Goode To Be Bad Read online

  Goode To Be Bad

  Jasinda Wilder

  Contents

  1. Lexie

  2. Myles

  3. Lexie

  4. Myles

  5. Lexie

  6. Myles

  7. Lexie

  8. Myles

  9. Lexie

  10. Myles

  11. Lexie

  12. Myles

  13. Lexie

  14. Myles

  15. Lexie

  16. Myles

  17. Lexie

  18. Myles

  Epilogue

  Also by Jasinda Wilder

  Lexie

  Listening to someone talk on the phone is just plain annoying, especially when you’re out shopping or in a restaurant, but I had to admit that even my short attention span was pretty engaged with the one-sided conversation I could hear from my spot on the sofa. Apart from being impossible to ignore, it was not your everyday exchange. How often do you hear your boyfriend talk about buying a jet?

  “No, Mick, listen, I don’t want a stupid Learjet. I don’t fly anywhere near enough for it to be worth shelling out twenty-some million. I ain’t that fuckin’ flush yet, my man.” Myles was on the phone with his manager and his money guy. “Yeah, I get that I can take out a loan, but I’m not throwing that kinda money around for fucking shits and giggles. And Tony––you’re my money manager. I figured you’da been on the other side of this argument…a what? Cirrus? Show me.” He pulled the phone away from his ear, put it on speaker, and flicked through photos. “Fuck that. It’s goofy looking. I’m not cheap, you know that. If I’m gonna spend money on something, I’m gonna do it right. I’m just saying I’m not sold on the need for a private jumbo jet or whatever the fuck you’re pitching. I want to get to Alaska without flying commercial. That’s it. Why not charter something?” He winced. “I don’t know what I’m doing long term, guys. I don’t. I’m sorry. I’m not planning beyond the overseas leg of this tour…because, Mick, I got a feeling shit is changing for me. Not going into details because I ain’t got details. But yes, I do imagine it will entail more time here in Texas.”

  I was on his couch—our couch—in his…our…condo in Dallas. How complicated. It was his—I owned nothing. But I had a key, half his closet, and the place felt like mine. Which was the scary fucking part.

  I waved my arms to get his attention and said, “Let’s just fly commercial, Myles.”

  He shook his head, not even looking at me. “No, babe. You don’t get it. I can’t.”

  “You’re too famous, huh?” I knew I sounded snarky, but I was feeling irritated. “We can just skip the trip.”

  He glared at me. “We’re going to Alaska. I’m meeting your mom and sister, and you’re spilling your guts. It’s happening.”

  “There’s no reason for you to spend millions of dollars on this dumb trip.”

  He muted the phone and came over and sat beside me. “Mick and Tony have been after me to get a plane for a while now. The crew and equipment drive around like usual, but the band and I travel separately in the tour bus. I’ve been resisting the whole flying bit. I like being on the road. I like the bus. I like being with the crew, hanging out, partying with them. Also, I’m kinda cheap, and jets are big money.”

  “I know you’re, like, doing really well, but can you really afford a twenty-million-dollar jet?” I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer.

  He shrugged. “I could get…well, Tony, my wealth manager, says I could get an essentially unlimited line of credit. He’s got fancy ways of talking about finances and finagling things. I don’t like thinking about money, honestly. I’m like Crow in that regard—I don’t think that putz has a clue how much he’s worth—how much I’ve paid him over the years, or how well his wealth manager has done for him. I’ve always had Tony look over Crow’s finances once a year, just to be sure things are on the up-and-up. I still do, even though he’s out on his own now—best thing he ever did was leaving the band.”

  “How well off is he?” I ask.

  “He’s a New York real estate tycoon and he don’t even know it, or at least not the extent of his holdings or how much they’re netting him.” He snorts. “Plus he’s pulling in thirty-five percent of the royalties my songs earn. Our songs, I should say. I get thirty, fifteen goes to the other guys in the band, and the rest goes back into our company. I was with a big-name label for the first few years, but they wanted to push me more commercial, more pop-flavored and we weren’t fuckin’ having any of that, so we started our own label. I’ve got all of Dad and Grampa’s music, meaning I own the rights to their entire combined estates and everything, and someday I’m going to remaster and rerelease their stuff. Do some covers of it, shit like that.”

  He glanced down at his phone.

  “Oh shit, I forgot I had them on mute.” He unmuted the phone. “Sorry, fellas.”

  “I got other clients, Myles,” Tony said, his voice deep and gruff and Brooklyn-accented. “I don’t have time to sit around on hold.”

  “Sorry, sorry.” Myles sighed. “Okay. I’ll give you five million to play with. Whether you buy something outright or use it as down payment on something fancy, I don’t care. But don’t pauper me on this, yeah? I don’t need a twenty-passenger fuckin’ airliner. I ain’t Kanye or Jay-Z. Small, luxurious, fast. Nice. But not ostentatious and glitzy.”

  Tony sighed. “Fine, sounds good. When do you need it by?”

  “Yesterday, I guess. I want to be up in Alaska by Wednesday, I might as well get it sooner than later since I gotta be in Japan by the end of the week after, and then we’ve got the international tour after that. Might as well travel in style.”

  “It’s a short order, but I got it.” Tony tapped away at a keyboard on his end of the line. “I’ll have something for you in a day or two. I’ll send you a package to look over.” A pause. “You want a full crew?”

  “Like flight attendants?” Myles said. “Nah. Just stocked with the same kind of stuff my bus would have. I can take care of myself, and so can the guys. I do want a full cockpit crew, though, and the best available. I ain’t crashing because a half-rate pilot got tired and had no backup.”

  “Smart. Heard some stories, I’ll tell ya.”

  Myles snorted. “Yeah, me too. Scared me shitless. Make sure the pilots are vetted ten ways to Sunday. Perfect records, lots of flight time. I want Jesus himself flying that jet, yeah?”

  “I got you, Myles. Flying out of Dallas?”

  “For now, yeah. I’ll let you know if and when that changes. First flight will be Dallas to Ketchikan as soon as it can be arranged, so make sure that gets filed and we’re ready to go the second the jet and the pilots are ready.”

  “Will do. Okay, boss, I’ll talk to you in Tokyo, if not before.”

  I waited for Myles to end the call, and then he turned to me and I said, “So. You bought a jet?”

  He laughed. “Not quite yet. Knowing Tony, he’s gonna ignore me and get me something stupid. As long as I can afford it, I guess it’s fine. He knows I don’t like debt, so he won’t go too bonkers. Hopefully.”

  I laughed. “You just gave him five million dollars to spend. That’s bonkers.”

  “Nah, jets are stupid expensive. Especially if you want to fly international, which I do. But I only need it big enough for the band, and maybe a few extras. Ten-person max, I’d say. Tony ain’t stupid, and he knows my taste.”

  I sighed. “Five million dollars.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t wig out about it, Lex. It’s just money. I’d be doing this gig if I was still in a beat-up old church van hauling my gear in a trailer. I don’t mind admitting I like the fame most of the time, and the money all the time, but I ain’t fixated on it. I’m just me.”

&n
bsp; “How much are you worth?” I asked out of curiosity. Getting to know Myles over the past couple of months, I never saw him be stupid with money, nor flaunt it in gaudy or ostentatious ways.

  He shrugged. “Ten? Fifteen? I don’t know. I had Tony take a big percentage of my income and invest it from the very beginning, so that if this gig ever fizzles out, or some sort of crazy shit happens, I’ll be okay. He’s a wizard with money, so he’s done really well by me. I still give him at least fifty percent of my total net income after taxes to invest, and I try to live off of twenty-five percent or less, putting the rest into savings. So I’ve banked a lot, and invested a lot, in diverse areas—real estate, stocks, shit like that. I’m part owner of a minor league baseball club here in Dallas, and I’ve got a few used car lots, a handful of strip malls, some condo buildings. Lots of business, lots of diversity, lots of various streams of income, so if my music stops earning, I’ll have income.”

  “Smart.” I gestured at the building. “So what about this condo building?”

  He grinned. “I own it. Actually, I bought the land it’s on, and invested in the builder who built it, and funded the project. I didn’t design this condo itself, and I never planned on living here full-time, so it’s not mine, in that sense. It’s just a penthouse condo and it hasn’t sold to anyone else yet so, until it does, I use it as a home base when I’m in town. If it sells, I’ll use one of the others. And actually, my local real estate guy says he’s got somebody sniffing around.”

  “So just from music, how much would you be worth?”

  He frowned. “I dunno. Not that much, but not chump change.”

  “Must not be if five million dollars for a jet is something you can do.”

  He nodded. “It’s an investment. I’m gonna lease the bus to another act, and when I’m not using the jet I’ll charter it out and make bank on it. Might even end up with another one and run a little line out of the DFW airport.”

  I shook my head, laughing. “I would never have thought of you as a businessman.”

  He shrugged. “Well, it’s a result of my upbringing. I grew up dirt poor. Dad and Grandpa didn’t make shit. Grandpa did the grind for fifty years, saved enough to buy a little spread to retire on, and Dad did a little better, but he never invested, never saved, and turned out he had a gambling problem, so by the time he died he was broke as shit. Living with Crow when Dad was touring, I wasn’t…poor, per se, because the club had money and so did his parents, but it wasn’t mine. They just fed me, clothed me, and housed me out of the goodness of their hearts. Dad would send money once a month, but it was never enough to really keep me the way I needed. But he had a drinking issue and the gambling issue, and was grinding the honky-tonk circuit for a few grand a night plus tips. I had nothing of my own, is the point. So when I started making money, I vowed I’d be smart about it. Save, invest, and have plenty to retire on.”

  I laughed. “And here’s me with barely two pennies to rub together.”

  He tilted his head, eyeing me. “Is there something you need, Lex?”

  I snorted. “Yeah, actually. I need to figure out my fucking life.” I smiled at him, going for sweet. “I’m not asking for money, Myles. And I never will.”

  “You can, though. If you need anything just let me know.”

  I fought back irrational anger. “I know, Myles. You give me whatever I ask for and then some. But I’m not a sugar baby. I don’t do handouts. I’m uncomfortable even living here with you, if that’s what you call this thing we’ve been doing the last couple months. I should be paying you rent.”

  He sounded angry. “That’s fucking stupid, Lex.” He twisted on the couch, grabbed my hands, and squeezed. “We aren’t, like, a thing, yet, and I get that. Not putting labels on anything. Don’t have to talk about us, none’a that shit. But, just bein’ clear as I can here—we are together, at least in some capacity. I got plenty, okay? I just fuckin’ told you how much. I’m as confident as I can be that you ain’t a gold digger, especially if you’re talking about paying me rent for crashing at a condo I own—when I own the fuckin’ building, babe. I could sign the deed and give you a whole fuckin’ unit if I wanted. This very one.” He arched an eyebrow. “Say the word, and this penthouse is yours. My agent might shit his pants if I gave it away, but hell, it’s mine and I can do what I want.”

  I sighed. “I appreciate the gesture and the idea, Myles, but I don’t want your condo. I don’t take handouts, freebies, spending cash, none of it.”

  “You’re not a sugar baby, Lex. You’re my girlfriend.”

  I winced. “I thought we weren’t doing labels.”

  He growled. “I mean, shit. You been in bed with me night after night for two months. If we’re not seeing anyone but each other, that’s a thing, ain’t it? I ain’t askin’ you to go tell all the world you’re my girl, and we don’t have to put that boyfriend-slash-girlfriend label on it if you don’t want. I get you may not want that right now. It’s a scary step for people like us. But at least acknowledge that we’re a thing.”

  My gut flipped. Heart squeezed. “Myles, I…”

  He shook his head. “So we’re just sex, then.”

  “NO!” The sadness, the disappointment, the anger in his voice hurt, and I wanted to assuage it. “No, that’s not—” I paused, and tried to find some kind of words. “Myles, I like you. As a person, I like you. I like spending time with you. Being around you. The sex with you is…out of this world. You’ve pulled more of…me…out of me than anyone else, like ever, including my sisters and mom. But I’m just not ready to go there, yet. I may never be. I’m sorry if that hurts you, I just…commitment is something I don’t know if I’m capable of.”

  “I ain’t askin’ for a commitment, Lexie.” He eyed me. “You lookin’ for an out in case you find someone else you’d rather fuck?”

  “No, Myles,” I said, feeling another bolt of irrational anger. “I’m not looking for an out to go fuck someone else.”

  “Then what’s the holdup?”

  The holdup is I’m a fucked-up mess and the idea of being anyone’s girlfriend gives me hives. The holdup is I have serious emotional damage I know I’ve never dealt with and have not a single clue how to begin even examining any of it, and it all centers around men and sex. But I wasn’t about to say any of that to Myles. Because he’d ask questions and I’m even less prepared to talk about my damage than I am to think about it or deal with it. Best to just ignore it.

  “I’m with you, Myles. I’m not seeing anyone else. I like being with you, I want to continue being with you. Please, just don’t push it.”

  His eyes bored into me, searching, seeking, drilling. “Okay, I guess I can do that.” He scrubbed his hair again, making it stand up on end. “Shit, babe. Just do me a favor and at least let me know when you’re ready to move on, okay?”

  “It’s not like that, Myles,” I whispered. “You’re more than just a fuck-buddy to me.”

  “But not enough to qualify as anything else.”

  “It’s about me, not you.”

  “But you won’t talk about what about you that is.”

  I frowned, trying to follow what he meant. “Huh?”

  He laughed. “That didn’t make any sense, did it? I just meant that you’re saying your unwillingness to put a label or box on what we are—even to call it a relationship, loosely—is about your holdup or hang-up or whatever. It’s not me, but you’re not about to talk to me about it right now.”

  “Oh.” I tugged on a lock of my hair. “Yeah, I’d say that’s probably true.”

  “You know, I like to think I know you really well. But then shit like this comes up and I realize I don’t know shit about you. You keep stuff super close to the chest.”

  I hated this line of conversation. It made me jumpy and uncomfortable and squirmy and irritable. I hated being irritable. I paced away from him, to the window overlooking downtown Dallas. Tried to figure out a way out of it without just outright shutting him down. I felt him mov
e behind me—heard the creak of the leather couch as his weight left it. Felt the air swirling with his presence behind me. He said nothing, didn’t touch me—just stood behind me. I turned. Put my back to the floor-to-ceiling window. Gazed up at him.

  Myles North was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. Six-three, lean and hard, with thick messy hair a reddish-brown mahogany. Eyes blue as the sky, blue as arctic ice, but warm and fiery and fiercely intelligent and untamed and radiating a boyish playfulness and a ravenous sexuality. Everything about Myles turned me on, but his eyes almost more than anything. Almost. I mean, his hands, his mouth, and his cock turned me on more than anything, but his eyes were right there with them, firing me up and making me horny. Although, in some ways, the horniness his eyes gave me was more…cerebral, or in my heart, than in my body. Which was weird, and scary. Like everything about him.

  His body was wicked. Delicious. Hard, shredded. Jupiter was the band’s personal trainer, and one of the trucks which followed the tour around was a semi dedicated entirely to fitness equipment, a fully mobile gym, and the guys all spent significant amounts of time working out together. Charlie and I had met them during an off-week, or what Myles called a “de-load” week, when they didn’t lift at all. Since then, Myles had spent at least thirty minutes working out every single day, maintaining peak physical condition. He was a madman on stage, wild and radiating intensity, jumping around and running back and forth along the stage, leaping from speaker stacks and basically going nuts for an hour or two, which required intense amounts of energy and fitness. That combined with his exercise routine and the healthy diet they all maintained—again due to Jupiter’s influence—meant all of the guys were fit and strong, but Myles was…absolutely shredded. Instagram fitness model level shredded—not bulky, just strong, fit, and hard, with ultralow body fat.