Badd Boy

by Jasinda Wilder

  "It's not that simple," I murmured.

  "No one is saying you have to compromise your values," Lindsey said, "but sometimes, in order to be successful, you have to give a little to get a little. Especially in this industry. And Martin is right--you can't afford to sit around maundering about this forever, not if you want to stay relevant and keep working."

  "We're done here," I snapped, knowing I was being unnecessarily nasty, but unable to stop myself. "I'll get back to you with what I decide."

  I swept out of the room, but I did snag the Autumn on the Mountain script on my way out. Emily caught up with me, her iPad out, stylus moving in a blur, but she was wise enough to hold her tongue until we were in the back of my Land Rover and on the way back home.

  Even halfway home, she still hadn't said anything.

  Eventually I caught her gaze. "Spit it out," I said.

  She frowned. "Spit what out?"

  "You're never this quiet." I turned to the window, watching Hollywood fade into Beverly Hills. "I'm sure you have something to say about how I'm living my life, so you might as well just say it."

  She shook her head, blonde bob swaying, her gaze not wavering from her iPad. "My job is to be your assistant, not have opinions on your life choices."

  I blinked, and turned back to her. "You're more than my assistant, Em. You're my friend."

  She went still, stylus freezing. She set the stylus down very carefully, and closed the case of her iPad, finally meeting my eyes. "Your friend?"

  "Yeah, of course."

  "I'm your employee." She looked away, then, out the window.

  "And my friend," I insisted. "So if you have something to say, then say it."

  She remained silent for a while, staring at her fingernails. When she looked up at me, her expression was wary. "If I speak my mind and you don't like it--"

  "I'll probably be a bitch about it, but I won't fire you, if that's what you're worried about. This a friend-to-friend conversation, not a employer-employee conversation."

  She sighed, picking up the stylus and flipping around her index finger, a telltale sign that she was nervous. "Okay, then. Martin and Lindsey are just doing their jobs, and you're treating them like shit."

  "I'm just--"

  "I'm not done," she interrupted, and I went silent, gesturing at her to continue. "You came back from Alaska nearly a month ago, and you've been absolutely impossible to talk to, to work for, and to be around."

  "It hasn't been that bad," I protested.

  Emily just quirked an eyebrow. "Yes, it has. I'm with you all day, every day, and I can say without equivocation that yes, it has been exactly that bad."

  I sighed. "I'm sorry, I'm just--"

  "You won't talk about Alaska, so I don't know what happened, but I assume a guy is involved, because you've never been like this before, and I've worked for you since you first came to LA."

  "It's a complicated situation."

  "That sounds like a cop-out--not wanting to talk about it."

  I glared at her. "And so what if it is?" I snapped. Then, realizing what I'd said, and how I'd said it, I sighed, rubbing my face with both hands. "God, you're right. That was super bitchy."

  Emily smirked. "That was like, a three on a one-to-ten scale of Harlow being a bitch."

  I frowned. "For real?"

  "For real." She glanced away. "I love you, like a lot, and I love working for you. But I seriously considered quitting the other day."

  I felt a hot knot in my throat--something that had been happening a lot lately, which was part of my foul moods. "I'm sorry, Emily. You don't deserve that."

  "I know, and I also know this isn't like you, which is why I didn't quit." She smiled at me, then. "So tell me about him, and maybe we can figure out why he's turned you into such a disaster."

  I blinked hard, internally cursing myself for still being so damned emotional about this whole stupid thing. "It started with just...hanging out. He's so different, in ways I can't even begin to explain. Sexy. Weird. Funny. So smart it's more than a little intimidating. He's...I want to say innocent, but that's not quite right, and I want to say pure, but that's not right either. God, I don't know."

  "Was it good?"

  I sighed. "We never really got anywhere, because he's...he's hard to get close to, and there's just...a lot."

  Emily eyed me curiously. "You're usually more articulate than this."

  "This is what he does to me," I said, throwing my hands in the air, feeling embarrassed at how emotional I felt. "He...he mixes me up. He's intense, and he's...he's just a lot."

  Emily stared at me. "And you haven't even slept with him yet?"

  I shook my head. "No. And there's no yet. It's over."

  "Why?"

  I wished I knew how to explain all that Xavier was...but to put his ASD out there without her meeting him first felt...wrong. That wasn't who he was, and it didn't represent him. Not to me. It was part of him, but not all of him. And it was that part of him I couldn't accurately or concisely explain.

  I sniffled. "He's there, and I'm here," I said, with a shrug. "It's just over."

  "So? He can't come here? You can't go there?" She shook her head. "'He's there and I'm here' isn't a good enough reason for it to be over, Low."

  "You wouldn't understand."

  "Because I'm not famous?" Her voice was sharp.

  "No." I sighed. "Yes. Sort of."

  "Because he's not famous?" She snorted. "I've seen the photos, Low, and if he wasn't famous before, he will be now. He is fine as hell, Harlow."

  I rolled my eyes. "His brothers are all taken, to answer your next question."

  She sighed sadly. "Damn." She lifted an eyebrow at me. "They have cousins?"

  I laughed. "I don't know. He never mentioned them, if they do."

  Emily let the silence stretch out for a while before speaking. "Low, tell me the truth. Why won't it work? You're obviously still hung up on him."

  "I know! And I shouldn't be. It's stupid."

  "You're not answering the question."

  "He can't handle my life, Em! I can barely handle my life, and it's my fucking life! The paparazzi showed up, not even that many of them, and he--he froze. He panicked. If we were to have a relationship, how would that work? I could never take him to a premiere? Never be seen in public with him, not because I'm embarrassed--because I'm not--but because he can't handle it? What kind of a life is that? For him or for me?"

  Emily thought for a while, staring at me speculatively. "That sounds like another cop-out, and like a lot of arrogance, if you ask me."

  Anger shot through me, but I kept my voice even. "Meaning what?"

  "It kind of sounds to me like you're not giving him a fair shot. The first time we got mobbed when I was with you, I froze too. I'd only PA'd for nameless executives before that, nobody famous. It's scary, and it's overwhelming. They're so aggressive, and the questions they ask are just so inappropriately personal, and the shit they write is ridiculous. I wanted to quit after that first time. But I didn't, because I liked working for you. So I learned how to deal with it, and now it's just part of the gig. You didn't think twice about my reaction to getting mobbed, either--you just expected me to either handle it or quit. You let me make my own choice. You explained when you hired me how it would be and that I should expect it, and that was it. You gave me the choice. I could choose to work for you and accept what came with it, or if I couldn't deal with that aspect, I could quit."

  "Exactly! But that's a professional relationship."

  "And a personal, romantic relationship is even more reason for him to have a choice, but you're not allowing him that. You're deciding for him that he can't handle it. That's underestimating him, for one thing, and yourself, for another. And it's just you being afraid, for a third." She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "You have feelings for him, Low, and you're scared, so you're taking away his right to choose a relationship with you and all that it entails in an effort to avoid the fear and possible pain
."

  "Who are you, Dr. Drew?" I asked, my voice dripping with snark and acid.

  "Your friend, or so you said." Emily leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest, an eyebrow raised. "But if I'm wrong, tell me."

  The knot in my throat, the slam of my heart, the pricking of my tear ducts told me she wasn't wrong. "Dammit."

  She smiled at me. "I'm perpetually single, so maybe I'm not the best source of romantic advice, but if you were to ask me what I think you should do--"

  "I am asking," I put in.

  "Give him a chance," Emily said, leaning forward again and taking my hand in both of hers. "Give yourself permission to go for this."

  I blinked back tears. "What if he--what if he can't do it? What if he won't even try? What if he doesn't feel for me the way I feel about him?"

  "How do you feel about him?" Emily asked.

  I swallowed past the knot of heat in my throat. "I could fall for him," I whispered. "I am falling for him." I hesitated, breathing out shakily. "I already have fallen for him, I think."

  "Low..." she sighed and started over. "I think you owe it to yourself and to him to ignore all the what-ifs and just...try."

  I stared out the window as we approached the gate to my driveway, pushing back the emotion and trying to apply logic to what I felt and what I should do about it.

  Enrique, my driver, waited until the gate slid silently apart and then pulled through, the gate sliding closed behind us.

  Emily was right. Logic couldn't take me any further than that--she was right, about everything. It didn't make me feel any better, honestly. Worse, if anything.

  Because now that I could admit I'd fallen for him, and that I had fucked up by coming back here, by leaving him, by pushing him away--by the way I'd handled the entire situation...now what?

  I had no idea. Call him? I'd sent myself that photo from his phone, so I had his number, but call him and say what?

  Knowing what I should do didn't help me figure out what I could do.

  "So." I cleared my throat, sitting up straighter. "Business. What's on the schedule?"

  Accepting my dismissal of the subject, Emily brought up my schedule. "Ummm...you have a session with Marco tomorrow morning at eight, and then nothing until four in the afternoon, when Francois and his girls are coming over to show you gowns for the premiere, which is in two weeks."

  "Okay. That's all fine. Keep my schedule clear through the premiere, otherwise. I'll make some decisions about what to do next after the premiere."

  "What to do next about what?"

  "Everything."

  I just had to get through the premiere. Which gave me two weeks to get back into shape--two weeks to fit into a gown, two weeks to think about scripts and commercial offers...and two weeks to think about Xavier.

  * * *

  Three days later, at six in the morning, the sun wasn't quite up yet, so the world was bathed in gray tinged with soft undertones of pink. The air was cool, and my neighborhood was still and silent. The only sound was the slap of my shoes against the blacktop as I ran. Marco had instructed me, in no uncertain terms, that I had to run every morning, at least a few miles at a hard pace. I hated running, but the dress Francois and I had picked out for the premiere wouldn't zip over my butt, even with his assistants pushing and squeezing my ass cheeks together and pulling the edges of the zipper together, so I had no choice but to trim down. This meant running, intermittent fasting, lots of salmon and lots of salad and lots of HIIT workouts on top of mileage every morning.

  Usually when I ran, I had earbuds in and music going, but this morning I'd opted to leave my phone at home, so I could really focus on my stride and let my thoughts wander. As much as I hated the physical aspect of running--the burning lungs and aching legs and jouncing tits and wobbling ass--I loved the mental aspect of it, being able to just dive into my head and let my brain wander.

  I was running hard, and despite the cool pre-dawn air, I was sweating profusely. Sweat dripped down my temples, ran off my jaw, trickled in runnels down the valley of my cleavage and into my purple sports bra--which was the only top I was wearing, paired with tight white booty shorts and my favorite running shoes.

  I had the circuit through my neighborhood memorized, a nice five-mile route that wound past the homes of other celebrities, up and down several punishing hills, through some nature trails and back to my house, which sat on a cul-de-sac at the bottom of a hill. I was nearly home, coming to the top of the hill and preparing to push myself into a sprint for the last few hundred feet down the hill to my driveway.

  I hit the hill, opening my stride and swinging my arms, keeping my eyes on the blacktop just ahead as I barreled pell-mell down the hill, and then turned my eyes to my mailbox, which I always slapped at the end of my run.

  There was a sleek black motorcycle parked at the end of my driveway, on the apron just this side of the closed gate.

  Xavier sat backward on the bike, his back resting on the handlebars, one foot up on the seat and the other on the footrest, a Kindle in his hand, elbow resting on his propped-up knee. A helmet hung from a handlebar, and his hair was messy and wild, and he was wearing tight black leather riding pants, glossy black boots, and a leather riding jacket, which hung open, showing a plain white T-shirt underneath.

  He was so fucking gorgeous I stumbled as I reached the bottom of the hill, my gut tightening, heart twisting, core throbbing.

  He saw me.

  He placed both feet on the ground, sat forward, and shoved his Kindle into a saddlebag.

  I recovered and finished sprinting the last fifty feet, slapping my palm against the mailbox, and stumbled to a stop, lacing my fingers on top of my head and gasping raggedly.

  I pivoted away from him, sucking in greedy lungfuls of air, trying to convince myself that the pounding of my pulse and the shakiness in my legs and the tremble in my hands and tightness in my throat was from exertion.

  I heard a scuffed step behind me, felt him, smelled him, sensed him.

  "Low." His voice was barely a murmur.

  "Hi," I said, without turning around.

  "Do you need a moment to catch your breath?"

  I closed my eyes, filled my lungs, held it, and then turned around as I exhaled. Facing him, looking up at his beautiful face, I lost my breath all over again. Had he gotten better looking? Or had I just forgotten how handsome he was? His eyes were like green fire, his cheekbones razor sharp and prominent, and he'd let his stubble grow in so it was thick enough to be nearly a full beard, which made him look older and more rugged and less boyish.

  "You're here," I whispered.

  "I drove here," he said, gesturing at the motorcycle. "Or, rather, rode."

  "All the way from Alaska?"

  "Yes."

  "How long did it take you?"

  "A little over two days, including stops to catch a few hours of sleep here and there."

  "Why didn't you just fly?" I asked.

  "I needed the travel time to think."

  "About what?"

  "What I was going to say to you."

  His eyes followed a droplet of sweat as it trickled down my throat, into the valley between collarbones and throat, down my breastbone, and between my breasts.

  "What did you figure out?" My heart rate had slowed, but I was still shaky.

  I couldn't blame that on the run, though--it was all him.

  He shook his head. "Nothing. I ran through half a dozen different speeches, and none of them were right."

  I knew the feeling; now that he was in front of me, I couldn't summon a single coherent thought.

  Everything was a jumble:

  I want him.

  Can I straddle him on the motorcycle?

  Kiss me, Xavier.

  God, he looks fucking sexy in those leather pants.

  Kiss me, Xavier.

  Tell me you still care.

  I'm falling in love and I can't stop myself, so fucking please tell me you're here because you love me
back.

  He looks so good I could eat him.

  I can see the outline of his cock behind those leather pants.

  I want to unzip him and suck him off right here, right now, and fuck what the neighbors will say.

  Kiss me, goddammit.

  I realized with a start that we'd been standing at my gate, staring at each other, not talking, for over a minute, if not more.

  "You want to come in?" I asked.

  He swallowed hard. "Do you want me to?"

  "Why wouldn't I?"

  He just blinked. "Um. Because I showed up without warning? I just...after you left, I couldn't stop thinking about you. And...I--I realized that I feel..." he trailed off, swallowing hard, flicking his gaze away from mine, to the ground at his feet, and then after a deep breath, he met my eyes again. "I feel things for you, and after you left to come back here, I realized I wanted--"

  He didn't finish. His hands went to his sides, and his palms tapped against his legs.

  My eyes went to his hands, and he abruptly crossed his arms over his chest, tucking his hands under his armpits.

  I reached up, untangled his arms, and pushed his hands back to his sides. "Just be you, Xavier."

  "It's habit to stop myself, now. Especially when someone is watching."

  I realized I hadn't let go of his hands, and both of our gazes went to our hands, our fingers joined.

  "Come inside with me," I said. "I think we have a lot to talk about, and I don't want to do that standing outside on my driveway."

  "You're not upset I showed up without warning?"

  I shook my head. "No, Xavier. I'm...I'm glad you're here."

  I used the keypad to open the gate, and Xavier toed up the kickstand of his motorcycle, walking it up the driveway.

  "I can't believe you rode that thing all the way here," I said.

  "I had to see you."

  My heart leapt, hope blossoming inside me. He was here. He had to see me.

  I wanted to say so many things to him, but had no idea where to even start.

  I used another keypad to open one of the garage doors, and Xavier parked his motorcycle just inside, behind my Land Rover. He followed me through the door and into the kitchen, where Maria was already at work preparing my breakfast.

  "Hola, senora," Maria said without looking up from whisking eggs. "Food ready soon."

  "Hi, Maria. Thanks." I glanced at Xavier. "Do you want something, Xavier? Maria can whip up just about anything."