

  And if the world was cruel and wicked, it seemed like a good strategy was to be cruel and wicked in the name of self-preservation.

  Myles disagreed, clearly, because he kept teasing little nuggets of sweetness and tenderness out of me, damn the conniving asshole.

  Like when we spent an afternoon with Zane and Mara—Zane was a former Navy SEAL, and exuded calm, deadly confidence underneath a hard-ass veneer, a demeanor that his wife seemed to have made it her mission to soften. Mara was every bit as tough and capable as Zane, and I discovered she was a former combat medic, which made sense. That afternoon, Myles and Zane decided to head off to the docks to do some shore fishing, leaving me with Mara…and their two kids, one of whom was a little baby girl.

  And I, being a twenty-one-year-old single girl prone to sexual misadventure and hard partying, with little to no exposure to young children, had absolutely no clue what to do when Mara plopped the little girl into my lap.

  “Here,” Mara said. “Play with her. My boys are way too quiet, which means they’re doing something apocalyptically destructive.”

  I gaped, mouth flapping. “Wait, I—I don’t know the first thing about babies!”

  Mara laughed. “Don’t drop her, and don’t let her swallow anything. Let her sit on your lap and be slobbery. It’s not as hard as you think.”

  And then she was gone, and a few minutes later I heard her bellowing angrily—apparently her assumption had been correct. And there I was with a baby. How old, I couldn’t have said. Old enough to sit up on her own but not walk, old enough to eat mushy food but still need formula. Old enough to gum and slobber and slurp all over my fingers and my necklace and my shirt. She was cute, but…what did I do with her?

  “Um.” I held her on my lap, hands around her waist, making sure she didn’t topple over suddenly. “Hi.”

  “Ba. Ba-ba-ba.” She whacked me on the cheek, laughing.

  “It’s not nice to hit, you know.”

  “Dad-da-da.”

  “I don’t know where your dad is. I don’t even know for sure who your dad is, because I’m relatively certain you’re not Zane and Mara’s.”

  “Mama.”

  “Mama is upstairs dealing with those two boys, who seem to each have the destructive capacity of a category four hurricane.”

&n
bsp; “Ma, ma, ma, ma.” She grabbed my necklace, a choker with a dangly chain and clover pendant, and stuck in her mouth.

  “I don’t think you should chew on that, kiddo.” I looked around for something to give her to play with, and spotted a giant plastic key ring with giant plastic keys in bright primary colors. “Here, chew on this, Gummy the Slobber Queen.”

  She took it, stared at it intently as if deciding what to do with it. And then promptly began assaulting me with it, cackling hysterically.

  “Why you little bitch! Wait––I can’t call a baby a bitch, can I? Not nice, Lexie. Be nice to the baby. If your first word is bitch, I’m going to be in trouble.”

  Whack! Whack! The keys smacked me on the nose, shoulder, and eyebrow, each whack accompanied with baby laughter.

  Which only grew more hysterical when I pretended to take the keys and then give them back, with a peek-a-boo type rhythm and boo to it. “Give me that! Here you go. No, no, no, give me that!”

  And then she scored a direct hit to my eyeball, and that game was over, much to Mara’s amusement—she’d been watching for who knew how long.

  “Tate has been trying to stop Lena from hitting for weeks, but it’s her favorite game,” Mara said.

  “So she isn’t yours. I wasn’t sure.”

  “No, she’s Tate and Corin’s youngest. Tate and Aerie are helping the boys finish mastering the album you guys recorded, so I’m hanging out with Lena.”

  “And what did your boys get into?”

  “Marco and Isaac are the most conniving, destructive, hyperactive human beings I’ve ever known,” she sighed, and I could tell she meant that with every ounce of love she possessed. “They got into my makeup, found my MAC lipstick, and drew penises all over my vanity mirror. And on each other. And my marble countertop. And my antique claw-foot soaking tub which Zane just installed six months ago.”

  I put my hand over my mouth. “You’re kidding.”

  “I wish I was. They claim a kid at school taught them how to draw dicks, and now they draw dicks on everything. Like, I think they think they’ve invented penis-based humor.”