Always Have: (Bad Boy Romance)

by Claire Kingsley

  I wrap my arms around her shoulders and draw her to me. We snuggle in on the couch, and Selene sniffs a few more times.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “So what are we doing? Are we badmouthing him?”

  “Definitely badmouthing.”

  “Fuck him, then,” I say. “Dirty bastard. He should fucking die. I hope one of those bitches gives him a disease.”

  Selene laughs. We sit for a few minutes in silence.

  “What do you need, babe?” I ask. “You hungry?”

  “No,” she says.

  “Vodka?”

  “Fuck yes.”

  “Good girl.” I squeeze her, and she moves so I can get up.

  We hit the vodka, hard. It’s a weeknight, and I’m going to pay dearly for this tomorrow. But it’s my duty. A girl can’t shirk her duty, can she?

  After who knows how many drinks, Selene and I are still sitting on the sectional—sitting being a relative term. Selene is spread out along one side, dressed only in a t-shirt and underwear. I have no idea when she took off her pants. I look down and realize I took my skirt off at some point, and I’m wearing one of Braxton’s old shirts. Something about that strikes me as hilarious.

  “Selene, when did I change clothes?” I ask. It’s hard to get the words out, because I’m laughing.

  “You wanted out of your work clothes,” she says. I can tell by her sleepy eyes that she’s pretty tossed, but she’s not slurring her words. “I grabbed you a shirt.”

  I smell something and look around, sniffing. “What do I smell?”

  “Vodka?” Selene asks.

  “No, it’s something else,” I say. I grab the collar of the shirt and bring it up to my face. Oh my god. It’s Braxton. “This smells like him.”

  “Gross.”

  “No, it smells so good,” I say. I take another deep breath with the shirt over my nose.

  “God, Ky, my brother does not smell good.”

  There’s a hitch in her voice that cuts through my buzz. I smooth down the shirt.

  “Well, my love life is shit,” Selene says. I’m glad she’s changing the subject. “How’s yours? What happened with what’s his name? The one who was out of town.”

  I sigh. “He blew me off again.”

  “No.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “We went out one more time, that weekend after Valentine’s. It was fun, but it didn’t go anywhere, you know? So after that, nothing. He said he’d text me, but he didn’t. I texted him a week later to see what was up, and nothing. Then a few days later, he has some story about a disaster at work. He’s sorry, can we hang out, blah, blah, blah. I don’t know what his game is, but I’m not playing it. I told him to kiss off.”

  “No kidding,” Selene says. “Screw that. What’s wrong with all these fucking men?”

  “What men?”

  We both turn at the sound of Braxton’s voice. I didn’t hear him come in.

  “Asshole men,” Selene says.

  His eyes move around, like he’s taking in the scene. His gaze comes to rest on me and a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. I look down and realize that not only am I wearing his shirt, I’m also not wearing any pants. I scramble to get Selene’s blanket over my lap.

  “What happened?” he asks.

  “Nathan had a bunch of trip whores,” I say.

  The anger that crosses Braxton’s face sends a little jolt of fear running through me. “He what?”

  Selene explains what happened with Nathan. Braxton opens and closes his fists as he listens.

  “But, it’s fine, Braxton,” Selene says, after she finishes her story. “Don’t do anything. Please.”

  “Fuck,” Braxton says, looking away. His thick chest rises and falls rapidly. “Fuck, I want to kill that guy.”

  “You don’t need to kill anyone,” Selene says. “Just come have a drink with us.”

  He rubs his stubbly chin, and I can see the cords in his neck straining.

  “Come on, Brax, please?” Selene says. “I broke his phone and called him lots of dirty names.”

  “And think of it this way,” I say. “Now he has to suffer, knowing he’ll have to live without Selene for the rest of his worthless life.”

  “Thanks, babe,” Selene says.

  Braxton’s face softens. I lean back against the cushions, feeling a sudden wash of dizziness pass over me. I probably could have done without that last drink.

  Braxton picks up my legs and sits between me and Selene, placing my feet in his lap once he sits down.

  “Stupid men,” Selene says. “Nathan is the literal worst. And Ky’s guy flaked on her again.”

  “Men are assholes; you two know that, right?” Braxton says.

  He grabs one of my feet and rubs the bottom with his thumbs. My eyes flutter closed, and I have to stop myself from sighing. Man, that feels good.

  “You’re not an asshole, Brax,” Selene says, her voice sleepy.

  “No, I am,” he says. “I’m the worst kind.”

  My eyes flutter open. He’s looking at me. His hands feel good on my bare feet, and I don’t want him to stop. All the vodka is making it hard to keep my eyes open.

  We sit in silence for a while. I feel myself drifting in and out. I try to stay awake, but it’s a battle I’m definitely losing.

  Braxton squeezes my foot. “You girls should get to bed.”

  I force my eyes open. Selene is so out she’s mouth-breathing.

  “Wait here,” Braxton says. “I’ll carry her upstairs and come back for you.”

  I giggle. “Will you carry me upstairs too?”

  “Your room is down here,” he says.

  My eyes close again. I’m so sleepy. “You smell good. I bet your sheets smell like you.”

  Braxton stands abruptly, tipping my legs off the couch. I bend my knees and tuck my feet under the blanket. Who needs a bed? I’ll just sleep here.

  Braxton’s hands slipping beneath me wake me from a vivid dream.

  “Where? What?”

  “Shh,” Braxton says, his voice throaty and low. “I’ll get you to bed.”

  I wrap my arms around his neck and rest my head against his chest. He carries me across the living room, past the kitchen, and through my bedroom door. His chest is solid, his arms hot steel around me. My eyes don’t want to stay open, but a part of me wants to wake up. To see Braxton holding me like this. To be aware of what’s happening.

  I feel the mattress beneath me as he sets me down. He pulls the covers up, and a second later I can tell he turned off the light. Everything melts away, floating on a sea of vodka.

  “Night, Brax,” I say, without opening my eyes.

  “Night, baby girl,” he says.

  Something he said catches in my mind. “Brax?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re not an asshole,” I say. “You’re the only one of them who isn’t.”

  He doesn’t reply and I feel myself drifting off again, the soft blankets warming me.

  “I am, Ky,” he says, and his voice startles me. “I really am.”

  The door clicks shut and I fall asleep, wondering what he means … and wishing he had stayed.

  I grab a towel and wipe the sweat off my forehead. ACDC blasts from the speakers. It’s six-thirty in the morning, but my gym is in an industrial area, so I don’t have to worry about bothering the neighbors. I’m not always in at this hour, but today I have a client at seven, and I’m booked up until the afternoon. I needed to get my workout in early.

  My legs burn from doing heavy squats. I walk around to loosen them up before my next set. I’m too hot, so I pull off my shirt and toss it on the floor. It feels good to get some of my aggression out. Working out has always been a must for me. It doesn’t matter what else is going on—unless I’m injured or sick, I hit the gym. Hell, sometimes even when I am injured or sick.

  Sweat runs down my chest and back, but my head clears as I do another set. It’s like getting an extra hit of oxygen. I finish my workout, grab some water,
and jump in the shower before my first client is due to show up. And Derek Marshall wants to stop by and take a look at the facilities again. If this guy keeps being such a prima donna, I’m going to tell him to fuck off. He won’t be the last football player I have a chance to take on. But that’s the thing with training pro athletes: they sign these big contracts for huge money, and everyone treats them like their dick is made of fucking gold.

  Everybody except me. They pay me for results, and that’s what I give them—but they have to be willing to put in the work. Most of them are. They don’t get where they are by being lazy asses. But I also don’t put up with bullshit excuses—whining, showing up late, or canceling appointments. If they want me to take them to the next level in their career, I’ll fucking do it. But I don’t put up with divas who aren’t willing to work their ass off in my gym.

  Does it mean I lose clients? Yeah, all the time. But I’m in high enough demand that they come to me, not the other way around. I have no problem filling my schedule. So if Derek Marshall wants to be a pussy and find a trainer who’s going to coddle him, he’s welcome to.

  The first part of my day goes fast. I go from one client to the next, take a quick break for lunch, and see two more in the afternoon. Derek Marshall does stop by—sans manager, which is a nice change. When he’s not with his entourage, he’s a decent guy. He signs the training agreement, and I get him on the schedule for next week.

  With that wrapped up, I head home and take another shower. I’m sweaty from training all day. Afterward, I get dressed in a pair of jeans and a dark gray shirt. It’s March fifteenth, which means I have somewhere to be.

  I pull up in front of the assisted living facility. It’s a nice place—not the kind that smells like bleach and death when you walk in. Kylie’s dad has lived here for the past year. He’s only in his sixties, but a debilitating combination of rheumatoid arthritis and gout have ravaged his body. He’s wheelchair-bound and has a hard time using his hands, which made it impossible for him to live alone. Kylie’s parents have been divorced for years, so assisted living was the only good option. I made sure we found him a place where he’d be well taken care of, and not feel like he’s doomed to spend the rest of his life in a hospital. This place was a good choice.

  Chelsea at the front desk says hi when I sign in. Most of the staff knows me. I try to come visit Mr. Winters once a week, although it doesn’t always work if I get busy. But today is his birthday, so there’s no way I’d miss it.

  I take the elevator upstairs to the top floor. He can’t get out much, so I made sure his apartment had a great view. I knock and he buzzes me in.

  “Hey, Mr. Winters,” I say. He’s told me numerous times to call him Henry, but I never do. It doesn’t feel right.

  “Braxton,” he says with a smile. He’s sitting in his wheelchair, near the living room window. With obvious struggle, he lifts a finger to press the button on the remote that’s attached to his chair. The TV turns off.

  I pull a bottle of Jameson from beneath my jacket and hold it up so he can see. It’s not fancy, but it’s what I get him every year. “Should I pour?” I ask.

  “Only if you’re having one with me,” he says.

  “I will not say no to that,” I say.

  I head into his small kitchen, find two highball glasses, and pour us each a drink. I stick a plastic straw in his. It looks sort of odd, like suddenly it’s apple juice instead of whiskey, but he has an easier time drinking if he doesn’t have to hold the glass.

  He moves his chair over to the small table on the other side of the room. His hands are curled, like awkward claws, and I can see the pain in his face as he works his motorized chair. It kills me to see him like this.

  I take a seat and put the drink on his tray once he’s settled in place. “Happy birthday,” I say, lifting my glass.

  He nods to me and sips through the straw. “Strictly speaking, I’m not supposed to have this.”

  I take a sip, too. “Strictly speaking, I kept it under my coat on the way in. So if you don’t say anything, I won’t either.”

  “Good man.”

  Mr. Winters isn’t my father, and he never tried to replace my dad. But in his own way he filled that role for me more than once when I was growing up. Most boys need a man to stand up to them when their balls drop and they think they’re the shit. Henry Winters did that for me.

  Of course, I kind of still think I’m the shit, but at least now I can back it up.

  “How are you feeling today?” I ask.

  “About the same,” he says. “That’s good news, at this point. How’s work?”

  “Busy,” I say. “I signed Derek Marshall today.”

  “Good,” he says, nodding slowly. “He made the right choice.”

  “We’ll see if he still thinks so when I start kicking his ass next week.”

  “Don’t kick his ass too hard,” he says. “We need him healthy next season.”

  I chuckle. I know he’s pitching me shit. “He’s going to dominate next season. Just wait.”

  “All right, then,” he says. “I expect a Super Bowl out of that kid.”

  “That’s the goal,” I say.

  We talk about sports for a while. It’s our usual topic. Half the time when I visit, we just sit and watch a game. He’s having a harder time as his body deteriorates, and I think he gets pretty lonely. I try to keep it light, and act like we’re sitting in his living room at his old house.

  He finishes his drink. “You should clean this up and put the bottle away before the nurse comes,” he says.

  “No problem.” I polish off the last of my whiskey. “Do you want me to take the bottle and bring it back next week?”

  “No, I can keep the bottle in the cupboard,” he says. “But the nurses will give me fewer dirty looks if I don’t have it sitting out.”

  I grab our glasses and clean everything up. “Did Kylie come by yet?” I ask when I come back to the living room.

  “She came for lunch,” he says. “Brought me a cake.”

  I smile. “That’s not surprising.”

  A serious look crosses his face. “How is she?”

  “Didn’t you say you just saw her?” I ask.

  “I did,” he says. “But I’m never sure if she means it when she says she’s fine. I worry about my girl.”

  I smile at him. “Yeah, I think she’s good. Last time we hung out, she seemed okay.” I neglect to mention that the last time I saw her, she was passed out drunk on Selene’s couch, looking ridiculously hot in nothing but my t-shirt. To be fair, she was break-up drinking with Selene, but I don’t think her dad needs to hear about that.

  “Is she seeing anyone?” he asks.

  I shrug, keeping my face casual. I wish she would just tell her dad what’s going on. I hate having to talk to him about her love life. “Not that I know of.”

  He’s silent for a long moment, staring into space. “I hope she settles down soon.”

  I look over at him in surprise, not sure what to say.

  “Having a daughter is a scary thing,” he says, his voice quiet. “At first, you’re worried about them meeting the wrong guy. Then they get a little older, and you start to worry about them meeting the right guy.” He meets my eyes. “Now, I have to face the fact that I won’t be able to walk my little girl down the aisle. Hell, I don’t know if I’ll be around to roll her down the aisle either.”

  Fucking shit. I blow out a breath to get rid of the tightness in my chest. “You will be.”

  “I’m sorry, Braxton,” he says with a shake of his head. “What about you? Any closer to settling down?”

  “Not really.” The thing with Jessica went on a little longer than I planned. We saw each other for a few weeks, although the sex wasn’t that great. It’s never really what I’m hoping for. The fling didn’t amount to anything, and for once, it wasn’t me who broke it off. It was a relief when she told me—saved me the trouble of having to be the asshole again. At least that’s one girl who ca
me in and out of my life who doesn’t hate me.

  “I hope you find the right woman someday,” he says. “I’d like to see you happy.”

  I laugh to hide the way my throat catches. I’ve never admitted the truth about my feelings for Kylie to anyone, but especially not to him.

  “I’d like to see all three of you happy,” he continues. “You and Selene are my family, just as much as Kylie. I want you to know that.”

  “I know.”

  “I feel like maybe I should have done more for you and your sister,” he says. “I could have been around more.”

  “I’m not sure where all this is coming from,” I say, “but you don’t have anything to feel bad about. Selene and I got dealt a shitty hand, but we survived. We’re both reasonably healthy adults. We had Aunt Cindy to take care of us, and you were there a hell of a lot more than you’re giving yourself credit for.”

  He lets out a heavy sigh. “Maybe you’re right.”

  “Is something wrong?” I ask. Fuck, if he’s dying or something…

  “No, no,” he says. “Birthdays just bring out the worst in me as I get older. I start thinking about regrets.”

  “Mr. Winters, you’re a good man. The best I know. You were a good father to Kylie, and you did more for me and my sister than you ever needed to.”

  He meets my eyes and nods. I hold out a hand and he grasps mine with his bent and misshapen one. I clasp it carefully so I don’t hurt him.

  “Thank you, Braxton,” he says.

  I nod, but I’m suddenly choked up and can’t quite say anything.

  He clears his throat. “Enough bullshit from this old man. Just do me a favor, will you?”

  “Anything.”

  “Keep an eye on my little girl,” he says. “I know you do already, but I need to ask you anyway.”

  “I will, Mr. Winters,” I say. “I will.”

  New Year’s resolutions are meant to be abandoned, right? It’s not just me?

  I take a deep breath and smooth out my hair, trying to get my shit together. I resolved to stop partying so much, and going after the wrong guys so much. But tonight, I’m pretty much tossing it all out the window and doing both.