Hot As Sin: A Bad Habit Novella (Bad Habit Book 4)

by J. T. Geissinger

  Hot As Sin

  A Bad Habit Novella

  J.T. Geissinger

  For Jay, the only one who ever got it.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Excerpt from Dangerous Beauty

  One

  Two

  Also by J.T. Geissinger

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2018 by J.T. Geissinger, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by J.T. Geissinger, Inc.

  www.jtgeissinger.com

  Cover design by Najla Qamber

  Printed in the United States of America

  Created with Vellum

  1

  Last night, for the first time in fifteen years, I dreamt of my dead wife.

  Sevan was a dragonfly in the dream, but I recognized her anyway. Iridescent blue and green, her wings shimmered in the dappled light as she darted toward me through the hydrangeas in the garden. I lifted my hand, and she alighted on the tip of my finger. There she perched, allowing me to admire the delicate veins in her transparent wings.

  Change is coming. Remember who you are, Nasir. Remember what you promised.

  “I will, my love,” I murmured, then watched with a terrible longing as she blinked her eyes and flew away.

  “Barney! Hello? Earth to Barney! Are you even listening?”

  An aggravated huff is accompanied by a pair of manicured fingers snapping in front of my face. I look down and see Kenji, all four-foot-nine of him, glaring at me in exasperation, his hands propped on his narrow hips.

  “I was just wondering how much eyelash glue you go through in a month, sweetheart. I hope you get a bulk discount.” I smile as I glance at his slender brown legs, clad in a pair of sequined red pumps, exactly like the ones Dorothy wore in The Wizard of Oz. “On the hair remover, too.”

  Kenji makes a retching noise and rolls his eyes. “Ugh. Kenji doesn’t use hair remover, you barbarian. All those chemicals are bad for the skin!”

  “So you’re just naturally hairless?”

  “No, honey, we wax! It’s much more civilized.”

  I can’t help but chuckle at the way he sometimes refers to himself in third person and the royal plural, as if he’s a British monarch, but also at his logic, which is lacking. “Ripping out your hair by the roots is more civilized than dissolving it with chemicals?”

  He regards me with cool disdain. “I’m going to rip out something of yours by its root if you don’t snap out of your little fog and help me with this thing.” He makes spokesmodel hands at the rolling garment rack stuffed with clothing that he’s standing next to.

  We’re in the cavernous modern living room at Nico and Kat’s house. It’s four in the afternoon, the end of July, and blazing hot despite the air conditioning. My going-away party isn’t scheduled to start for another few hours, but the place is already crawling with caterers and staff setting up for the shindig.

  If I had my way, it’d be just the band and their women—family, in other words—but the ladies got it into their heads that I needed to be seen off “in style.” So now I’m trying to mentally fortify myself for a long night of socializing with a bunch of industry people and vague acquaintances I don’t give two fucks about.

  But this shit is gonna make Kat, Chloe, and Grace happy, so I’ll plaster a smile on my face and mingle like the extrovert I’m not.

  Even if it kills me.

  With warmth, I tell Kenji, “Maybe you could pick out another outfit from this rack that doesn’t make you look like a demented chorus girl channeling the Vegas version of Uncle Sam.”

  He looks down at his outfit. The sparkly red pumps are only the start. He’s also wearing tight white shorts, a red velvet coat embroidered with small sequined flags, a blue spandex shirt with a plunging neckline that reveals his hairless chest down to his navel, and a white top hat emblazoned with the words, “Freedom, Bitches!”

  He waves a hand in the air. “This was the runner-up outfit for the fourth of July barbeque at Brody’s. I thought, what the hell? It’s only a few weeks later. We can still be festive.”

  “Oh, you’re definitely festive,” I say, chuckling. “I’ve seen less festive Christmas trees.”

  He bats his long fake eyelashes at me, flashing a million-dollar smile. “You’re just jealous you don’t have the pizazz to pull this off, Nasi.”

  Nasi. He’s the only one who calls me that. I’ve got old friends from the corps who knew me long before I earned the nickname Barney on account of a bad Halloween costume choice involving a purple dinosaur. Those friends call me Nasir, or Naz for short, but Kenji’s called me Nasi since a long ago trip to Bangkok with the band had us bonding over local rum one night, sharing the kind of stories you only share when you’re drunk and far away from home.

  To his credit, Kenji never told another soul the things we spoke of.

  And I never told anyone about the operation he subjected himself to on that trip that left him broke, butchered, and nearly dead.

  When we got back to the States, I took him to a good plastic surgeon in Beverly Hills. Cleaned out every last dime of my savings, but that’s what you do for friends. He didn’t want the band to know, or anyone else, so I told him it was between us. That’s the way it’s stayed.

  We’ve all got our secrets. Bodies aren’t the only things I protect.

  My smile slowly fades. “Gonna miss you, Kenji. Never met anyone who could light up a room like you do.”

  “Oh, lovey.” He swallows, voice wavering. “Cut it out, I’ve just freshened my eyeliner.”

  “You gonna visit me in Manhattan?”

  He goes from misty-eyed to coy coquette in one second flat. “Are you inviting me, big boy?”

  “Yep. Always need some comic relief.”

  “Very funny. Who is it you’re going to work for again?”

  “Metrix Security.”

  When he fails to look impressed, I add, “They’re the Rolls Royce of private security firms. Heads of state, international business tycoons, governments—Metrix protects a bunch of heavy hitters.”

  Kenji’s big brown eyes grow wide. “What about George and Amal Clooney?”

  When I say, “No celebrities,” he immediately loses interest.

  “It sounds terrifically dull. But at least you’ll be in the Big Apple.”

  “Actually, I’ll only be in New York for a day to get settled in my new apartment before I leave for my first assignment in Cozumel, Mexico.”

  “Really? Doing what?”

  “I could tell you, but…”

  He groans theatrically. “Then you’d have to kill me. Puh-lease! No more bodyguard humor, it’s almost as sad as your outfit!”

  It’s my turn to look down at myself. I’m wearing jeans, a black T-shirt, and black boots. “What’s wrong with my outfit?”

  “Nothing, if your goal is to look like every other dude in the history of dudes! At least when you wear your Armani suits you look like a proper badass. This is just completely giving up.”

  He makes another retching noise,
indicating his poor opinion of my clothing with a dismissive flick of his wrist.

  “Okay, seeing how it’s my last day in L.A., I’ll let you pick out something for me to wear.” I jerk my chin at the rack of clothes.

  Kenji emits an ear-piercing shriek and claps his hands, hopping up and down in his Dorothy heels. “Really? Omigod, omigod, this is going to be so much fun! Kenji gets to dress you!”

  I’m already regretting it.

  “One thing.” I hold up a finger. “One. And nothing with feathers, for fuck’s sake.”

  But he’s already spinning away, rifling through the rack and humming “I Feel Pretty” from West Side Story.

  This was a terrible idea.

  I’m relieved when he pulls out a simple dove gray silk vest.

  “Here.” He tosses it at me and keeps digging.

  I sling the vest over my shoulders and button it. Then I try not to breathe. “It doesn’t fit.”

  He turns and does a double take, his mouth popping open. He puts his hand to his throat. “Oh, honey. You are sadly mistaken. That. Fits like. A. Glove.”

  He glides over making tutting noises while I inhale shallow breaths. “More like a corset. Get me something bigger.”

  “No!” He swats my hands away when I start to unbutton the vest. “It’s perfect! It’s gorgeous!”

  “It’s tight!”

  “Oh for God’s sake, women have been wearing uncomfortable clothing since time immemorial to make you dumb lugs happy and you’re complaining about a tight vest? Here’s an idea: Take off your T-shirt and wear the vest by itself!”

  I’m about to rip the damn thing off my body when from behind me I hear a low whistle. When I turn around, Grace, Kat, and Chloe are standing there, eyeing me up and down.

  Kat is staring at my arms. “Interesting tats.”

  Chloe is staring at my face. “Where’s your goatee?”

  Grace—because of course, she’s Grace—is staring at my crotch. “Holy Christmas miracle. You should always wear jeans, Barney.” She whistles again. “The front is even better than the back. And that vest is amazing.”

  Kenji gives my arm a playful shove. “Told you.”

  “Ladies.” I spread my arms and slowly spin around. “You like?”

  Kat fans herself, Chloe’s cheeks turn pink, and Grace says, “Rawr. My uterus just exploded.”

  “Oh please, your uterus explodes five times every day before lunch,” scoffs Kat.

  Unfazed, Grace shrugs. “True. It’s highly sensitive to estrogen surges.”

  Our gazes catch and hold. She looks away before I do, but not before a pang of desire twists my gut.

  I ignore it, like always. She belongs to Brody. Even if she didn’t, I’m so used to being on my own, I’d fuck things up between us before they could get started.

  A man accustomed to living alone most of his adult life isn’t what you’d call good boyfriend material. Lone wolves forget how to be in a pack. They grow callouses over their loneliness. They grow to like their isolation.

  They grow hard.

  “Hey! Space cadet! You’re zoning out again!” Kenji throws his arms in the air. “What is wrong with you today?”

  “Leave the poor man alone,” says Grace, avoiding my eyes. “He’s probably just trying to figure out what awful past decisions led him to this moment, having a star-spangled psychopath screeching in his face.”

  Kenji glares at her. “We don’t screech, lovey. We are far too fabulous to screech.”

  A voice from behind me drawls, “I dunno ’bout that, my friend. Heard you make a whole lotta noises on the ear-piercing end of the sound spectrum.”

  “This from a man who can sing a high C until the windows shatter,” replies Kenji with a sniff. “Be gone, peasant.”

  Walking around me, Nico chuckles. He slings an arm over Kat’s shoulders. She beams up at him, leaning into his side. He kisses her forehead, then jerks his chin in my direction. “Cool vest, Barney.”

  Kenji slaps me on my biceps. “See! Even Nico likes it!”

  “Yeah, and proving my point, Nico likes his clothes painted on. Look at those fucking jeans he’s in. How can you even breathe, man? That looks painful.”

  Grinning, Nico waggles his hips. “Gotta give the fans what they want.”

  Chloe says primly, “Ew.”

  Kenji looks around. “Speaking of ‘ew,’ where’s that beast of a man of yours?”

  “A.J.’s in the kitchen with Abby and the nanny. The second we walked in the door, he smelled the veggie chili the caterer brought and made a beeline for it.”

  Kat wrinkles her forehead. “How’d he know it was veggie chili?”

  Chloe’s smile is small and satisfied. “His sense of smell is his superpower.” Her smile grows wider. “One of his superpowers, anyway.”

  Kenji covers his ears with his hands. “If the words ‘Big Daddy’ are about to leave your mouth, I’ll puke all over your pink pedi, girlfriend.”

  Laughing, Chloe glances down at her toenails, painted shell pink. “Guess I should’ve worn something other than flip flops.”

  “Nobody’s puking on anything today,” says Kat, taking charge. “It’s the last time we’ll see Barney for who knows how long, so I expect everyone to behave and act like adults.”

  Grace says drily, “That’s like asking a bunch of zoo animals to mind their table manners. I’ll be shocked if we get through the evening without a fist fight or a visit from the cops.”

  “Cops? Fist fight? Sounds like a party!”

  Brody swaggers up to the group, wearing his usual Eurotrash getup of rib-hugging dress shirt with the top four buttons undone, tight designer slacks, loafers without socks, a ridiculously big watch, and artfully tousled hair which probably took him an hour to style.

  Somehow he pulls it off without looking pretentious, or gay. The bastard.

  “Kat was just admonishing us to be on our best behavior tonight,” says Grace, smiling at Brody.

  I glance away before they kiss and look at Kenji. “Why don’t you find something for Brody to wear so he doesn’t have to go around looking like Posh Spice?”

  “Because Posh Spice was the hot one, lovey. And a man wearing combat boots when not in combat isn’t allowed an opinion on anyone else’s fashion choices.”

  When Brody smirks at me, I sigh and shake my head. Then I narrow my eyes at Kat, who’s looking a little pale. “Hey. You okay?”

  Nico looks at her sharply. “Baby?”

  Kat drags in a deep breath through her nose and blows it out in a big gust. “Whoever coined the term ‘morning sickness’ had it wrong. It’s more like all day sickness.”

  “Tell me about it,” says Chloe, resting a hand on her stomach.

  “Listen to the two of you hens complain.” Grace shakes her head, but she’s smiling fondly at her girlfriends.

  Trying not to wonder how soon she’ll be the one complaining about morning sickness, I change the subject. “Just out of curiosity, Kenji, why are you dragging around a rack of clothes?”

  Brody snorts. “When isn’t he dragging around a rack of clothes?”

  Ignoring him, Kenji smiles at me. “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”

  “Ha. Seriously. Answer the question.”

  “So bossy!” Simpering, he bats his eyelashes again. “I adore it when you go all dominant on me, lovey. Trés sexy.”

  I look at the ceiling and sigh. “Yeah. That’s me. Big Sexy in a skintight vest.”

  Nico says, “Great song title.”

  Kenji says, “Trés means very, not big. And I know for a fact you speak French, so stop pretending to be such a provincial putz. And don’t roll your eyes at me!”

  In unison, Kat, Chloe, and Grace say, “You speak French?”

  Everyone stares at me.

  I send Kenji—who’s now grinning—a bland smile. “Careful, pumpkin. You don’t want me breaking out the key to Pandora’s Box, now do you?”

  He twists his lips to a
pout, while everyone else looks back and forth between us in confusion.

  “Why do I get the feelin’ we’re missin’ a whole lotta somethin’ here?” drawls Nico, gazing at me from under hooded lids.

  Kenji quips, “Oh, you’re missing a whole lotta something, all right, but it’s in that echo chamber between your ears.” Then he puts his nose in the air and stalks off in his red sparkly heels, pulling the garment rack behind him.

  When all eyes turn to me, I put on my bland smile again. “Ignore him. He’s premenstrual.”

  Kat says, “Don’t be sexist!”

  Grace muses, “Can that statement be sexist if they’re both male, and Kenji doesn’t menstruate?”

  She looks at me with her head cocked. Her comment was offhand and her expression is mild, but her green eyes are questioning spears stabbing me straight through.

  She obviously knows I have insider info on the subject.

  Jesus. Smart women are my Kryptonite.

  I look away before my dick decides it’s time to wake up and stretch. “My apologies, ladies. PMS jokes are sexist. Please nobody put anything strange in my drinks tonight.”

  Grace narrows her eyes, Brody looks bored, and Nico is busy paying attention to Kat, who just made a small, ladylike burp and a face like she ate a lemon.

  “I need my Saltines, honey,” she says, grimacing.

  Nico decides what she needs is to be off her feet. He swings her up into his arms and smiles down at her, rendering her starry-eyed. Then faintly green.

  I say, “Uh-oh. Kenji might not be the one puking on Chloe’s pedi. Better get her to the kitchen and get some crackers in her before she blows.”

  “Thanks for that mental image,” says Brody cheerfully. “Reminds me of that Monty Python movie where the fat guy eats too much then explodes…which one was it?” He looks at Grace for confirmation, but she’s still got her narrowed green gaze on me.