Bad Girl

by Piper Lawson

  The look on his face is starting to melt my insides, a degree at a time, until…

  “I’m not sleeping with you, Jax.”

  Jax cocks his head, a smirk on his handsome face. The muscles in his arms leap, dragging my gaze towards his tattoos when he rubs a hand over his neck. “Because I’m a dad?”

  Jesus, how is he hotter after uttering those words.

  “No. Yes. I’m not sure.” I wish I didn’t sound like such an indecisive child right now.

  But Jax just shoves his hands in his pockets, shifting back on his heels to study me.

  “You’re not sleeping with me tonight or ever?”

  Oh God. He says it so easily. As if he’s thought about both options and is soliciting my opinion.

  Before I can respond, he says, “Just kidding.”

  I let out a whoosh of breath.

  “I know it takes you a while to warm up to someone,” he goes on, his voice alone making me shiver. “Which is why I’m telling you this now.”

  He leans in, and it’s all I can do not to whine when his lips brush my ear. “I’m totally going to fuck you someday, Hales. But not until you beg me to.”

  Toothbrush in hand, he leaves the room.

  My knees give out.

  For real.

  I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor of my room wondering who the hell says that to another person.

  I hear water running in the bathroom and tug my shirt over my head.

  Then manage to push myself to standing as I work off my jeans.

  My body tingles as I pull on sleep shorts and a tank top.

  I slide into bed, my gaze trained on the door like I’m Jason Bourne and at any second I might need to make a run for it.

  By the time Jax reenters, I’ve got hold of myself.

  He sets the flash drive on the nightstand as he meets my gaze.

  I wait for him to ask if he should take the couch.

  He doesn’t.

  Of course he doesn’t, because he’s Jax Jamieson.

  He strips off his shirt, making my throat go dry at the sight of his muscled chest, then slides in beside me.

  I could ask him to move to the living room. Or grab my pillow and leave.

  Instead, I roll over and force myself to feel him next to me in the dark.

  And I tell myself the lie that I can sleep.

  5

  I’m going to kill whoever decided to make white curtains.

  Not the blackout kind with a lining. The kind the sun goes straight through, burning your retinas at ungodly hours.

  I pry my eyelids open because there’s no pretending I’m going back to sleep now.

  The vintage Betty Boop clock over the desk says it’s nine o’clock.

  I’ve never been this awake at nine o’clock.

  The room is small, and her shit is everywhere. Not in a messy way. It’s more like I see glimpses of her no matter which direction I turn.

  I didn’t get a good look at it last night, but there’s a desk, a dresser. Some art prints. A turntable in the corner with a serious vinyl collection I’m definitely checking out later.

  A couple of posters, including…

  Hell yes.

  There I am. Next to the door.

  Satisfaction works through me.

  I even remember the photo shoot for that one. It’d been like pulling teeth, but now? I’m glad I did it because it means two things:

  One, she’s totally gotten off to me. (Which makes my day even though I’ve only just woken up.)

  Two, I will hold this over her head for fucking ever.

  My gaze slides over to the dresser, the folded clothes lying on top.

  Hold the bus. Is that lace? I stretch, craning my neck to get a better look.

  My toes connect with the metal bed post. “Fuck.”

  A noise behind me makes me freeze.

  I roll over, careful not to take out Haley on the way.

  I’m not used to sleeping with another person. I’ve probably woken her already.

  But Haley curls into my bare chest, asleep and innocent as her breath heats my skin. Damn, she’s pretty like this. Her dark lashes sweeping across her cheeks. Lips just parted.

  I’ve never come clean to someone like I did last night.

  I’ve turned it over in my head a dozen times, what is it about her that gets to me. Trying to find, in my feelings for her, my own weakness.

  She’s innocent, but she’s not.

  She’s sweet, but she’s not.

  She’s tough, but she’s not, and…

  How the hell did my arm get around her waist?

  Because my thumb’s stroking her side where her tank rode up, and Haley makes a little sound in her sleep that makes me want to fuck the mattress.

  Or her. Obviously.

  But that’s not going to happen. I’m no prince, but I’m not shitty enough to think it’s okay to show up unannounced, drop a ten-pound bomb—or technically, a seventy-pound one with red hair—then crash at a girl’s place and expect sex.

  Still…

  My thumb brushes her skin again because I want to hear that sound. To memorize it in case it’s the only time I hear it.

  Leaving the jeans on last night was a good idea.

  I can take the smell of her, the warmth.

  What I can’t take is when her leg drapes across mine and she snuggles closer to my bare chest.

  My breath is a balloon, stretching my chest. My abs flex on instinct.

  My hand slides down an inch, to the top of her hip. Shit, she’s soft.

  Is she that soft everywhere? It seems impossible.

  But it’s been so long since I actually slept with someone—in a bed, their body next to mine—I can’t remember.

  Haley’s hips rock against mine as if I have something she knows she needs.

  My biceps shake from resisting, and I can’t stop the groan. “You’re killing me here, Hales.”

  I want to haul her mouth to my mouth.

  I want to give her so much pleasure she can’t get off without thinking of me.

  I want to tell the kid at the café with the Telecaster he doesn’t have a shot in hell, whether I’m here or in Australia, because she’s mine.

  Before I can examine that thought too closely, something fluffy brushes against my back above the covers. “What the…”

  I crane my neck, twisting in the sheets.

  Then I fall out of bed on my ass. “The FUCK is that doing here?!”

  “What’s wrong?” Haley mumbles as I scramble to standing.

  “Don’t move. There’s a skunk.”

  Her eyes fly wide and she shoots straight up. “Don’t kill it!”

  “I’m not going to kill it. I’m going to get it out the window.”

  “That’s Scrunchie. It’s Serena’s. He doesn’t spray.” Haley lifts him up in front of her face. The little thing blinks at her as if the light offends it.

  “I’m not sure how I feel about you now.” But the smile she flashes in my direction melts whatever grudge I’d begun to harbor.

  She sets the skunk on the covers, and he wanders toward the foot of the bed.

  “You want to shower before breakfast?” My gaze jerks back to hers. For a second, I fantasize Haley means together, but she shifts out of bed and hands me a towel. “I’ll make coffee.”

  She retreats toward the living room, her ass swaying under her shorts. I call after her. “Hales.”

  She turns back, and I grin.

  “Nice poster.”

  I wish to God I could take a picture of the flush on her cheeks.

  As I take a shower, the normalcy of the morning gets to me.

  Until I find it.

  Her tropical shampoo.

  I mentally catalogue the brand and kind, then because my cock’s complaining about the seriously short stick he drew this morning, I weigh the pros and cons of jacking off with it.

  I’m only human.

  Five minutes later, I’m a human pinea
pple.

  I dry off, pull my jeans back on, along with my T-shirt, and glance at my phone. A dozen missed calls from my agent, my business manager, and Mace. Plus a notification about my charter flight back to Dallas at noon.

  “Hey, Hales, can I use your phone again?” I call as I enter the kitchen.

  “If you’re checking email, you can do it on my computer,” Haley says. “Let me grab it.” She brushes past me to go back to her room. “Oh, you remember Serena, right?”

  The roommate’s already at the table, wearing a sweatshirt and smudged eye makeup. She finishes the waffle she’s eating and crosses her arms. “I heard you stayed over last night.”

  “I heard you were out with some frat boy who likes bacon,” I counter.

  “Because I’m sure you’re the poster child for good decision-making.”

  “You own a skunk.”

  She takes her plate to the sink. “Hey, Jax Jamieson?”

  “Yeah, Serena… whatever your name is?”

  Her expression softens. “I told her she should fuck you, okay? Don’t make me look like an asshole.”

  She goes into what I assume is her room, shutting the door.

  Before I can make sense of what just happened, Haley’s back, setting the laptop on the table in front of me.

  I open my email as Haley says, “You want waffles?”

  “Can I get some peanuts on top?”

  She sticks her tongue out at me, and I grin as I set to work on the computer.

  I confirm the charter and review my meetings for this afternoon. I had a call this morning I need to reschedule also.

  Grace and Annie will be getting back from Disney tomorrow. I need to make sure they’re set up at the Ritz. And Annie will be starting school in another week, so I want to get her some back-to-school supplies.

  I glance up to see Haley staring at me, a box of pancake mix in one hand.

  No. Ogling.

  I run a hand through my wet hair. “See something you like?”

  She flushes, setting the box on the counter. She only half succeeds and has to make a grab for it as it tumbles off. Mix flies out the end and makes a powdery pile on the floor.

  “I’ve never seen you use a computer.”

  “You want me to type slower?” My voice drops an octave. “I know what emojis are too. Eggplant means cock, and peach means ass.”

  It’s ridiculous, but she brushes the dust off her hands and returns to the table. I’m thinking about shoving the computer off my lap and pulling her into it, until she’s distracted by what’s on the screen. “What’s that?”

  “My publicist sends me a digest of fan email once a week.”

  Her eyes light up as she grabs the computer and swings around, dropping onto the opposite chair.

  Shit, this girl’s hard on my ego. It’s like I’m always second-most interesting to a black box.

  Which only makes me like her more.

  “Charlie in Wisconsin says your song saved his life.” Haley’s gaze moves back and forth over the screen. “Jennifer in Baltimore saw your show, and it was the best show she’d ever seen.” Her mouth curves. “Obviously she never saw Leonard Cohen.”

  I kick her under the table, and she laughs.

  A moment later, her eyes go round, and the smile disappears. “Whoa.”

  I straighten, shifting closer. “What’s wrong?”

  “This woman… she has very specific ideas of what she wants from you.”

  I frown. Usually the crazies don’t get through the first filter.

  “She really likes your mouth.” Haley’s face screws up in an expression I’ve never seen on her.

  Not possible.

  But the longer I watch, the more I realize it’s true.

  She’s jealous.

  Something in me purrs. “Really?”

  Haley clears her throat. “‘I dream about your mouth on my body.’”

  Goodbye, smugness. Hello, desire.

  Heat coils low in my gut as she continues.

  “‘I touch myself and imagine it’s you. Thinking about it makes me so wet.’”

  The words roll off her lips, and every one lights new fires throughout my body.

  Phrases like “touch myself” and “wet” imprint on the back of my brain, feeding the flames stroking down my spine and making my abs flex.

  “‘You’re the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, and …’”

  She swallows, her brows pulling together. Her cheeks flush pink, and I should be pulling the screen back, but there’s no stopping now.

  I’d give every dollar I’ve made to hear her finish that thought.

  I manage a grunted, “What?”

  She doesn’t disappoint.

  “‘When I fuck myself, I pretend it’s you. Your mouth, your hands, your cock.’” Her voice catches. “‘In my mind, you fuck me senseless. All night.’”

  Jesus.

  Every ounce of blood is now south of the 49th parallel.

  Fuck waffles.

  I could lower her down on this table, because God knows she’s going to need something to hold onto when I strip those shorts off her hips and lose myself in her.

  Haley’s gaze cuts to mine, and the expression there nearly destroys me. No computer in the world can explain the way she’s looking at me right now.

  I know because I feel it too.

  She clears her throat, but her words are still rough. “Her name is—”

  “I don’t want her name, Hales.” My voice is a rasp. My cock might smell like pineapple, but it’s saluting her like a damned oak tree under the table.

  I want to see if this poor excuse for foreplay has her as turned on as it has me. I want to force her to keep those pretty hazel eyes open so I can memorize the way they change color when I take her over the edge again and again.

  Buzzzzz.

  My gaze drags to my flip phone on the table, and I curse.

  It’s a reminder of my flight.

  Maybe of my sanity.

  Because what was about to go down here would’ve been certifiable.

  I want her. More than I’ve wanted just about anything I can remember.

  But my casual remark about fucking her last night was a slip. The product of a grueling day and the way she looked when I’d kissed her.

  I never meant for things to go that far.

  Grace and I used to ride our bikes down this hill as kids. It started so gradual you barely noticed, but you’d pick up speed until you were flying, careening out of control toward a blind corner.

  It was the best fucking feeling on Earth.

  Including the time I’d nearly been hit by a truck at the bottom.

  This time, I’m not worried about hurting me. I’m worried about hurting Haley.

  Problem is, I don’t know how I’m going to resist her either.

  If I go there with her—if—it’ll be on my terms. When I have an iron grip on my own need and nothing to prove except that I can take her higher, deeper, better than any guy who’s ever thought about touching her.

  “I have to go.” I shove out of my chair.

  Haley rises too, her mouth forming a little O that doesn’t help my self-control. “What about breakfast?”

  We both look at the pile on the floor at the same time.

  I try to hide the smirk.

  Fail.

  She laughs, and damn if that isn’t what I love about being around her. Haley doesn’t take herself too seriously, and when I’m with her, I can’t either.

  “Rain check? I need to get Annie settled and back to school. I’ll be back at Wicked in a few weeks for meetings. You need anything, you know where to find me.”

  I cross to her, because I can’t leave without one more hit, and drop my lips to her temple. Her tiny sigh has my gut knotting again.

  “See you, Hales.”

  “Bye, Jax.”

  I turn and start toward the door, stopping at the sight of the black-and-white mop between me and the foyer.

  We
stare each other down.

  Then, as if he just realized his tail is on fire, he scurries off.

  “Yeah, you better watch out.”

  6

  Haley

  “That’s it. She’s dead.” I sigh, looking up from the computer. “Why can’t Wicked spend more on technology?”

  Wendy’s pale gaze runs over me. She hasn’t softened much since the day I interviewed with her, but on this topic at least, we’re allies.

  “Most of the budget goes to the big revenue generators, like the tours. So, we have to keep what we have running.”

  I blow a piece of hair out of my face. We might be working overtime, but the air conditioning in the server room is definitely not on the plan.

  In the week I’ve worked at Wicked, I’ve learned a few things. Wendy runs the tech department, which is seriously understaffed at four people plus me. Though the recording tech is state-of-the-art, everything the company runs on—servers, desktop computers, the network—is old-school.

  Wendy glances at the clock, which says it’s almost six. “I need to go pick up my son for the weekend. Don’t forget to check your employee mailbox for your paperwork.”

  Wendy leaves, and I wipe my brow as I look back at the stack of computers.

  If Cross wanted me to do penance, I’m doing it. I got a classmate to slip me the outlines of my would-be courses for this semester. Now between working full days here, making calls and emails to try and find a loophole that will get back into school (which so far have yielded nothing), and keeping up on “my” readings and assignments? I fall into bed exhausted at night.

  Which is just as well because lying awake thinking what I’ve been thinking isn’t healthy.

  Jax Jamieson groped you at the campus radio station.

  Then told you he was a dad.

  (Hot dad.)

  You let him sleep in your bed. Use all your body wash (wtf?). Then vanish from your kitchen only to ghost you the modern way after.

  Okay, the last part’s not entirely true.

  I texted him Saturday afternoon to make sure his plane got in.

  Sunday, he emailed me a picture of Annie on a ride, wearing both sets of mouse ears, with the text “My ears get around.”

  But since Tuesday…