Badd Boy Read online

I blinked at the sudden change in topic. "He is a pilot. He owns a seaplane ferry and taxi service. He flies tourists to good fishing spots, drops them off at a camping location, or so they can go canoeing or hiking. He takes them from Ketchikan to other air or water access-only locations."

  "And your other brothers?"

  "Would you like the full rundown of my brothers?"

  She nodded. "Yes, please. If you don't mind."

  "In order from oldest to youngest, we are: Sebastian, Zane, Brock, Baxter, Canaan and Corin, Lucian, and me. Bast--our nickname for Sebastian--is the oldest, and he runs the bar. Zane is the other main bartender. Brock is the pilot, and he works a few shifts behind the bar at night and on the weekends. Baxter owns a gym, primarily training MMA fighters and a few private fitness clients, and he works a few shifts here and there too, usually as a bouncer and backup bartender as needed when it gets slammed. Canaan and Corin are identical twins. Canaan and his wife Aerie are musicians and are on tour pretty much permanently, and Corin and his wife Tate just had a baby--Tate and Aerie are also identical twins. Corin and Canaan have their own production company, which Corin primarily runs by himself while Canaan tours. Luce and his girlfriend just opened a coffee shop and bookstore that they run together. And then there is me."

  "So you're the youngest?"

  I nodded. "Yes." I shot her a quick look, not letting myself stare too long. "And what about you, Low?"

  The shuttering of her expression happened again, and I wondered if she perhaps didn't like talking about herself. "Only child, and my parents live in Carmel-by-the-Sea."

  "That is truly the name of the city?" I asked.

  She laughed. "It really is. It's actually a pretty magical place."

  "Did you grow up there?"

  She shook her head. "No. We lived in suburban LA most of my life. My parents retired recently, and that's where they retired to."

  "What do you do, Low?" I asked. This question was followed by a long, long pause, which even I could register as a serious reticence to answer the question. I smiled at her, attempting to diffuse the sudden and intense awkwardness. "It is not important. What one does for a living does not compromise the whole of who one is, after all." I chuckled. "At least, for my own sake, I certainly hope not."

  She frowned at me, an expression that managed to be adorable and confused and alluring and elegant all at once. "Why do you say that?"

  I sighed. "Well, there are many who would say that considering my...intellectual capacity, or what one might term my potential--that I am certainly not living up to or fulfilling what my raw, basic abilities would indicate I am capable of."

  Low laughed, and I breathed in deeply, trying to soak up the sound of her laughter into my pores. "Xavier, I hope you won't be offended if I say you sometimes talk like an AI program written to sound like a professor with, like, three PhDs."

  I blinked rapidly, processing what she'd said, trying to determine if I was, in fact, offended. "That does not offend me. It would seem rather accurate, I suppose. I do not have even an associate's degree, much less a PhD but, again, I would hope that lack does not equate to lack of ability. I could have a PhD, were the circumstances of my life somewhat altered."

  "You could have a PhD? How old are you?"

  "I just turned twenty recently."

  "A PhD takes, like, eight years to earn, doesn't it?"

  "Not if one is motivated, has the work capacity, and the raw intellectual ability." I shrugged. "If I'd had parents to push me to leap ahead educationally, within the accepted system, I would be in a much different place at this moment, educationally. But my mother died, and my father became a workaholic, and turned to alcohol as a coping mechanism, and my oldest brother had all he could do as little more than a child himself to take care of the rest of us. So, I never skipped grades, despite my intellectual capability."

  "What do you mean, intellectual capability? Are you, like, a MENSA genius or something?"

  I nodded. "Something like that. I've never taken a test to measure it. I see no point. It would not prove anything, nor gain me anything. I am what some would call a polymath."

  She chewed on a lip, frowning, staring up and to the right, a sign that she was accessing her memory. "A polymath--like Da Vinci? Very good at several disciplines?"

  "Precisely. I have a naturally perfect memory--an eidetic memory, it's called--which I have honed over the years through practice, and I have a rather prodigious innate facility with mathematics, as well. Memorizing and understanding literature is as easy for me as mentally performing complicated mathematics. Learning things like robotics and coding are as simple as reciting Shakespeare or Homer."

  Low snorted. "Who quotes Homer? I went to NYU for fine arts and I had a hard time with Homer."

  "I taught myself classical Greek one summer, because I was bored and it seemed fun. I have read Homer in his original tongue, which makes understanding it in English a much simpler process."

  She blinked at me. "Wait, wait, wait--you taught yourself classical Greek...for fun? When was this?"

  I realized I might perhaps be approaching territory where it would sound like bragging. "I had The Iliad memorized in English by eighth grade, and taught myself Greek the summer between ninth and tenth grade, the same year I taught myself Latin."

  "Any other ridiculous accomplishments you'd like to casually mention?" she asked, laughing.

  I didn't see them as accomplishments, merely things I'd done to try to challenge myself; I didn't say so though--I'd learned that the hard way. People didn't see it the same way, I'd discovered.

  "I exchanged emails with a math professor at MIT for many years, beginning in the ninth grade. I had gone through every math textbook I could find, both in the public library here and via loans from other libraries, and from the high school and college libraries available to me. I had no money, so I couldn't buy them online, but I did have an email account, so I would spend my afternoons on a computer in the public library, pestering this MIT professor to, in effect, tutor me in advanced mathematics. He did it for free, out of interest to see what I was capable of. He always wanted me to come to MIT so he could work with me in person, but I never got the chance."

  "Sounds like Good Will Hunting."

  I frowned. "What is that?"

  She laughed. "Ummm, a movie? Matt Damon, Ben and Casey Affleck, Robin Williams, and Minnie Driver? Janitor at MIT turns out to be a math whiz, but has no interest in pursuing anything with it, because he's scared to leave the life he knows?"

  I shook my head. "I do not watch television or movies."

  "Ever?" Her voice sounded...sharp, somehow. As if the question was weighted in some way I couldn't fathom.

  I shrugged. "Rarely. Sometimes, if my family is watching something, I will sit with them, but I do not often understand what it is I am watching."

  "And...why do you talk the way you do?" She frowned. "You don't have to answer that."

  I was distinctly uncomfortable with the question, and recited pi until my nerves calmed enough to formulate some kind of cogent response. "I...it is how I am most comfortable expressing myself in unfamiliar situations. I attempted for many years to pretend to speak what others would term 'normally', but the stress of the effort was not worthwhile. It was an attempt to fit in. I adopted the habit of pretending to speak normally when I was at Stanford, and then, when I moved back here, I gradually came to realize my brothers did not care how I spoke, and I did not need to pretend to speak normally to impress them, so I have since ceased the practice."

  Low was quiet after that, without a response--which made me wonder what she was thinking. In fact, I was spending nearly every moment with her wondering what she was thinking, and getting nowhere. My understanding of the thought process of the female gender is, quite honestly, utterly laughable.

  "You'd really take me fishing?" she finally asked, sounding apprehensive.

  I nodded. "I really would. It should prove a rather fun and relaxing diversion."

/>   "Just you and me?"

  "I thought perhaps we could invite all seven of my brothers and their seven significant others. The more the merrier, yes?"

  Low's expression morphed immediately, scrutinizing me. "I...um--"

  I lifted an eyebrow. "That was an attempt at jocularity, Low."

  She breathed out, a huff of either embarrassment or relief, or maybe both. "I knew that."

  "Humor is not my forte."

  "Nor mine, it would seem." She smiled again, and the sun suddenly seemed to shine brighter. "I'm on vacation, and I'm not really in a mental or emotional place where I want to be around a lot of people."

  "You chose Ketchikan for that very reason."

  "Yeah."

  "It would be just you and me, Low."

  She bumped me with her shoulder, and my bare arm tingled where her skin sizzled against mine. "Sounds like a lot of fun."

  My phone chirped, then. I glanced at it--I had a text from Bast: we just had a bachelorette party walk in. 34 hungry drunk women. Need you back asap.

  I typed a quick response. I shall return shortly. X

  Bast's response was immediate. I know it's you, bro. You don't need to sign a text message. Unless your trying to send me a virtual kiss?

  You're

  Don't correct my grammar, dork knob. Just get your ass back here.

  I pocketed the phone and glanced up at Low. "My apologies. I am needed back at the bar."

  Low patted my leg, her hand coming to rest on my thigh, just above my knee. "Thank you for rescuing me, Xavier."

  "I merely provided a little assistance, that is all."

  "Well, thank you, all the same."

  "You are welcome." I stood up. "It was a delight and pleasure to meet you, Low."

  I wanted to do something to impress her; a gesture of some kind, but the only thing I could think of was to kiss her hand. Which I was afraid would only freak her out, or make her think I was even weirder than she already did.

  Yet, when she held out her hand, probably meaning for me to shake it, I found myself bowing over her hand and pressing my lips, ever so lightly, to the back of it. She sucked in a sharp breath when I did so, her eyes fixing on mine. There was another pause, rife with what felt like a million subtleties and subtexts I couldn't fathom or comprehend.

  And then, standing, Low made a funny, faux-prim face. "The pleasure was assuredly all mine, Mr. Badd," she said, affecting a shockingly accurate proper, posh British accent. She dropped the face and the accent, leaning close to me and smiling. "Tomorrow?"

  "Tomorrow."

  I left then, my heart beating absurdly hard, my lips tingling from the warmth of her skin, a million questions racing through my mind.

  2

  Harlow

  * * *

  I watched Xavier Badd hop from my boat to the dock and then jog back the way he'd come, stuffing his earbuds back in and then increasing his speed until he was pounding down the dock at a punishingly fast pace.

  When he was out of sight, I flopped back on the couch, groaning. I really didn't need a complication like Xavier. I'd come to Ketchikan to get away from everyone and everything. I'd intended this to be not just a vacation, but a total hiatus from my entire life-- from people and from everything. I just wanted to sit on my boat, alone, read, and watch movies, and do yoga, and drink tea, and maybe work on that script idea I'd had back in college. Boys didn't fit into my plans AT ALL.

  But...

  An insidiously insistent and persuasive part of my mind cropped up with all the reasons why it may not be such a bad idea to let myself have a little fun with Xavier. I mean, how much trouble could I get into? He doesn't know who I am, I don't think, which is kind of nice. Really, really nice, if I'm being totally honest with myself. Refreshing. Fascinating. He's hard to read, but it seems like he's interested in me--attracted, if the constant roving of his eyes is any indication--but also interested. Conversation with him is unlike anything I've ever experienced--he challenges me mentally, keeps me guessing. He's a mystery. I mean, I really, truly do not understand him in any way, which I like.

  All the other men I've known and dated and slept with were open books--utterly predictable. Which wasn't a bad thing, necessarily. I knew what they wanted, even before I was famous. They wanted to get into my pants, and stay there as long as I'd let them. Harry, my only serious boyfriend, obviously liked me and cared about me for a lot more than that, but even with Harrison, it had started as mostly just sex, and the more had grown out of that. Harrison was smart, funny, interesting, sexy--he had ticked all the boxes. He was fun to talk to, great in bed, and seemed to genuinely care about me.

  Our breakup had been mutual, an understanding that our lives and passions were leading us in totally different directions--he'd been a finance major with a minor in Mandarin, and upon graduation had accepted a highly coveted internship at a mammoth corporation in Hong Kong, while I was headed for Hollywood and the big screen. The other men I've spent any kind of time with? Sex. Good sex, and sometimes even meaningful sex with something resembling an emotional component, but largely just physical. It was something I was unapologetic about, and refused to qualify to anyone. I kept it intensely private, however, and after my fame had begun to grow, I'd made it a point to be very clear with anyone I spent time with that what we may or may not do together is a private matter--and so far, all the trysts I'd engaged in had remained off the public radar.

  God, my mind was wandering. Why was I thinking about this?

  Oh yeah--Xavier. He was the opposite of anyone I'd ever dated or slept with or even gone out with. Closed off in some ways, but open in others. Hard to read, with opaque motives and desires. I'd caught him staring at my chest--reassuring me that at the very least he was straight...or straight enough to like looking at my tits. But he hadn't done or said anything that I recognized as flirting, or anything like an obvious overture. He certainly hadn't hit on me.

  I was interested in him, in a way I'd never been interested in a man before. Just in terms of sheer intellectuality, he was an enigma and a challenge to me--it was rare that anyone could truly challenge me intellectually, even more so because no one ever tried; they assumed because of my looks that I was a dumb bimbo who probably spent half the morning staring at a carton of orange juice simply because it said "concentrate" on it. Xavier seemed empty of those preconceptions. He spoke to me earnestly, genuinely, and without seeming like he was talking down to me, or trying to impress me. Even when he was talking about knowing classical Greek and Latin, he didn't seem like a braggadocio, it was more a matter of fact, and he almost seemed reluctant to talk about it for fear of seeming that way.

  Also, he was sexy.

  I wasn't sure he even realized it, which was part of his charm. He obviously worked hard on his body, because I know from personal experience that you don't get as ripped as he is without a lot of brutally hard work, but he never once came across as arrogant or self-important. The men I'd known in Hollywood, even the nice, down-to-earth ones, had an air about them that they knew they were good looking. I mean, duh, right? They're movie stars, of course they know they're hot. But it's just...off-putting.

  Do I come across that way? I don't know. Probably.

  He tensed every time I touched him. I wonder what that's about? He never moved away or tried to prevent me from touching him, though. And he kissed my hand! Who does that? I've never had my hand kissed, even for a role. My heart may or may not have pitter-pattered. For that matter, there may have been some pitter-patter happening a little further south, if you know what I mean. He did it so intently, so honestly, without pretense or guile. As if kissing my hand like a knight or lord out of something by Sir Walter Scott was an instinctive gesture.

  I don't know. Maybe I'm misreading him. Maybe he's a really great actor and all this is just an elaborate ploy to get me to sleep with him.

  Question: Is it working?

  Answer: So far...yes.

  Problem: Assuming he really doesn't know
who I am--what if he finds out? If he goes public with whatever may or may not happen between us, my little hiatus away from Hollywood and the paparazzi is ruined, as is the privacy and secrecy regarding my personal sexual life.

  Is it worth risking my privacy and solitude to spend time with Xavier?

  My gut reaction is that it would be, and that he's genuine--no pretense

  , no guile, no subterfuge. He doesn't know who I am, and he seems to like me for more than my body--although he also does seem to like that, too...which I don't mind. After all, I spend a fortune on personal trainers and nutritionists and hours in the gym to look this way, to keep the pounds off my hips, thighs, and ass, to keep my abs visible. The trick is keeping my fat percentage low enough that I have abdominal definition without sacrificing the body fat necessary to actually have boobs--if I dropped too low, those puppies would vanish. It's a delicate balance, and one that's nearly impossible to maintain without the kind of professional assistance I can afford.

  Point is, he likes the way I look enough to steal glances, and even to be caught staring, although he was far more careful after that first time. Almost to the point of not looking at me at all.

  Come to think of it, he rarely looked me in the eye. Was that on purpose? Embarrassed at having been caught staring at my tits?

  I'm so scattered today. Xavier threw me off, that much is obvious.

  Now that yoga is out of the question for the day, if not for the next few days, what am I going to do?

  I pressed a button hidden in the arm of the couch, and a panel slid away on the opposite wall, revealing a 75-inch flat screen smart TV. There was also an iPad disguised as a hardcover book, meant to appear as part of the decor; I flipped open the cover and the iPad came to life, which controlled the audio and video. I have a satellite connection onboard available nearly worldwide, feeding me Wi-Fi wherever I go, granting me constant access to my Netflix and Hulu subscriptions. I mean, a girl has to be able to stream her shows, right?

  Yes, I'm spoiled.

  And, no, I don't care.

  What's weird is that I haven't had a blowout since leaving LA for the Westworld shoot in Utah, nor a manicure or a pedicure, or a massage. And you know what? I don't miss it. Well, the massages I miss, but the hair and nails? It's a lot of upkeep. It's part of my lifestyle, having perfect hair and nails all the time, everywhere I go, and it's a lot of upkeep, quite honestly. When you know you're going to be photographed from every angle possible everywhere you go, doing even the most mundane things, it's a fact of life that you never leave the house without looking your best. Going to the gym at four in the morning? Better make sure your ponytail is perfect, with no bumps or flyaways. Better have your outfit on point, too. Ratty sweats and old sneakers need not apply.