Pursuit: A Bad Boy Romance

by Cristal Pierre

  Date with Brad. Maybe later tonight... will you be up late? Let me know. Hope you're doing okay.

  I was already at Tony's and my stomach sounded like a garbage disposal as it gurgled and rumbled. The pizza smelled absolutely amazing and I couldn't wait to have some. I was even trembling a little since I was so hungry, but I knew Brad would get offended if I didn't wait for him. It was quarter after six and he still wasn't there. My head was starting to hurt from the tantalizing aroma of pizza. I couldn’t stand to wait a moment longer as I contemplated whether to call him or just go ahead and order. At twenty past six, I succumbed and dialed his number, my forehead pressed against the cool melamine tabletop as the phone rang.

  It went to voicemail.

  "Hi baby, it's me. I'm at the restaurant. I'm really hungry so I'm going to go ahead and order. Please don't be upset, I'm just... like... ready to faint. Okay. See you soon."

  I got dizzy as I stood up to go to the counter and order. I looked at the slices behind the glass case and then at the enormous picture of an entire cheese pizza, seductively oozing with cheese, that hung above the cash register.

  "I'll have the large cheese pizza," I said, almost in a daze, already fantasizing about having the leftovers for breakfast.

  I paid and got a soda, sitting back down at the table. The sugar helped me feel better enough that instead of focusing on my hunger, I could wonder and fret about Brad. Where was he? All afternoon I'd been looking forward to spending the evening with him, chatting and eating pizza, forgetting about school for a while. Afterward, we'd go home and... well, you know. Brad wasn't all that good in bed, but when we first started dating, I was insecure enough that just him wanting me was enough to make me feel good. And I wanted that tonight. I was feeling needy as hell and I needed him to be there for me.

  At seven o'clock, I had already finished two slices and was nibbling on a third when Brad finally showed up. I was so exhausted by then that all I could do was look at him. I couldn’t even find the energy to be upset.

  "Where've you been?" I asked him flatly.

  "Oh, a friend of mine stopped by my place so we were talking," he said. As he sat down, I could smell the pot smoke on his clothes. I groaned.

  "Getting high, you mean?"

  "Hey, it's not my fault you stood me up earlier," he muttered, helping himself to my pizza.

  "What are you doing? Get your own," I said, trying to be lighthearted about it, but those were my leftovers. I had paid for them. Brad was rich, he could get a hundred pizzas if he wanted. "I'm saving the leftovers."

  "Uh, you don't need all that," he said, raising an eyebrow at me. "You've already had three pieces."

  Boy, he knew just where to hit me. He knew that my weight and my appearance were things I really struggled with. He knew that I had been anorexic in high school, hospitalized for it a couple times, along with rampant drug use, while he was so handsome and muscular that it made me feel horribly insecure. I dropped my third slice half-eaten and contemplated going to the bathroom to throw up what was already inside me. That's not recovery behavior, the voice of my old counselor, Ms. Nealy, echoed through my mind. And so, I sighed and decided not to stick my finger down my throat, but glared at the half-eaten third slice, consumed by self-loathing.

  "... gonna get a motorcycle over spring break and... babe, are you even listening?" Brad blinked at me pointedly. "I said, I'm going to get a motorcycle."

  "Oh. Cool." Once again, I found myself wondering where the sweet guy who used to reassure me about my appearance had gone. Where was the gentleman who used to pay for our every date? Where was the guy I had fallen in love with?

  "Right. There's this biker gang in Philly, my boy Manley has a hookup with them. They have this super-rare, vintage Harley and then Dad's gonna have his guy restore it for me. Supposedly, it's dangerous to even say the name Gray Wolves in Southwest Philly, but—"

  "What?" I perked up, a jolt of adrenaline running up my spine at the mention of Gray Wolves. Brad had grown up in the wealthy Philadelphia suburbs, so I guess he had no idea, but me? I had grown up right on the edge of Southwest Philly, my family wasn't exactly destitute, but we still barely managed to scrape by. I had grown up not quite in the "bad part" of town, but still, quite close to it. Close enough to know some names. The Gray Wolves for one… "Babe, can't you just go to a dealership or something? I've heard of that gang, they’re dangerous..."

  "I'm not scared of a bunch of white trash hood rats," Brad snapped, obviously enjoying the attention that his poor decision was rousing from me. "I'm sure they know to respect their betters."

  I groaned and pinched the bridge of my nose. "You don't know what you're talking about..."

  "Are you saying I'm stupid?" Brad drew himself up. "How could you say that? You know I have a learning disability—"

  "Brad." I sighed. "I wasn't talking about your learning disability, hun, I just meant that I grew up in Southwest and—"

  "Oh, so you're better than me? You think I'm some kind of a rich asshole or something?"

  I bit back the resounding Yes dancing on my tongue and shook my head. "Please, honey, can we just... can we just go? It's been such a long day. I could really use some cuddle time."

  "I dunno, Candace, you really hurt my feelings," he said, "I don't know if I really feel like cuddling." His broad shoulders hunched forward slightly and he looked so pitiful, so pathetic. I was defenseless against him. I reached across the table and took his hand, all too glad to soothe his wounds. I was just a sucker for a vulnerable guy and Brad knew just how to play it. Knew just how to play me.

  "Please, baby," I cooed, putting on my best caring girlfriend voice, "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. You know how I get when I'm hungry. You're a gorgeous, smart, talented guy, and I love you very much." It was an oft-repeated speech, but after almost a year of dating him, I knew just how to soothe his easily-bruised ego. I leaned across the table and kissed his forehead, running my fingers through his tawny brown hair, trimmed to perfection every other week by the fanciest hairdresser in a fifty-mile radius. "Let's just have a nice night together, okay?"

  Brad nuzzled my hand, sending a thrill through my stomach and... other places. God, he was cute. He forced a lopsided smile and fixed his deep brown eyes on me. "Okay, baby doll. I forgive you." He sat up straight and got back to the pizza again. "So anyway, this vintage Harley is like, the rarest. It's called a Flathead and it was used by the Army in World War II, and—"

  "Uh-huh. Wow. Oh, really? Cool." I zoned out, interjecting at the proper times. After months of having the same conversations, my responses were all mechanical. I felt sad, and I didn't know why. Somehow, Brad had managed to make me feel like I'd done something wrong when I hadn't, and trying to puzzle it out made my headache so much worse. All I could think about was how fat I felt after eating those pizza slices and how desperately I wanted Brad to tell me I was beautiful and sexy and how bad he wanted to fuck me. I knew that thinking that way made me a bad feminist or whatever, but I couldn't help it. I thought about Nina and hoped her evening was turning out better than mine.

  Back at my place, Brad and I settled on the couch to watch a movie. I badly wanted to abandon the pretense of movie-watching and get right to the sex, but Brad insisted on putting on a cable re-run of one of the Die Hard movies. I didn't even know or care which one. I hated action movies, I hated motorcycles and high finance; I hated pretty much everything Brad liked, and he never gave my interests or passions the time of day. I don't think he even knew what social work was. But none of that mattered to me as I curled up beside him on the couch, hugging his huge arm. He made me feel so small and protected, sometimes. Those were the moments I cherished the most.

  He shook me off his arm and took out a tiny pot pipe and a bag of weed from the pocket of his slacks. I groaned and scooted to the other end of the couch. He ignored me as he started crumbling the pot into the bowl.

  "Brad," I said, my voice meek. "You know I don't... I mean..." I sighed in frus
tration. He didn't even look at me. "You know I used to have a drug problem, hun, it's not good for me to—"

  "You don't have to smoke any," he said, tossing me the barest glance before he put the pipe to his lips, the lighter to the weed, and inhaled deeply. I shut my eyes tight as the familiar aroma of dank weed invaded all my senses. Fuck! FUCK! I thought it had been such a hard day, such a long week. Grad school was brutal and I was tired and as a recovering addict, there was just nothing worse than being forced to tolerate someone else's drug use. I used to love weed. Back then I used to be so troubled by anxiety and weed used to just make it all go away. But it also made my eating disorder much worse, and once the weed stopped working for me, I had turned to other drugs - harder drugs. I shook my head as the sweet, pungent fragrance assailed me, bringing back memories and impulses as well as all kinds of horrible feelings. Without a word, I got up off the couch and went into my bedroom. I lay down on the bed and curled up into a tight little ball, breathing deep through my nose, trying to just... ride it out. I was shaking with the desire to use. It would be so easy to go out there and take the pipe from him and get high off my ass. My god… and then I could have an epic binge session followed by an epic purge and probably wake up on the bathroom floor with the taste of vomit and chocolate in my mouth.

  Yeah, no. On second thought, probably not the best way to spend my evening. I sighed and fished the phone out of my pocket, sending Nina a text: What are you up to? Brad is getting high at my place again. So triggering.

  I lay my phone on my chest and stared at the ceiling when my phone started to vibrate. Nina was calling me and I sighed in relief. I had never been more grateful for a phone call in my life.

  "Hey," I said.

  "Hey, honey," Nina said, her voice so warm. I couldn't wait to see her over spring break. "Are you okay?"

  "Uh, yeah, I guess... I mean, I'm not high, so how bad can things be?" I said with a grim laugh.

  "That's good, I like you better when you're not high."

  "I like me better not-high, too," I said. "How's your night going?"

  "Not bad, actually, just finishing up some—"

  "Is that your lesbo friend on the phone?" Brad came lumbering into the room, his eyes bloodshot and clothes reeking of pot.

  "Hey Nina, I should go—"

  Brad snatched the phone away from me and I sat up, gaping at him. He'd never done anything like that before. I had also never seen him this high. A bolt of fear ran through me. He climbed onto the bed and started kissing me. All teeth. Ugh. I kissed back, because the alternative was to get into a fight with him, and I was far too tired to fight anything or anyone else that day.

  I relaxed a little as I felt his hands on my waist, slipping under my shirt, pulling at the waistband of my jeans. He didn't even have to unbutton them to get them off. He popped a button off my blouse as he took my shirt off. Timidly, I started to undress him, and he let me. I sighed, running my hands over his lightly-tanned skin and his big muscles. At least he was hot. Brad was vain as hell. His body was absolutely godlike. He was sculpted, waxed, bronzed, and buffed to perfection. I felt a flare of desire between my legs as I ran my hands over his pecs, sliding my fingers down to his washboard abs, to that triangular flat space right above his pubic region. I gave a little moan as I touched the waxed skin above the base of his dick. He grunted and slid his pants off. Without a warning, without another second's foreplay, he shoved himself inside me.

  I whimpered, because I wasn't even properly wet yet, and he didn't use lube, so it kind of hurt. Whatever pleasure I had been feeling quickly evaporated. He spent a few minutes thrusting in and out of me before pulling out, his dick going limp.

  "What's the matter?" I asked. "You didn't cum, did you?"

  "Nuh-uh." He lay down beside me, looking sleepy.

  "Wha... but... but why not?" I felt like it was somehow my fault, even though I had read that marijuana can interfere with sexual function.

  "You're kinda bloated from all the pizza, I'm just not feeling it," he mumbled, rolling over and turning his back on me.

  Words could never express the kind of pain I felt when he said that. My heart dropped out of my chest, tears welling up in my eyes. I sat up, mostly naked, and hugged my knees, trying to make myself as small as possible, silent tears spilling freely down my face. I couldn't decide who I hated more, myself or him. In that moment, however, I wished for both of us to be dead. In fact, I think part of me did start to die that night. Only later on, looking back, would I know which part that was.

  The part that cared about Brad.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Ty

  There I was, minding my own business, polishing a rack of glasses at the bar, when a beer bottle exploded against the wall beside my head.

  I set the glass down with a thump, glaring around for the culprit.

  As it turned out, the bottle was not meant to hit me; it was a stray from a tangle of four guys who were about to embark on an epic brawl.

  "God dammit," I grumbled, rolling up the sleeves of myleather jacket. I wore motorcycle boots too because, well, I rode motorcycles, but also because they were great for stomping. They had steel toes and made lots of noise on the wooden barroom floor as I approached the fight.

  All four guys were taller than me, but as soon as I grabbed one shoulder, the commotion ground to a halt. I snarled up at all of them, baring my teeth, "You fucks better cut that shit out, you don't fight in the Den. You just don't.Not on my property." I flashed them a smirk and patted my chest, where everyone knew I carried my favorite weapon: a knife. "You know what happens when you piss off theCanis Grandis. Now get the fuck outta here."

  It had taken me nine years of incessant fighting, nine years of bloodshed and turmoil, but eventually, people learned that arguing with me wasn’t a good idea. They knew I meant what I said. All four guys dispersed, downing the last of their drinks. Donning their jackets, they scrambled out of the bar, mumbling under their breath. I straightened myself out, rolled my sleeves back down, and went back behind the bar.

  "Jesus. You'd think they’re animals, not just named after 'em," I mumbled, rubbing my eyes.

  "I know, right? It's like they're a bunch of hardened criminals or something," snarked Charlie, my right-hand man. "Why are you even here, boss? We can take care of the Den."

  "Yeah, I know. I've got a deal with some guy later. Apparently, he's a total tool, and Manley thinks he'll buy this counterfeit Flathead off us for authentic price." I smirked to myself. "If he does, that'll be very good for us. We're talkin' thirty or forty grand, cash."

  "Holy shit. He's not a gangster?"

  "Nope. Just some rich moron. But Manley's already told him that there can't be a paper trail or whatever."

  "Ah."

  "I need the cash," I said.

  "Don’t we all," Charlie agreed. "It sounds a little sketchy though, boss..."

  "It'll be fine, this is what we do. I won't even be there for most of the deal. I’ll probably just hand off the bike. But, you know, the guys feel better if I'm around."

  "Sure, boss. Nobody fucks with you."

  "Damn right." The last person to fuck with me had their thumb ripped off with a pair of pliers. "You finish with these glasses, I gotta do some paperwork in the back."

  "I can take care of the paper—" Charlie started to say, but all I had to do was look at him and he backed off. "Okay, alright. The office is all yours." Charlie waved a hand at me and shook his head, grabbing the dish rag.

  I went back into the office, locking the door behind me. It was about seven in the evening, so there weren't many people around just yet. It wouldn't really be hoppin' until midnight, and then we'd most likely go until dawn. Before that ensued, however, I had a very important phone call to make, and I couldn't have anyone eavesdropping. I took out my phone and scrolled through the contacts, selecting Barbara. I felt bad having her in my phone as her first name, but I was also a notorious crime boss. Couldn’t have it any other way.

&
nbsp; And I couldn't have people knowing that my mom was my best friend.

  "Hi, Ma," I said when she picked up.

  "Hi, honey," Her voice made me feel calm, most of the time, but occasionally I had these waves of guilt, on account of my keeping so much of my life a secret from her. "How's your day going?" she asked.

  "No complaints so far, but the night is young," I laughed, "You never know what's going to happen at a bar. Plenty of time for shi— er, stuff— to go haywire."

  "I worry about you managing that place," she said. Of course, Ma had no idea that I was a criminal. I mean, I'm sure she had her suspicions that I did more than just manage a dive bar, but she no real reason to believe otherwise and I meant to keep it that way. My two lives were completely separate. Well, pretty much. My kid brother Justin knew more than she did, but still, not everything.

  "I know, Ma. Once I've got enough money saved up, I'll invest in a nice, wholesome family diner," I said, unsure whether I was joking or not. "Speaking of a diner, did you guys eat?"

  "Yes, I made pork chops and salad. I had Justin help with the salad dressing," she laughed.

  "Good, good... how's he doing today?"

  "Oh, he's all right," she sighed. "Had a doctor's appointment today. The fracture still hasn't healed properly, he keeps knocking his arm into things."

  I pressed my lips together hard. Ma didn't like me cussing, but I was so sick of having to hear about Justin's problems - not because I didn't care, but because I felt responsible for him, and getting him treatment was expensive. Every time I thought I was getting ahead financially, the poor kid would need something else. But I didn't blame him for it at all, I swear to God. I just felt bad for the kid. His life was so hard, having to put up with so much pain and being disabled. I wanted to cuss, not because I was angry but because I felt powerless. I felt guilty that we couldn't always afford his treatments. The insurance only covered so much, but he needed surgery and that wasn’t cheap. I gritted my teeth in frustration. If the deal with the rich idiot and the counterfeit bike went down tonight, then we could schedule Justin's surgery the next day. We had such a long history of missed payments and delinquent accounts that the hospital wouldn't do any "non-essential" treatments unless we could pay upfront. Apparently, treating my kid brother's broken arm was a "non-essential" procedure. Thinking about it made me want to stab someone - in fact, I thought, I just might stab someone tonight, just to remind those bastards who’s the boss.