Good Girl Gone Badd Read online

  I was trying to keep up, but they were skipping large chunks of information, since they were both familiar enough with the subject to use shorthand.

  "Wait," I cut in, "you gave up a chance to play football in the NFL to come back home?"

  Bax shrugged, picking at a scabbed-over scar on one of his knuckles. "Uh...yeah."

  "Why?"

  He was quiet a moment, and the whole room was silent. "Um. Our dad died, leaving a pretty specific will. All of us had to come back to help out at the bar for a year before any of the inheritance he'd left could be distributed to any of us. It was his way of bringing us all back together. We'd sort of scattered to the four winds, and I guess he wanted us to reunite as brothers."

  "Wow. I--that's--"

  "I want to hear the rest of Claire's story," he interrupted, clearly not wanting to talk about it any further.

  Claire jumped at her name. "Oh. Um. Well, when the cruise put in here, I went out to find a decent dive bar to drink at, which happened to be Badd's, and I met Brock, and we spent a rather, um, memorable...night together. Which led to a day together, and then another night, and then somehow we just forgot to stop sleeping together, because like I said, sex with Brock is a twenty on a one-to-ten scale, and how am I gonna quit the best sex of my life? And then his stupid ass fell in love with me and begged me to keep fucking him, and I'm super generous, so I agreed."

  "Hate to break it to you, babe," Brock put in, amused, "but your stupid ass fell in love with me."

  "Um, no. I'm pretty sure you fell first."

  "Pretty sure I didn't," Brock argued. "And I also wasn't the one who ran off like a scared little puppy at the first sign of real emotions."

  Claire elbowed him in the diaphragm. "No reason to bring ridiculous shit like the truth into this."

  It seemed a bit odd to me, how they were arguing about who fell in love first. And Brock's statement about running? That had sounded pretty brutal to me, yet Claire literally acknowledged it as truth without flinching, and even made a joke out of it.

  I did not understand these people.

  Claire looked at me. "He's right, you know. I totally did run away like a pussy. Being in love with a Badd brother is no joke." She looked at Dru and then Mara. "Am I right, ladies?"

  "Word," Dru and Mara said, in unison.

  I just blinked, because what was I supposed to say? "Um. Okay. I suppose I can see how that might be, um..."

  Claire just laughed. "So. Thomas. Dish."

  I sighed. "Well, you'll probably need a little backstory. He's ten years older than me, and works for my father. He started out working as an intern during college, and stayed on until he graduated with a double major from Harvard, in business and politics.

  "He's the only son of Richard and Elaine Haverton, which, unless you're well-versed in the who's who of the East Coast business and politics scene, won't mean anything to you. They're a wealthy family, powerful and influential. Richard Haverton and my father, Lawrence du Maurier, were both senators, and now they're two of the most influential men on the East Coast, my father as a political consultant and Richard as a lobbyist for several of the big energy companies. They've been friends for thirty years, and our families have been vacationing together to the same estate in Mallorca for twenty-five years, longer than I've even been alive, mind you.

  "And if you're not familiar, all these wealthy East Coast business and politics families are the modern American version of the Old World aristocracy, meaning marriages are pretty much arranged from birth, and you don't marry outside certain circles, and you go to the right schools and you intern at the right firms and you take residencies at the right hospitals with the right physicians, and everything is...just so. Stuffy, pretentious, conceited, materialistic, and stupid. But it's what I was born into.

  "And Thomas, as my father's best friend's son, has been pushed at me my whole life. Meaning, they assume I'm going to marry him because that's what's expected, and arranged. He's wealthy in his own right as well as coming from the Haverton's money, having worked for my father's firm since he graduated from Harvard, and invested well, and all that.

  "Father has, quite literally and in so many words, promised Thomas that I will marry him someday, even though no one ever asked me what I wanted, or if I even liked him. Which I don't. I despise him. Yet he shows up everywhere I am, and he corners me on family vacations with these elaborate marriage proposals. He's purchased at least three different engagement rings that I know of, each more expensive than the last, and he just keeps proposing. He shows up at Yale and whisks me away on these ridiculous dates and expects me to...well, you can imagine--and then gets mad when I won't, and gets mad when I refuse his proposals, and never takes a hint."

  I blew out a long breath, because I'd never said so much about Thomas all at once to anyone.

  "Sounds horrible," Claire said, frowning.

  "You have no idea," I said, waving a hand. "Everyone at Yale thinks I'm crazy for turning him down. But they all think I'm crazy anyway because Father set up an internship for me at this lobbyist firm in Boston, and it's one of the most prestigious firms on the whole East Coast, so getting internships there is practically a gladiatorial process, and I refused to go because I hate politics.

  "But Father is paying, and he has the ear of the dean since he's a major benefactor, so he can basically get whatever he wants, which is me with a degree in political science even though I have absolutely no intention whatsoever of ever going anywhere near politics, which means I'm double majoring in poli-sci and fine arts, because I'm an artist and that's my dream and my passion, but the only way I'll get the degree and thus the opportunities the degree will provide is if I keep Father happy.

  "But really, I barely attend the political science classes and only do enough work to pass, focusing the majority of my attention on my art studies. Which makes Father furious, of course, because art is a waste of time and not a worthy profession for his daughter. Mainly because he wishes I'd been born male so I could follow in his footsteps. Which is the stupidest thing ever, because why couldn't I follow in his steps as a politician if I wanted to? I mean, hello, Hillary? Elizabeth Warren? Maxine Waters? Kamala Harris? But it's just not what I want.

  "And Thomas...god, he's such an insufferable bore, and so conceited, and entitled, and just assumes I'll marry him because Father said so, and hasn't ever even stopped to wonder what I think about him, despite my having told him I'd never marry him and that I can't stand to even look at his stupid, handsome, arrogant face. He just doesn't care. He wants me, and that's all that matters. He feels he deserves me because he wants me, and thus he'll get me one way or another."

  Everyone was staring at me, silent, and I realized I'd been ranting.

  "And, um...that's the story of Thomas." I stood up, hands shaking, stomach churning. "I should go. It's late, and it's been a long day."

  I hustled out of the room and retrieved from the bathroom the plastic bag with my clothing in it and my purse from the kitchen counter, and headed for the door.

  "It was very nice to meet you all. Thank you so much for your kindness and hospitality, Dru. I'll bring your clothes by tomorrow." I had the door open and was halfway down the stairs when I heard feet behind me.

  "Yo, Eva, hold up." Baxter, of course. He caught up to me as I reached the bottom of the stairs and the darkened bar, the stools and chairs all flipped up on the bar and the tables, the only light coming from an illuminated "EXIT" sign.

  I turned. "Yes, Baxter?"

  "Ain't you learned your lesson about walking around in the dark, alone?"

  I stiffened because he was only inches away, staring down at me in the darkness with his eyes shining bright and glittering and intense, and his body was warm and his chest was bare, and he was enormous and far too close.

  "It's not far. I'll be fine."

  He snorted. "It wasn't far from the fight to here, either, and look what happened."

  I sighed. "Fine. Baxter, my knight in shining a
rmor, would you please escort me back to my bed and breakfast?"

  He winked down at me. "Sure thing, sexy." He offered me his arm. "Let's go. Which one you staying at?"

  "Um. It's got a funny name. King's something? King's Abode?"

  He laughed. "The Kingsley's Rest, owned and operated by John and Beverly Kingsley. Nice place, nice folks. Good choice."

  "You know it?"

  He shrugged, leading me out the door. "Eh, sure, of course. Never stayed there, obviously, since I grew up in this town. But I've...um...hung out with a few people who have stayed there, and they always rave about it, plus I know Tate and Aerie, John and Beverly's twin granddaughters. They spend a few weeks up here every summer."

  I glanced at him as we strolled down the street. It was something like three in the morning at this point, and it was pretty chilly out, yet he was clad in nothing but his red fighting trunks and a pair of bright yellow cross trainers, his feet shoved in barefoot. He didn't seem fazed by the cool air at all, yet I was fighting the urge to shiver.

  "Aren't you cold?" I asked him.

  He shrugged. "Nah, not really. I was born and raised here in Alaska and lived in Calgary for two years, so I'm plenty used to the cold." He glanced at me, his eyes going to my nipples, which had hardened into protruding spikes yet again. "Why, you gonna give me your shirt if I am? In which case, yeah, I'm freezing."

  "You're ridiculous," I snapped.

  "True. No way it'd fit me." He winked, grinning. "You could take it off and I could wrap it around my shoulders like a cape?"

  I couldn't help a laugh. "You really will say anything, won't you?"

  He nodded. "Pretty much. Never had a filter, and don't see the point."

  "Well, in case it's not clear at this point, no, I'm not taking off my shirt for you."

  He snapped his fingers. "Damn. You've been teasing me with these things"--and here he tapped the underside of my breast with two fingers, a gentle tap--"since the second you came out of that bathroom. I'm fuckin' dyin' for a peek."

  I cradled my breast with one hand and turned away from him, putting space between us, glaring daggers at him. "HEY! You can't just...you can't do that! Keep your hands to yourself, Baxter. I'm serious."

  I dropped my hand and tried not to feel self-conscious about how...out there...my breasts were, and also tried not to think about the fact that Baxter had just touched my breast and that I'd had to fake a certain amount of indignant anger, since I'd not minded as much as I should have.

  "Oh, you're serious?" he asked, the picture of studied innocence. "Good thing you told me you're serious. Because if you weren't serious, I'd probably do something else, just for fun."

  A step, another, and I was tense, expecting him to try something. Anticipating. Waiting.

  And then, just when I began to lower my suspicious defenses, he reached around me and pinched my butt, his finger and thumb quickly and sharply squeezing a generous portion of flesh. It had stung but didn't hurt, and yet I squealed and trotted out of reach.

  "Baxter! Stop."

  He rounded a corner, and I followed, and we were on a side street lined with trees, the branches waving in a cool breeze, the stars bright overhead, the bay and the docks behind us, boats clunking against the posts, sails clinking against masts.

  "Stop? Stop what?" He tapped the underside of my breast, like he had before. "Stop that?" Then he pinched my butt. "Or stop this?"

  Instead of reacting, I pretended not to notice, which was even harder than faking an indignant reaction.

  He sidled close, so close I could smell him, feel his body heat. His lips brushed my ear. "Not answering now, huh? See, I think you don't mind. Do you? If you did, if you really meant you wanted me to stop touching you, you wouldn't let me get this close. I mean shit, babe, I'm so close I could bite your earlobe." His breath was hot on my earlobe, and I tensed, my breath caught, and I quavered, anticipating. But he didn't do it.

  "Or, I could even sneak a little kiss, if I really wanted to." His lips slid across my cheekbone, and I wasn't breathing at all, now, and then his mouth brushed mine, his lips sliding gently across mine.

  My mouth parted instinctually, and his tongue grazed the underside of my upper lip, and then he backed away a couple inches, and I was left off-balance and gasping.

  "See what I mean?" he whispered.

  I'd stopped walking, and my back was up against a wrought iron fence, and he was in front of me, shielding me from the world, blocking out everything except his enormous body, his hard muscles and his heat and his fierce brown eyes.

  "Baxter..."

  He wasn't touching me, not at all. Yet I could feel him. My heart was thundering.

  "What up, babe?"

  "You're crowding me."

  "Yeah, and you like it."

  "Are you asking, or telling?"

  "Which one is the right answer?"

  I snorted in laughter again, shaking my head and finally looking up at him. "Seeing as all the other men in my life seem to think they can tell me what to do and think they know what's best for me and expect me to do what they say, I'll let you guess."

  He nodded, absorbing my statement. "Ah. Well, in that case, I'm asking. Evangeline, does my proximity bother you?"

  "A little," I answered. "You make me nervous."

  He backed up a bit, giving me space. "That better?" He wrapped a gorilla-sized fist around a spindle of the fence, just beside my ear. "Why do I make you nervous?"

  I shrugged. "Just...everything about you."

  "The fight? That shit in the alley?" He frowned at me. "Hope you realize that just because I'm a fighter doesn't mean I'm always a violent guy. Around you, I'm a big ol' teddy bear, gentle as can be."

  I shook my head. "No, I get that. I'm not afraid of you, in that sense. You just...make me nervous."

  "Then I'm confused. You might have to explain that one." He tipped his head to one side, thinking. "And you said in that sense, meaning there are other senses you could be afraid of me, and that implies some of them might be true."

  I inhaled deeply, and as if drawn down by a string, his eyes fixed on my breasts as my chest swelled with the breath.

  "Good grief, Baxter," I snapped, and shoved a finger under his chin to tip his gaze up to mine. "My eyes are up here. And besides, they're just breasts. You act like you've never seen them before."

  "Sorry. It's just...you don't see perfect tits every day, and yours happen to be kinda mesmerizing." He shrugged. "Plus, I like looking at tits, yours most of all."

  "Could you keep your eyes on mine while we're talking, though? I am more than a pair of mammary glands, you know."

  He met my gaze, now, intently. "I know that, Evangeline." He leaned a little closer, his face once again kiss-close. "Don't mistake lust for objectification, honey."

  "L-lust?" I swallowed hard.

  "Yep. Raw, unbridled lust." He shifted closer with his body, so we were almost but not quite pressed up against each other. "I take one look at you, and my balls ache and my cock goes hard, and I have to remind myself to behave."

  "What--ahem. Behave? What would you--what would happen if you didn't behave?"

  Why did I ask him that? God. It was like I was actively trying to set him up.

  Maybe I was.

  He laughed, a deep rumble of amusement, rife with incendiary insinuation. "Eva, sweet thing, I don't think you could handle knowing that."

  "Don't tell me what I can't handle, Baxter Badd," I snapped. "I'm no fainting, innocent little daisy."

  Yes, actually, I rather was. But I refused to be put into a box by this man, or told what I couldn't handle.

  He now pressed his body up against mine, fully flush. And god, his whole body was hot to the touch despite the cool air, and he was just so...hard. I don't mean it like that, though. His muscles, his stomach, his chest, his thighs, he was just hard everywhere, his muscles thick and firm.

  Although, he was, in fact, hard like that. I could feel it. Feel him, pressed against my lowe
r belly, just above my core. Thick, a hard ridge between us.

  I couldn't breathe. My hands shook and my lungs wouldn't expand all the way, and I was frozen in place, because now all I could feel, all I could think of was him, his...his thing, hard and thick and huge and right there, pressed against me.

  "Are you a virgin, Evangeline?" he murmured.

  I shook my head. "No...no. I'm not."

  Barely.

  "Then you wouldn't be shocked if I tell you I'm this close to tugging those sweatpants down and seeing if I can make you scream loud enough to wake up the neighbors."

  I swallowed hard. "You wouldn't."

  My brain went fuzzy, shorting out. Feeding me images of him doing exactly that. I could only imagine, though, because that wasn't in Thomas's repertoire; such an act would require thinking about something beyond himself and his own pleasure.

  "Is that a dare?" he demanded.

  His finger hooked in the waistband of the sweatpants, just below my navel.

  "No?" I breathed, and it sounded like a question, as if I doubted my own answer.

  "You don't sound convinced."

  I wasn't.

  My imagination was running wild. I was feeling rebellious. Daring. Crazy. I was here, in a city I'd seen literally nothing of except a warehouse, a few streets, the interior of a bar, and an apartment; I was here on my own, alone, in defiance of my father's wishes, without a plan, without luggage; my phone was turned off, and likely dead now; I'd used my debit card to book the room, and that card drew off my personal, secret account which Father knew nothing about, so he couldn't easily track me that way.

  And I was pressed up against this gorgeous, rugged, dangerous man, a man who had fought in an illegal underground boxing match, and had utterly destroyed his opponent with laughable ease, and then he'd saved me from being assaulted by four men, one of whom had been armed, and he'd destroyed them as well. And he was touching me. He was teasing me, toying with me. But when I said he was crowding me, he'd backed up to give me space. Yet he could read my reactions. He knew I was attracted to him. And I was, intensely.

  It's not like this could...be anything, but why shouldn't I indulge in a bit of fun? Who would have to know? No one. Only me.

  But...like this? Here? God, I was crazy for even hesitating. No: that was the easy, obvious answer.