THE NAUGHTY ONES: The Complete 5-Books Series

by Kristina Weaver

  That’s phase one.

  Phase two sort of blends with phase one. I’m going to make him so accident prone and weird that he’ll be too messed up to even think of flirting with a woman in front of me.

  I am indeed looking for him to know that I am the one messing with him. I need him to know. Mainly just because that’s the way I roll, and after getting over my embarrassment and hurt feelings, I decided not to be high school Barbie and pretend shit never happened while blushing or trying to look anywhere but at him.

  Every single time I screw him over, I want him to see me and know that he lost his shot and I now despise him.

  That should last long enough for me to get phase three settled in my heart. Phase three is the hard, bitter pill I do not want to swallow, sort of like the first time I gave a guy head. It hurts me and makes me hesitant to go the distance.

  But go all the way I will.

  This is the part where I stop caring and move on.

  Three simple steps. Easy to remember and short and sweet enough that I won’t relapse like most poor alcoholics who have twelve steps to get through.

  According to Jack and Freddie, the little rich asshole has had a burr up his ass for days and they’re tickled at the prospect of seeing me in action.

  They’re even helping me. Jack and Freddie have been pals with Woody since the first day of college, and under normal circumstances they’d never have gone against him concerning a woman.

  Lucky for me, they adore my ornery ass and consider me a sister.

  Just thinking about that affection reminds me of the first time I met these men and Woody. The night of Althea’s birthday party. Freddie met Callie and everything just sort of happened, and before we knew it we had three new men and their families in our lives.

  For the Levin clan’s part we all get along great, and the Joneses are all just as nuts too, so we basically don’t even have to try. Which is awesome since I only try when I don’t have to.

  But that also brings back the fact that every single person that has been added on, from Jack’s people to Woody’s family, Paul’s relatives and even Marks’s two moms and his brother—they all love me. All of them but the one I want.

  I could so do it with Finn Marks and be totally happy. The man is hot, easy to be around, and he’s into everything that is Indiana Harrison McGee.

  I wish to God we could be more than just friends, because I need someone who wants me, just for a little while until this hurt fades.

  “Dear? Indie, darling? Are you okay?”

  I snap out of it to see Jack, Callie, Freddie, Luci, Marks, Percy and Gruffy all staring at me, their frowns letting me know that I’ve been spaced out for quite a while.

  “What?”

  “You okay?” Marks asks, his green eyes seeing way more than a mysteriously cool chick like me will allow.

  “I’m fine, man, just chilling, enjoying my wine and waiting for the world’s biggest asshole to land.”

  I get a few sceptical looks, but hey, no one would dare mess with moi, not since three weeks ago when they tried to get all up in my grill about getting a roommate and I threatened to napalm their homes. After I stole their children, of course. Cute little tykes.

  “Okay then. He’s about to arrive. You set, honey?”

  “Yes, Jack, for the hundred and seventy-eighth million time. I won’t look at him, talk to him, or even breathe the same air within two feet of him. I got that, though God knows no one can penalize me if I go in for a nut punch. I’ll hold my breath, keep my eyes averted, and stay the course. We good?”

  “Yeah, good. Just don’t get mad. Remember, this will only work if—”

  “I act all out of character. I know. I’ll be a wallflower, though God knows I should have asked Luci and Dot for pointers first.”

  “Hey!”

  “Just kidding.”

  “No you weren’t”

  “Yeah, I wasn’t.” I laugh, ducking her swat just as the doorbell rings.

  I’m unaccountably nervous and feel like my skin is too tight when Jack comes back with Woody in tow, his covert wink so happy and expectant it takes a lot not to laugh.

  “Hi guys. Gruffy,” he says, kissing the old lady’s wrinkled cheek before stepping back and looking anywhere but at me.

  What a shocker.

  This would be awkward, I’m somewhat normal and human so it should be, but all I feel at this point is anger, the need to pull one over on him, and a startlingly easy delight at the thought of everyone duping him.

  “Let’s eat then, children, and perhaps Callie and Jack can get on home to their two and Luci and Freddie can stop fiddling with their phones every two minutes to check on their own little monsters.”

  We all follow orders and soon enough we’re all talking over each other and stuffing our faces. Jack talks almost nonstop about little Jack and her milestones—the kid is just gone two and walks, talks and babies her new brother like the little princess she is. Then there’s the Cage foursome who are running Freddie ragged at eight months are all Daddy’s little bruisers.

  I love baby talk so I participate willingly and get so engrossed in the whole spiel I don’t even have to force myself not to look at Woody, who Jack has conveniently sat directly across from me.

  I can feel him looking at me occasionally, and yeah, I know why. I look smoking hot in a red jersey dress that’s skintight and shows off my mamas, and my straight blond hair falls down my back and is clipped back from my face with diamante burettes.

  Jack said I should start off hiding my ink and nixing the makeup and then progress from there. Don’t ask why. I did and he told me he wanted to observe the reaction Woody would have to this side of me.

  Look, it’s not like I’m goth or emo or any of that crap. I don’t plaster my face with makeup and hang around rooftops looking like a pale-face, black-clothed gargoyle or anything.

  I just dress with some attitude and keep myself looking good while also giving off do-not-mess-with-me vibes. Some would liken me to a biker chick, and yeah, while I have been there and enjoyed that type of guy, I am not just one sort of woman.

  I can go trailer park, classy, suburban librarian—it’s all the same to me as long as I get to be me.

  But have you been you? Have you really been yourself, Indie?

  The answer is complicated. See, I have always wanted to do one specific thing with my life ever since I watched this old movie on TV when I was a kid.

  Don’t ask me what it was or who acted in it, I can’t tell ya, but what caught me was how happy the lead actress was all the way through. So now…

  I want to be a matchmaker, I just don’t know how to do that without failing, starving, or having others looking at me like I woke up possessed by something. I mean really, me, Indie, the smack-talking pessimist wants to make a living by hooking people up?

  In this day and age it seems ridiculous to even assume that could work, what with the Internet and all those dating sites online. Would I even make any money?

  In my dreams I do. At least when I allow myself to think of setting up an office in the spare bedroom and spending my days finding hopefuls their perfect match.

  I’m good at that, you see. Before Jack and Callie even knew what the truth was about that one night they spent together and couldn’t remember, I saw them and knew they’d be perfect together.

  I called Luci and Freddie and manipulated their circumstances and even sussed it out with Dot and Paul. Admittedly, I held out on Percy with Marks, even after understanding that they were a match, but give me a break. The guy hurt her and I didn’t want to push her.

  I just assumed she’d fid a new lid for that banged-up pot of hers.

  “Indie?”

  “Yeah?” I ask, looking up at Marks and just barely stopping my eyes from rolling when his eyes twinkle.

  “Finn’s back in town tomorrow and asked me to tell you this. He said, and I quote, ‘Tell that hot piece to get ready for a good time and long night.”


  Woody’s eyes zero in on me, so I just grin and put on the good old Indie sex voice.

  “Well, now, I could definitely go for a long night and some cuddling after.”

  “You’re a cuddler?” Freddie asks with a chuckle, making me frown and raise a brow.

  “What, you think because I have tattoos and could break a man’s arm in two moves that I’m all of a sudden male in my thinking? I’m a girl, Fred. I like to cuddle and do the non-hooker bit with guys.”

  Callie starts giggling. God, that woman has no restraint, and I want to slap her upside the head when I see her eyeballing Woody to see his reaction.

  “Hmm. That is true and I apologize, hun.”

  “You better, because despite what you may think, Cage, I do not do stranger hookups. All the guys I have been with I knew before the actual event. What? You have heard of sexually transmitted diseases, right?”

  Callie snorts at that and starts reminding me about the crabs event that almost killed me.

  “For your information that was one time. Once, and Percy over here dared me to do a casual without vetting the guy first or threatening him with bodily harm if he dared to infect me with the cooties. I am one hundred percent safe. Always. Like I wouldn’t be with the Gruffster threatening to skin me alive and scrub me with pool acid.”

  “Aye and good thing you listened to me, girlie, what with the way people are just throwing themselves around nowadays. Why I remember in my day—”

  “Whoooooaaa!” we all yell at once when she goes to start one of her sex stories.

  She huffs and throws me a wink. I take that one brief second to actually look at Woody. The guy looks green and is staring at his plate as we all start arguing about the cons of the quickie versus stalker dates.

  “Wait! Wait, wait, wait. Are you telling me you’d really prefer a guy getting all weird on you after one lousy night?” Marks laughs, making us all choke on our water.

  “Yeah. Be real, dude. What’s worse? Some gloomy figure staring at you from beneath a dim streetlight, or a wart on the nad bag? You can go to the cops and say there’s a creeper standing out in the cold and freezing his ass off on a nightly basis, or you can look at the family doctor and say whoopsie! I think I miscalculated this one!”

  Gruffy cackles and shakes her head as we laugh again. Then the conversation shifts to football, of all things, and Luci’s refusal to accept that her kids may all look like her husband but are all her in personality.

  By the time things come to a close and we’re rising to leave, I’m feeling great.

  Sheesh, this ignoring him thing is really working for me. What’s more, when I’m grabbing my coat and waving to the others who are already pulling out in their cars, Woody sidles up beside me and for once talks to me of his own free will.

  “Indie?”

  “Hmmm?”

  No eye contact. No intelligible words. I’m holding my breath so as not to sniff that aftershave or whatever it is that makes the beast smell that rocking delicious.

  “Er, can I give you a ride home?” he asks, seeming nervous as hell.

  My eyes take in the hands clenching in his pockets, the slight bounce on the balls of his feet, and the muted sound of swallowing. I do look up then, and boy am I glad I do because this is maybe my first glimpse of Woody Jones looking unsure of himself.

  I could take pity on the guy, I suppose, but then phase two wouldn’t happen and damn me, that’s the part I am actually looking forward to. I have a decision to make, though. Risk getting into a car with him again, or just do the bored shrug I’ve perfected for years and walk on home.

  Firstly, it may just be turning spring, but the weather is not great at night. Secondly, I know exactly what I’m going to do now.

  “Um, I was going to take a taxi to Finn’s place since Marks said he’ll be home sometime in the early hours. If you don’t mind swinging me that way, sure.”

  My words have the exact opposite effect I’d been hoping for, and I feel my eye tick when his expression closes and he shrugs just as casually.

  “I’m headed out for a date myself, so I wouldn’t mind.”

  Date?

  Crash and burn baby.

  Walk it off, McGee. No sense in letting it hurt when you knew the score from the get-go.

  “Nah, you go on ahead, Jones. I’m all good to grab a cab. Good luck and remember, no warts in the shorts and herps are for twerps.”

  And love…I can’t think of a thing to rhyme with love, but that shit sure is for suckers, huh.

  Chapter Three

  “Women need a reason for having sex, men just need a place.” –Billy Crystal

  Woody

  As I roll off Miranda Kern and fall onto the mattress I feel empty, dissatisfied, and still unreasonably annoyed at the thought of what happened tonight.

  I’m not usually the guy who has regrets where women are concerned, since I always go above and beyond in my need to make them feel adored and well sated after every affair. But tonight, after that dinner, I feel like shit.

  I feel like shit after what I did in that limo a week ago, and I feel worse after learning that instead of being down with some casual fucking, Indie is one of those mysterious women who actually does have standards.

  That makes what I did ten times worse than I’d initially thought.

  That is the confusing part. Sure I’d pulled away right after instead of stroking and petting her like I usually do after sex. I know why I did it, though, and while my reasoning is no excuse I was freaked the hell out!

  She’s family, a friend of sorts, and the one woman I vowed to myself never to go near because I knew it would mess things up. Hence my drinking that night, trying to avoid gravitating her way as I have been for months.

  That in and of itself made alarm bells ring in my head, but by the time I was well and truly blotto I forgot why it was that I was avoiding her and somehow convinced myself that one night wouldn’t hurt. Right?

  Wrong. I’ve screwed two women since then and no matter how depraved we got, it still feels like mechanics instead of good sex. Thanks to what I experienced while buried balls deep in the warmest sex I’ve ever tapped.

  “Woody?”

  Short-changing a woman has never been my style, thanks to having so many sisters and knowing that I’d kill any man who hurt them in any way, so instead of grabbing my clothes and running like I want to, I turn to Miranda and smile, softly running my fingers over her midnight black hair.

  “Yeah, sweets?”

  “Are you okay?”

  No. I’m feeling like hell, like a fucking player with no class. And I can’t stop wondering if that fuck Finn is with Indie right now giving her the care and kindness I didn’t provide after taking her in the back of my car.

  “Yeah, uh, sorry. It’s been a long day and I guess I’m just tired.”

  Miranda is the one and only woman I have ever had on the regular because she’s one of those chicks who knows the score and is okay with it. She was married once, happily, and so in love with her husband that when he died it was akin to killing the woman too.

  She’s spent three years getting past the point of not caring about life, but she’s still not in any way interested in more than a quick screw and maybe a no-strings friendship whenever the need arises.

  This has suited me just fine for the last year, and honestly I like being here for her when she needs someone as opposed to the fragile woman settling for some pig who could care less about her feelings.

  I guess I’m just not feeling like myself tonight or I’d have her spooned to my front while we murmur inconsequential shit at each other and just enjoy the afterglow that sex usually gives me.

  “Huh. That’s not like you, Wood. No offense but you’re usually easier to be around than this, and you never flag halfway through sex.”

  I blush at that honest, though kindly stated observation and turn onto my back, willing myself to relax. I’m the easy, playful playboy who leaves satisfied women in his wake and
never walks away without at least a kind word or a friendship from the experience.

  Women tend to like me enough that even knowing I will never go back for another round, they don’t want me gone altogether. It’s not me bragging or anything so egotistical, but I’m a good lay and an even better partner because I make it my primary goal to leave the woman with a sense of confidence and the knowledge that they are all special, beautiful, and completely worth more than just mediocre sex and no call the next day.

  That’s me. I love women and I love making them feel desirable and good about themselves.

  Why, then, did I expressly try and succeed in making Indie feel like shit after the best sex of my existence? Because the intensity I felt after coming so hard my dick whimpered scared the hell out of me.

  She scares the hell out of me because I like her. A lot. She’s brash, over the top, loud and in your face with all those tattoos and all that attitude. She reminds me of a buddy, or she did until I realized I got hard every time she was in the same room.

  I may be a good sex pal and a boost to women’s egos, but I never allow myself to feel anything for these women besides affection that is easy to deal with.

  But Indie…she made me feel open for the briefest moment and I didn’t like it.

  “You’re into someone!” Miranda yells excitedly, clapping her hands with glee as she jumps from the bed and grabs her robe.

  “What? No.”

  “You are! You so are! Oh God, I need to record this moment for prosperity’s sake. I never thought I’d see the day that the great Woody Jones would be so into a chick he’d be useless in bed,” she crows.

  “Hey! I was not useless.”

  She snorts and tosses me my boxers.

  “Maybe not useless, but that is the first time you’ve hardly been present during the main event. Come on, kid, let’s go grab something to eat and you can tell me all about this perfect girl who’s got your dick in the palm of her hand.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Save it. You like someone, I see the signs loud and clear as day. Who is she? Is she all shiny and perfect?”

  No. And that’s the problem. I’ve always craved the day I would find my one, and Pop told me once that when I saw her it would be like no other woman exists.