Good Girl Gone Badd Read online





  Good Girl Gone Badd

  Jasinda Wilder

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  Also by Jasinda Wilder

  Copyright (c) 2017 by Jasinda Wilder

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  GOOD GIRL GONE BADD

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  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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  Cover art by Sarah Hansen of Okay Creations. Cover art copyright (c) 2017 Sarah Hansen.

  ISBN: 978-1-941098-76-9

  Created with Vellum

  1

  Baxter

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  Dude. This chick, man. She's fine as fuck. But the East Coast, old money, wealthy kind of classy fine. Not, like, bar honey, ring bunny sexy, or even model hot, or movie star gorgeous, or porn star fuckable. She's...one in a million. An actual factual motherfuckin' angel from heaven.

  Evangeline du Maurier is...god, I don't have the words. She's a lady. Not a chick, not a honey, not a babe, or a dame, or any of that vaguely condescending, objectifying terminology. She's a goddamn lady.

  I suppose a thorough description is in order.

  Five-eight, five-seven. A true hourglass shape, as in she probably has a literal set of 36-24-36 measurements--I feel compelled, for the sake of honesty, to point out here that measurements and sizes and whatever else don't define a woman to me. I'm just saying, those are Evangeline's measurements by my estimation, and she fuckin' rocks the look so hard it makes me dizzy. Her hair is jet black, so black it shimmers and glints and gleams, thick and long and loose, pulled around the back of her neck to hang down her left shoulder. Green eyes, the shade of a maple leaf in the summer sun. Tanned skin, but naturally tan, not fake or spray tan. A combination of a lot of time in the sun and a natural caramel hint to her skin.

  Sharp, exotic, symmetrical facial features, plump lips in a perfect cupid's bow. Not a lot of makeup as far as I can tell, nor a lot of jewelry. A pair of round diamond studs in her ears, a full carat at least, a bracelet with little charms and shit dangling from it, and a fine platinum chain with a tiny key pendant, a single chocolate diamond in the center of the head of the key. Her clothes look expensive, and I'm pretty sure her purse and shoes should be insured.

  Money.

  But understated money, not flashy look how rich I am money.

  And right now, she's just barely on her feet, leaned back against the wall of a closed bakery a block from the bar, gasping for breath, hyperventilating. She's got blood spattered across her face and clumping in her hair, there's blood dotting her forehead and hairline and down across her nose and chin. It's all a result of that punch I threw to lay out McDermott. An asshole move, I admit; I punched the fucker that way on purpose, knowing the splatter would hit her. I mean, it was obvious she'd wandered into the wrong end of town by accident, but she was staring at me like she'd never seen a real man before, and looked disgusted at what she'd probably term a vulgar display of brutality or some fancy, Hah-vahd educated highfalutin bullshit like that. She's got a bit of an East Coast lilt to her voice. Arch, crisp, educated, and formal.

  She's a good girl.

  A virgin even, maybe.

  But then again, the way she looked at me? Maybe not. I don't know. I can usually sniff out and avoid virgins as if I'm a bloodhound, but this woman is so far outside my realm of understanding that I don't even know how to read her.

  Her shirt is all bloody. It's ivory or cream colored--words for not-quite white, but almost, in my understanding--and it's sexy as fuck. Figure-hugging silk, a deep V-neck exposing a good bit of cleavage, sleeveless. Again, classy and sexy, expensive looking without being in-your-face. Her hands are shaking, trembling like crazy. There are dirty handprints on her shirt, from those fuckin' assholes. I really do hope brother Zane takes care of them properly, as they deserve.

  I still have her hand in mine. I just kissed the back of her hand, like a storybook knight. Felt stupid doing it, but it got her eyes on mine, and her teeth caught at her lower lip, and her struggle to breathe seemed to intensify momentarily, and then she sucked in a sharp breath and yanked her eyes away from mine.

  She'd said she trusted me; time to make good on that. I take her other hand in mine and lift her to her feet. "Come on. Let's get you that drink."

  She nodded, and let me guide her into a walk. Not quite a full block later, we arrived at the front door of Badd's Bar and Grill. At one in the morning it was still crowded with people spilling out the door, which was propped open by a chair, on which sat Bast, my oldest brother. His burly, tattooed forearms crossed over his chest as he closely scrutinized the IDs of a quartet of college-age girls waiting to be admitted. He jerked his head toward the interior of the bar, indicating the girls could go in, and then his eyes cut to mine, and Evangeline.

  "Jesus, Bax. The fuck did you do now?" He left the chair and took a step toward us. "Honey, is this ugly gorilla bothering you? Say the word and I'll break his legs for you."

  Evangeline shrank away from Bast, which was understandable. He's taller than any of us at six-four, and he's built like a brick shithouse. He's covered in tattoos, and he's a surly, intimidating bastard. I may be big and beefy and scary looking, but I make up for it by having a winning personality, a show-stopping, panty-melting grin, and enough charm to knock an entire sorority house on their collective, PINK sweatpants-clad asses. Bast is just scary, because he comes across pretty much like the surly, intimidating bastard that he is--unless you're his wife Dru, around whom he melts into this tail-wagging, golden retriever puppy dog-eyed soppy mush basket.

  "I didn't do anything, you oversized cock waffle," I snap. "I helped, as a matter of fact."

  "You're telling me you're not responsible for the blood all over her?" Bast asked, an eyebrow wryly arched.

  I rolled my eyes and sighed. "That's irrelevant." I shoved him away. "Your wifey awake?"

  He nodded "Probably. Why?"

  I shrug. "Evangeline needs to clean up and change."

  Bast waved. "Yeah, she's up there. You're gonna catch hell for this, though. You know that, right?"

  "For what? I'm helping a damsel in distress."

  Bast snorted. "Okay, Sir Galahad." He addressed Evangeline. "If he gets out of hand, let me know. Okay? I'm serious."

  Evangeline just stared at Bast with an unreadable, blank expression on her face, and then she looked at me. "You promised me a drink, a shower, and some clean clothes, not amusing banter."

  "She means a shower alone, Bax," Bast said, smirking. "Keep that in mind, yeah?"

  "No shit, you ugly oaf. I am capable of chivalry, you know." I made sure that comment was the last word between us and then led Evangeline through the crowded bar, keeping a tight grip on her hand as we wove between clumps and clusters of sweaty, boozing, dancing customers.

  The twins were on stage tonight, doing an acoustic set, with Canaan playing an acoustic guitar and Corin sitting on one of those box-drum things, which he slapped with his hands to create a rolling