Good To Be Bad

by Lili Valente

  “It’s been a great few months.” Her gaze flicks down my bare chest to my suit pants and back up again, her naughty grin returning. “And a great night.”

  “So great,” I agree, curling my fingers around her hip and pulling her close.

  “You know, just because I can’t go home with you,” she begins, looping her arms around my neck, “doesn’t mean you can’t stay the night here if you want. We could sleep in, have lazy morning sex, and when we wake up, we can order pie and coffee delivered from this super cute shop on the corner.”

  I admit I’m relieved. At first, I thought she was a see-you-later-er. Or a wham bam-thank-you-sir-er. But what she’s describing suits my speed these days.

  “Sounds perfect.” I cup her ass as I bend, brushing my lips over hers, electricity bristling across my skin as we touch.

  And then her scent is flooding my head again—flowers and spice, now with a top note of sex. She smells like a woman who’s been thoroughly ravaged, salty and sticky and oh so sweet.

  I forget about everything but making her come for me again, this time with her hands braced on the kitchen sink while I play with her tits and take her from behind, whispering filthy things about how good her tight, wet little pussy feels on my cock when I’m fucking her. Promising I’m going to fuck her until she can’t stand upright on her own.

  And I always keep my promises.

  We’re up until nearly four a.m., and by the time I wake in the morning, Gigi’s gone.

  But there’s a note on her pink flamingo sheets.

  Delivery was going to take 45 minutes, so I ran down the street to get coffee and pie myself. Be back in a jiff. Feel free to leave your clothes off. My coconut cream is delicious licked off all the places I want to lick you. Xo -Gigi

  Grinning, I swing my legs out of bed and hurry to throw on my clothes, determined to dash across the street to my shop to grab some tea and be back in this bed naked before Gigi returns.

  I adore that woman and can’t wait to taste her pie, but I won’t drink coffee for anyone—no matter how tight and sweet her pussy or delightful her company.

  On a hook in the front hall, I find a key hanging from a Rosie the Riveter keychain. I make sure it works for the front door then take the stairs to the ground floor two at a time.

  I’m already across the street—thank you light Sunday morning traffic—and unlocking the shop when the texts start coming in—

  *shocked emoji face*

  *angry emoji face*

  *head exploding emoji face*

  *GIF of cat hissing at the camera*

  *GIF of woman screaming “betrayed” as she rolls down a hill covered in snow*

  *GIF of a stick-figure man approaching a stick-figure woman with knife, man says “here hold this,” stabs knife in girl’s stomach, turns and walks away*

  “What the…” Scowling, I scroll up to the number. The one I entered last night.

  My stomach drops.

  I look up to see Gigi standing across the street, looking adorable in a pair of red overalls and a white T-shirt with her hair tied up in a red and white polka dot scarf. She has a paper bag, which I assume holds pie, looped over her arm and a cardboard tray with two coffees in one hand. With the other, she’s texting a mile a minute.

  Texting and glaring at me with murder in her eyes.

  7

  Gigi

  West looks baffled.

  Beautiful and baffled, but I’m not buying the innocent act for a second.

  No wonder he wanted to steal me away for a sex marathon. To overdose me on orgasms so I wouldn’t realize he’s the villain who bought the shop across the street.

  “What’s wrong?” he calls, lifting his phone, his expression confused. “Why are you virtually rolling down a hill covered in snow?"

  Ha! As if he doesn’t know.

  He could have picked any moment between arriving at my place last night and when I promised him pie early this morning to reveal that he’s the owner of the evil tea shop across the street.

  Instead, he kept that information to himself.

  Probably so he could spy on me, eat my delicious pie, and steal the recipe. Because if his tongue is half as fluent in pie ingredients as it is in orgasms, reverse engineering by taste would be a snap for him.

  I can see it now, his plan to sus out the competition. And I was so clueless and trusting and drunk on orgasms and unicorn peen that I missed the opportunity to take similar advantage of him.

  I mean, for research, I could choke down his horrible hard English scones or meat pies or whatever gross thing he’s going to sell over there. But I won’t have a chance now, will I? Because he lied to me and deceived me, just like every other guy I’ve seriously dated.

  But instead of just wounding my heart, he could have hurt my business. I’m pretty sure I made it crystal clear to him that my business is my top priority. So much so that I put work responsibilities ahead of epic sex-fests and magical tongues with pie identification superpowers.

  “Please, Gigi.” He motions toward the shop behind him. “Is it because of this? If so, I can explain.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you can.” I shoot death rays at him with my eyes, fueled by ravaging hurt and disappointment. “After all, how perfect is that?” I pour on a thick English accent, imitating him when he learned I ran Sweetie Pies. “You could have said something then. But nope. You were like let me show her my perfect cock and my perfect body and my perfect accent and give her fifty million orgasms and, mwahahaha, how perfect is that?”

  An old woman wrapped in a flowered shawl on her way to the trash bin by the bus stop shoots a judgmental look my way.

  “He’s awful. And British,” I tell her.

  Her gaze cuts to him then back to me, and then she nods in solidarity.

  See? She gets it!

  But I should also probably stop screaming about cocks on the street corner.

  Releasing my ire for a nanosecond, I say more gently, “You didn’t say a word when I told you the name of my business. The name, West.”

  “Like I said, Gigi, I can explain,” he says, sounding sincere.

  But I won’t be fooled.

  No way. I don’t have room in my life for this kind of treachery. This is why dating is a minefield. And West Territory is just as deadly as Parrot Man Land and all the rest.

  I need to bolt. It hurts to listen to him. My chest aches, and I feel stupid.

  So stupid.

  I liked him. Dammit. One night, and I already liked the man.

  I gird myself with my best tough-as-nails attitude.

  Chin all the way up.

  “I don’t want your explanations,” I call back. “And I no longer wish to spend my morning with you. I’m going to see my grandmother, a woman who appreciates pie and has never lied to anyone. Ever. In her entire life.”

  “I wasn’t lying, love.” He has the nerve to grin, like he can flirt his way out of this as easily as he flirted his way into my bed. But I am much more protective of my pie shop than I am my pussy. Hurt my pussy, and only I suffer. Hurt my shop, and you endanger my entire family legacy.

  “Let’s go back to your place,” he says. “Talk this out.”

  “I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Please be gone by then,” I say. “And don’t bother texting. I won’t read them.”

  And with that, I spin on my heel and head for the subway entrance on the other side of the traffic circle. He calls after me, something about “not being ridiculous” that only stiffens my resolve.

  I am not ridiculous! I’m in charge of my family’s business. I’m in control of the entire kit and caboodle. Everything is riding on me, and I can’t afford to make mistakes right now. I can’t sleep with the enemy, even if he is the very best at both spanking and pulling hair.

  Sob. Thank God I got extra pieces of pie so West could try a variety of flavors. A morning like this calls for Gram girl-talk and serious pie therapy.

  Gram used to say pie may not cure heartbrea
k, but it certainly makes it easier to swallow.

  Everything goes down better with a slice of Chocolate Dream.

  And she’s right.

  I stab my fork into a slice, chew, then chase it with coffee.

  Strong, black coffee that fuels me.

  “Trying to poke a hole through Gram’s good china?” my brother, Harrison, asks, arching a perfectly plucked brow at my pie plate.

  I got a two-fer, since my brother is at Gram’s house for their Sunday morning poker game. Gram already cleaned up—she was scooping fifty bucks in chips into her hot little hands when I swept into her Brooklyn townhouse in a cloud of righteous fury.

  I wrap my arm lovingly around the dessert plate with the kitschy dancing chipmunk illustration. As Gram says—why eat on plates with vines when you can eat with dancing chipmunks?

  “I would never wound such a beautiful thing. I love beautiful things. I love this plate and this sweet little fork. And I love you,” I say to my brother, who accepts my love with an affectionate roll of his ice-blue eyes.

  I turn to Gram, my growing-old-gracefully idol with her starburst smile lines and Helen Mirren grace, “And I love you.” I inhale deeply, then gesture to the feline in her lap. “I love Joan too, even though she detests me.”

  “She detests everyone, sweetie pie. She’s a cat.”

  “But I do not even like that man,” I continue, “I mean, really. Who chooses to peddle tea when there’s coffee to be had?”

  “Tea lovers,” Harrison offers, so deadpan he should deliver the weekend updates on Saturday Night Live.

  “Gag.” I dig into the pie, devouring another forkful before I add, “Tea lovers are the new men with parrots. But never fear. I have plans. Plans to hate him for all eternity. Mark my words.”

  Harrison’s arched brow asks, are you sure you can pull that off, little sis? His brows have their own language, and I am fluent in it.

  “Yes, I can pull it off,” I answer.

  He snorts. “And how exactly do you plan to do that, Miss I Love Everything and Want to Give the World A Hug? And a piece of pie?”

  I huff. “I do not love everything.” Though I admit he’s right about the pie. There are people going hungry every day. They deserve pie. For sustenance and solace in their times of trial.

  Gram chuckles as she strokes the gigantic cat’s head, and Joan emits an appreciative purr, one that I believe translates as I permit you three more strokes of my royal fur before I leap off you, retreat to a window, and fastidiously lick the spot you touched. With her free hand, Gram scoops out a slice of grapefruit. “Says the girl who just expressed her love for plates and forks and everyone in this room, including the world’s most people-hating cat.”

  “That,” I say, pointing to the offending citrus as exhibit A. “I do not love grapefruit. Especially with coffee. What are you doing to your tastebuds, woman?”

  “I don’t mind it,” she offers mildly as she takes another spoonful. “And grapefruit is good for you.”

  “So is kale,” I say. “And I definitely don’t love it. Come to think of it, I hate it, along with beets and turnips. Also, I’m deeply opposed to pears. They taste like sand, they’re the worst Christmas gift ever, and even I can’t make them work in a pie without drowning them in caramel sauce.”

  Harrison removes his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose, laughing. He raises his face, a smirk still playing on his lips. “Yes, I recall your third-grade presentation on the loathsomeness of pears. One of the few times I can remember you complaining about anything Mom put on the table.” He takes a beat and locks eyes with me. “And that’s my point.”

  “You’re not a hater, sweetie pie,” Gram agrees as she runs a hand down the cat’s smoky head, and right on cue, the gorgeous beast leaps off her lap.

  “But I am!” I press a fist to my chest. “I am full of righteous fury and indignation. Like Joan. Or maybe like Hellfire or Brimstone or whatever those comic book characters are. Ghost Rider? Something like that?”

  Harrison lifts his hands in surrender. “Don’t ask me. I don’t read comics.”

  “Nor do I,” Gram puts in. “If it didn’t happen in a salacious celebrity memoir, I didn’t read it. Speaking of, did you hear that when Patti LuPone was fired from Sunset Boulevard, she trashed her dressing room? Smashed her lamp and her mirror,” Gram says, sounding enjoyably scandalized by the Tony winner’s rage. “That woman has some serious chutzpah.”

  “Idea.” Harrison sits up straighter. “You could name a pie after her during the Mrs. Sweet Stuff competition. Call it the Seriously Sweet Chutzpah, and be sure to use caramel for the sweet and something salted for the serious bit. But no pears.”

  Harrison is great with plays on words for pies. He’s a book editor at Bailey and Brooks Publishing and has nabbed some big titles in recent years.

  “It could work,” I say, shoveling in more pie. “Though I confess I’m not a huge fan of the diva thing. I keep thinking of all the poor people who have to clean up the mess after a famous person throws a fit.”

  “And you prove my point again,” Harrison says. “You’ve hated three things in your life.” He counts them off on his fingers. “The aforementioned food items, bad fashion–”

  “Well, bad fashion is unacceptable,” I sputter.

  “And spiders,” he continues.

  Gram chuckles and takes another bite of her sub-par citrus snack.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask.

  “You don’t even hate spiders,” she says with a knowing grin. “Not really. Whenever you found one in your room, you’d ask Grandpa to catch it in a jar and put it outside.”

  “Because I’m not a killer.”

  “Our point, exactly,” Gram says. “You’re a sweet soul to the bone, pumpkin. I don’t see you managing to hate this man for all eternity, especially since he actually sounds… Well, rather delightful.”

  My jaw drops. “You’re siding with the enemy?”

  Harrison whips out his phone. “His name is West? His shop is Tea and Empathy?”

  I scowl. “Yes.”

  Ten seconds later, my brother swivels the phone around, revealing a smiling photo of West and a tiny sprite who has his nose and elegant brow in feminine miniature. His sister? “Weston Byron. Hmmm… I don’t know, G. If a man that hot took me home and tossed me up against—”

  I shoot him a do not go to dirty land in front of Gram nostril flare and mime zipping my lips.

  Gram rolls her eyes. “As if I don’t know how that works. Proceed.”

  Harrison leans back in his chair. “All I’m saying is if a man like that took me out for drinks and beguiled me with his wit and sensual prowess, and then the next morning said he wanted to explain why he hadn’t mentioned he worked at Lerner and Lowe Publishing…” He pauses to pin me with his stare. “I’d listen to every word then say fine, handsome, let’s go get a sandwich.”

  Gram pats his hand. “You always were a good listener, Harrison.”

  I whip my gaze to her. “Gram! This is a big deal! This is a betrayal. He tricked me.”

  “Gigi, think about it. What sort of person is so nefarious that he scouts out the baker across the street, follows her to an obscure party, where he just happens to share her odd, niche interests—”

  I start to insist that Rubik’s Cube isn’t all that niche, or odd, but she presses on.

  “Then treats her to drinks and wonderful conversation, and ends the night with generous, mutually enjoyable sex? Just to scope out the competition? Isn’t that a little…elaborate? And how common is sweet shoppe espionage, really?”

  I start to protest, but that’s the thing about Gram–she’s always been my moral compass. She has a keen sense of people and what makes them tick. She’s calm, thoughtful, and exceedingly rational.

  “It sounds like—perhaps—he was so enchanted by you that he wanted to enjoy your wit and charm and save the shoptalk for later. Consider that?” she asks gently.

  Rationally.

/>   Calmly.

  And that does sound…nice.

  “What’s the worst thing that could happen if you give him another chance?” Harrison chimes in, then silently mouths, More orgasms?

  Hmmm…would that be the worst?

  Or the best?

  Annoyance slithers through me for a few more minutes, but once my coffee cup is drained, my frustration has vanished too.

  Maybe I did overreact. Maybe I assumed the worst without just cause. Maybe the last few years of dating The Bachelors from the Weirdo Lagoon has colored my world view.

  Might I have given up on West too soon?

  “You’re right,” I grumble. “I should talk to him. At least give him a chance to explain.”

  “Excellent choice,” Gram says.

  Harrison taps my cell phone on the table beside my empty cup. “Do it now. Send him a text before he thinks you’re cray cray.”

  “Which he very well might,” Gram adds.

  They may have a point.

  The longer I think on it, the more sweet shoppe espionage does seem a little out there.

  I grab my phone, about to tap out an olive branch message when I spot another email from the competition organizers.

  The subject line reads Good News, Contestants.

  Yay! Good news! This email is clearly a sign. I’m being calm and thoughtful, and the universe is rewarding me.

  I take a moment to practice my ritual—reminding myself of the lovely things in life. I have great friends and the best family in the world, so much so that it hardly matters that I’m not close to my parents.

  And I have Sweetie Pies, and my darling and I have a lot to accomplish together.

  Maybe, just maybe, I can have it all—including another date with West.

  “Fine, West is probably not kale,” I say to my brother as Gram takes the plates to the kitchen. “He’s more like a whiskey sweet potato pie with cinnamon and nutmeg.”