The Naughty Boxset Page 9

And she was also the unhappiest looking person I’d seen in a long time.

  I went back around behind the bar and leaned against it, gripping the edge so my forearms and biceps rippled; chicks seemed to dig the pose, so I used it to my advantage.

  She plopped down in a chair, crossed her arms on the bar, and let her forehead thunk down hard. “Alcohol, now,” she mumbled into her arms.

  “Don’t got any wine, princess, sorry.”

  She raised her head and gave me a glare so fierce and furious I felt it scorch the hairs on the back of my neck. “Fuck you, you goddamn orc.” She thunked her head back down. “Scotch on the rocks. And leave the bottle.”

  Well. This could prove to be interesting.

  3

  Dru

  * * *

  I was in no mood for bullshit. Even if it was coming from the most intensely masculine man I’d ever laid eyes on. Intensely masculine, fucking gorgeous, in a tall, dark, rock-star gorgeous, badass, burly, tattooed sort of way. Six-four if he was an inch, arms that stretched the sleeves of a thermal Henley—what was it about those shirts that was so fucking sexy, anyway?—with tattoos covering his forearms and obviously extending up past his elbows. He had massive shoulders and a broad chest that tapered to a wedge, and I’d bet all the money I had left that his sexy V-cut lead down to a huge cock.

  I blushed at the thought, because why was I thinking about his cock? I wasn’t, not really.

  I was too pissed off, too heartbroken, too lost, too hung over, and too hungry to think about a penis. Even if that penis was very likely a lovely, perfect organ the size of my forearm.

  Stop—no more cock thoughts.

  His hair was, put plainly, brown. But if I was going to be fair about his hair color, it was the kind of brown you’d see on a grizzly bear. Same texture, same color. He had it brushed backward in a casual, messy way that said he didn’t really care because he knew he was damn sexy and didn’t have to try. God, his hair. Plus the scruff on his jaw, a day or two of growth on a jawline Henry Cavill should be jealous of. And have I mentioned his arms? And his forearms? Fuck. They were absolutely perfect. The ink was professional artwork, not just biker or prison crap, it was actual artwork. I saw a raven in flight, some kind of twisted, dark angel, skulls done in the Mexican Day of the Dead style, Native American totems, plus more I couldn’t make out.

  But then he had to go and assume I wanted wine.

  Fucking wine.

  But when I called him an orc, he just laughed, a deep, ursine rumble of amusement rather than take offense, and lifted a half-empty bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label off the bar where it had been sitting next to a rocks glass, as if he’d already been helping himself to his own wares. Although, considering the dearth of customers, I didn’t really blame him.

  He snagged a clean rocks glass from a stack by the service bar, tossed it into the air and caught it upright on the flat of his palm, poured what had to have been a triple, or even a quadruple. The man didn’t fuck around with his pours, clearly. We might get along just fine if he keeps pouring the Johnny Black so liberally. When I had mine he poured a healthy measure into his own glass, and then held it out to me.

  “To being so hung over tomorrow neither of us will remember why we’re drinking tonight,” he said, and god, even his voice reminded me of a bear, deep, feral, rumbling, with a hint of snarl.

  I clinked my glass against his and took a long blissful drink before answering. “That’s the best goddamn toast I’ve ever heard,” I mumbled.

  We drank in an oddly not-uncomfortable silence for a while, watching ESPN highlights, during which I finished my scotch, and the bartender poured more, another full glass.

  I was in a foul mood, and the scotch helped a little, but only a little. A turbulent three and a half hour flight, followed by a rough landing, which had been on the sea itself rather than an airfield. In my drunken rush to get away from Seattle, I hadn’t even noticed that the airplane I’d gotten into was a seaplane.

  The length of the flight meant I’d gone from hammered to hung over, and then the pilot had taken my money and left me on the docks with my purse and wedding dress and not a damn thing else except a splitting headache and a broken heart. Well, the pilot actually wasn’t that much of a dick: he’d given back six hundred of my cash, saying I looked so messed up he figured I needed it more than he did. But he still left me on the docks with nowhere to go, no one to talk to, in a rainstorm, alone…

  Plus, I hadn’t eaten since I couldn’t remember when. Lunch? I’d left Seattle sometime around nine or ten, which meant it had to be nearing two in the morning now, if not past.

  As if on cue, my stomach let out a vociferous snarl.

  The gorgeous bartender’s stupidly perfect Cupid’s bow lips quirked. “Hungry?”

  I shrugged and tipped back the rocks glass. “A bit, yeah.” I was fucking starved, actually, but I’d be damned if I’d admit it to him.

  “I could use a bite myself,” he said, slugging back the rest of his scotch as if it was nothing, “so I’ll rustle something up. Won’t be fancy, but it’ll fill ya.”

  He ducked under the service bar and went into the kitchen, flicking on lights as he went. From my angle, I could see most of the kitchen, which gave me an opportunity to watch him while I worked on my second big ol’ glass of tasty scotch.

  He turned on the grill, the kind with a flat metal top used in short order restaurants, turned on a deep fryer, pulled out a tray of hand-shaped burger patties and tossed four of them onto the grill, then opened a freezer and poured a few handfuls of French fries into the now-crackling deep fryer. He did all this with casual familiarity, moving with grace and ease around the kitchen. He set the handle-press thingy onto the patties to flatten them and make them cook faster, tossed two buns onto the grill to toast them, then set up two platters with tomatoes, onions, lettuce, and a side of mayo, all done expertly and neatly, with an eye for presentation. A few more minutes and the fries were done, so he lifted the basket out to drain, flipped the burgers, and then shook salt onto the fries, shaking the basket so the salt distributed evenly.

  Next came a cardboard Miller High Life six-pack holder filled with silverware rolls, ketchup, mustard, vinegar, and A-1. There were no wasted motions, no idle moments spent just waiting for the food to cook. He laid a slice of cheddar on each burger, and then a slice of pepper-jack, and then slid his spatula beneath two patties at a time and set them in a top-down heater to melt the cheese, which only took a few seconds, then he laid two patties each on a bun bottom, set the top bun on them at an angle, and then shook half the fries onto one plate and half onto the other.

  He shut off the grill and fryer, wiped down all the surfaces he’d used, and carried both plates in one hand and the condiments in the other, and even managed to shut off the kitchen lights with his elbow. He set one plate in front of me and the other next to me then, leaning over the bar from the customer side, poured us each a pint of some local amber beer.

  Fifteen minutes after I’d said I was hungry, I’d finished my quadruple scotch and had a thick, juicy double cheeseburger in front of me, complete with still-steaming golden-brown fries and a pint of cold beer.

  I liked this guy.

  Just, you know…not too much.

  And then, after a liberal slathering of mayo, I sank my teeth into the burger…

  The man was a short order god, I tell you.

  “Oh my god,” I said, still chewing, “this burger is fucking amazing. I’m sorry I called you an orc.”

  He finished a bite of his own and grinned at me. “Hey, I’ve been called worse. Glad you like it.”

  I’m not sure I even paused to breathe, after that. The burger was the most incredible thing I’d ever tasted, which may have partially been due to extreme hunger on top of being hung over and on my way toward getting re-buzzed. But it was also just a damn good cheeseburger. I knew I’d have to find a gym at some point to work off the calories, but right then I didn’t even remotely give a
shit. Not even half a shit.

  If I can’t indulge without guilt on what was supposed to be my wedding night, which had turned into the worst night of my life, then when can I?

  When I finished the burger, I got busy on the fries and the beer, finally willing myself to slow down and take a breath. Embarrassingly, I noticed the gorgeous tatted-up bear-dude wasn’t even halfway through his burger, yet.

  I stared at him, silently daring him to say something about my table manners.

  He just popped a fry into his mouth and washed it down with beer. “Hey, don’t look at me like that. A chick who can dig into a cheeseburger like that is all right in my book. Plus, if you don’t mind me saying so, you look like you’re sporting a wicked hangover, and nothing cures that like good, greasy bar food.”

  “I’m not sure if I’m still drunk, or drunk again,” I admitted. “Both, probably. And yeah, the food is doing wonders for my mother of all bitch hangover headaches.”

  “Finish the beer and I’ll pour you another. No sense wavering between hung over or drunk, right?”

  “As long as you know somewhere I can crash when I need to pass out, then keep pouring them.”

  “Gotcha covered, angel,” he said, a sly look on his face.

  I shot him a glare. “Angel?” Then the smirk on his lips registered, and I shot to my feet, knocking the stool over, and got in his handsome, rugged face. “Listen here, motherfucker, if you think you’re getting me out of this dress just ’cause you make a decent cheeseburger, you’d better think again. You do not want any of this, and it’s not on offer, so back the fuck off.”

  He raised his hands and eyebrows. “Whoa, lady, chill. Not what I meant.” He tipped his head to one side, that smirk on his face again. “I mean, yeah, I ain’t gonna lie, I’d love to see you out of that dress. But it’s obvious that you’re drinking to forget, and I may be an asshole, but I’m not that asshole. There are a couple of hotels not too far from here. I can drop you off, if you want. ’Course, it’s tourist season, and even in this shitty weather, I’m guessing they’ll be mostly booked by this point. And I’ve been drinking, so driving may not be the best option.”

  I sat down, knowing I’d blown up a little prematurely, but I was not about to apologize for it. “So what are my options then?”

  He stuck a finger up at the ceiling. “Three bedrooms up there, and I’m only using one. They’ve all got sturdy locks and their own bathrooms. If you need to crash and sleep your hangover off, you’re welcome to one.”

  “Alone?”

  He nodded. “Like I said, I’m not that big of an asshole. But you only get one free night.”

  “Then you start charging?”

  “Then I start hitting on you.” He grinned widely. “You’re welcome to stay free as long as you want.”

  “But I’ll have to deal with your slimy advances?”

  He toyed with a fry, and his deep chocolate brown eyes fixed on mine, and good fucking grief, those eyes were deep, vivid, full of life and promise and heat. “Angel, there won’t be nothin’ slimy about it. Trust me on that.” And damn me, but I believed him. Which was a problem. “’Course, those bedrooms are gonna get awful crowded awful soon.”

  I scrunched my nose in confusion. “What’s that mean?”

  He sighed, and tapped a stack of papers on the bar. “Means my dead little bar is about to be drowning in Badd brothers.”

  “I’m still not following.”

  He indicated the hand-carved wooden sign over the mirror on the rear wall: Badd’s Bar and Grill. “I’m Sebastian Badd. This is my bar, and I’ve got seven brothers all about to converge on this place.” He said this with a wince like he wasn’t entirely overjoyed at the prospect.

  I choked. There were seven more like him? “Your brothers…do they all look like you?” I couldn’t help asking. I really couldn’t.

  He shot me the smirk again. “I’m the oldest, and the sexiest. The rest are ugly fucking trolls and orcs and ogres of the worst sort. You’ll hate ’em. Especially Zane, the next oldest. He’s real ugly.”

  “You don’t like your brothers?”

  “Nah, I love ’em.” He lifted a shoulder. “It’s just complicated. They’re my brothers, and I love ’em, but let’s just say they’re not going to be happy to be here. We’re all big dudes and this is a small space, so it’s gonna get…interesting.”

  The odd thing about this whole conversation was the unspoken assumption that I’d be around to meet them.

  I finished the last of my fries and washed them down with the last of my beer, and then stood up—somewhat unsteadily, it must be admitted. I fumbled for my purse, and then remembered I’d given the pilot half of my cash. Which left me with six hundred dollars…and credit cards that were all maxed out paying for the wedding and the honeymoon and my dress. Dad had helped, and Michael had put money in for the honeymoon too, and had paid for the catering, but I’d fronted the bulk of the bills. I had some savings, but it wouldn’t last me forever.

  Since I had limited cash, I dug out the only credit card I had that still had a little room left on it, and extended it to him. “Here, put it all on this.”

  He just eyed me, amused. “Not takin’ your money, angel. It’s on the house.”

  “I don’t want your charity, and I’m not sleeping with you.”

  He stood up and moved to stand over me. God, he was tall. And those eyes of his bored into me, intense, fierce, primal. “It’s not charity, and I’m not trying to get under that sexy fuckin’ dress of yours.”

  “Kind of feels like you’re trying,” I said.

  He sidled closer, so close I could feel his body heat, smell his masculine scent, so close I had to stare up at him, and my heart thundered in my chest at his proximity. “Honey, if I was tryin’, you’d know, because you’d be naked and screaming my name. I’d have you on that bar, those creamy thighs of yours spread open and my tongue on your clit.”

  Well. Shit.

  I squirmed, ached, and then remembered my anger.

  “Fuck you, you goddamn orc.” I turned away, shoving my credit card back into my purse and stomped out of the bar and into the rain.

  I stumbled, my heel catching on something, sending me to the ground on my hands and knees. Mud splashed up, soaking my dress, my face, my hands. So much for a dramatic exit. I looked up and saw the rest of Ketchikan, mostly dark, with something huge and dark and bulky in the distance. Everything looked so far away, and I had no idea where any of the hotels were. I’d only found the bar because it was the only place with lights on close to where the pilot had dropped me off.

  And now I was wetter than I’d ever been, drunk again, covered in mud, and fighting tears.

  I sat down in the mud, tried to wipe it off my face with my hands, but my hands were covered in mud, and—

  I’d promised myself the breakdown I’d had in the truck back in Seattle was the only one I’d allow myself, but apparently I’d lied to myself.

  Because I was crying again.

  Hard.

  But now I was alone in the mud, sitting in the rain, with no Dad to comfort me.

  Why had I run away?

  What had I been thinking?

  No job—I’d quit my job at the law firm I clerked at since they wouldn’t give me enough time off for my honeymoon, and I’d had plenty of other offers in my field. I’d been confident I’d be able to find a new job when I got back, and had even sent out my resume to a few likely places. Except now I was in Ketchikan, Alaska with four maxed-out credit cards, limited savings, no job, no car, no family except Dad, no return flight available till who knew when, even if I could afford it and, oh yeah, my fiancé had been fucking my bridesmaid minutes before I was supposed to walk down the aisle to him.

  I gave in and let myself sob.

  And then I heard his footsteps in the mud, glanced over to see his massive boots squishing though the mud, faded jeans dappled by the rain, and then he was kneeling beside me, hair dampening with every passing sec
ond, but he seemed not to care. He reached out a big paw, wiped the mud off of my face and wiped it on his jeans. He wasn’t smiling, but there was something awfully like compassion on his face, which only made me even more unreasonably angry.

  “Leave me alone,” I said. “I don’t need your help.”

  “Too bad,” he said, sliding his arms around me and lifting me effortlessly, “because you’re getting it, like it or not, want it or not.”

  “Put me down, you orc.”

  He was too close, and I was full-on drunk again, and I hated him because he was fucking gorgeous and he could cook and he poured scotch with a heavy hand and he was gorgeous—did I already say that?—and he had tattoos and I’d always had a secret thing for tattoos, and he could pick me up easily, even though I’m not really dainty. I’m not, like, big, but I’m not small either.

  He carried me easily across the muddy street, through a doorway, and up a set of stairs.

  He kicked open a door, flicked on a light somehow, and then set me on my feet. We were in a bedroom, but that was all I could manage to make out through the onset of double vision.

  “Can you manage from here?”

  I nodded sloppily. “Sure, sure. No problem. Just gonna go to sleep.”

  He caught me before I fell over. “Angel, you’re soaked, covered in mud, and wasted. You can’t just go to sleep.”

  “Sure I can.”

  I wobbled, because with every passing second, the food, the scotch, the beer, and the exhaustion and the heartache were all catching up to me, and pulling me under. I couldn’t stop it and I didn’t care about anything but being warm and dry and horizontal, which were the direct opposites of everything I was at that moment.

  “Goddamn it,” I heard him murmur under his breath, and then I felt him guide me with his big hard warm hands on my waist toward the multiple darkened doorways spinning in kaleidoscope circles that I assumed was the bathroom.

  The lights went on, and I heard a shower start. I was sleepy. So sleepy, and so drunk. And so heartbroken. It hurt, goddamn it…it hurt.