So Good for Me: Bad Boy Forbidden Love Romance Collection

by Jamie Knight

  Chapter One - Addie

  The machines made their music. The industrial cacophony echoed over the dark water. Long Island wasn't Manhattan, though it could be like herding cats to convince people of that.

  I focused on the crank and grind, trying to make a song out of it. I had been a fan of Industrial back when it was first popular. But I hadn’t been old enough to actually go to the shows. Taking the aching thrum as a base, I added the guitars and vocals in my head. It was difficult not to hum along.

  I already wasn't super popular at work, even though I had been there a good decade longer than most of my co-workers. I tried not to think about it. Easier thought than done, though. No matter how hard I tried to push the thoughts out of my head, the more they came rushing back. I guess it only made sense that it would be hard not to think about him. He was my son, after all.

  I hadn't seen him in nearly two weeks. He was 12 and able to make his own decision about such things, even if his dad did just appear out of the aether after letting me do all the parenting for just over a decade. He always was a selfish prick.

  Even so, he was also a determined prick. If I fought him, we would end up in court and, since the lawyer I had consulted with said I wasn’t likely to win when the courts allowed children 12 and over to weigh in on what they wanted to do, it wasn't worth the upset. Especially not to Duncan.

  I did my best to let it go and convince myself that a boy needed his father, but I didn't believe it was true in every case. A father figure, perhaps, but not necessarily their biological father. Especially one like Dave.

  The whistle added its contribution to the tune, bringing the movement to a definitive end. The dull few dozen marched in conditioned unison toward the punch-clock. The lockers had a rhythm all their own. Clunks and clicks accompanied by high squeaks.

  The drawing that was hung above the clock was surprisingly good. I had never suspected that there might be budding artists among my colleagues. The spurt of cum was a bit much, but the cock had been rendered in vivid detail, the black sharpie standing out against the industrial orange of the locker. Ignoring the leers and jeers of the men around me, some of them young enough to be my children, I started on the lock.

  I was only forty, but the management didn't seem to have any qualms about hiring high schoolers, particularly if they were related by blood. Nepotism was alive and well in the 21st century.

  Technically, I should have had my own locker room, but the factory was built in the days before women in the workforce were commonplace. Because the work overalls didn't require me to actually get undressed, just get in and out of coveralls, and the because the owners were fucking cheapskates, I was put in with the men.

  The pain of the hand swatting my ass wasn't too bad. I hadn't really seen it coming. I’d been a bit too occupied with making sure no more notes asking for lurid sexual favors had been dropped through the slots in the door.

  He had also already taken off his boots, so I hadn't heard him coming. I sure felt it when he passed, though. I consoled myself with the fact that they had gone from pinching, which really hurt, to spanks.

  The thick material of my overalls absorbed most of the impact. I couldn't quit because I needed the money. They knew I couldn't complain because I was hanging on by the skin of my teeth as it was. The threat of a discrimination lawsuit was the main reason I wasn't turned down out of hand.

  It wasn't like it was my dream job. I actually wanted to be a painter. I’d gone to art school and everything. I even got some of the highest marks in my class. A teacher who was notoriously difficult to please, part of his first day speech including a bit about how it was against his religion to give out As because such perfection was reserved for the Lord, took me aside and commended me on my work.

  I got a B+ in the class, which I considered to be high praise. Then I met Dave. Tall, handsome, charming Dave. Master of his own universe and King in his own mind, who came walking into the art supply store where I was working, just waiting for the galley show that I knew was just over the horizon and told me he was there to rescue me.

  Sadly, the guy I thought was a prince turned out to be a villain who, as soon as we were wed, took over every aspect of my existence until he discovered our six-times-a-day sex sessions, always without protection, led to me getting pregnant.

  Then he turned into a wizard, vanishing from the world without a trace, only to reappear at the worst possible moment. It was almost like a superpower.

  Ignoring the barrage of insults and come-ons, as if I was walking past a factory as opposed to out of one, I got in my truck and drove away from it all, refusing to give my tears the satisfaction of falling.

  The mass of metal and glass refused to move. I had known full well what I was getting into, but at the time it had seemed like a sweet relief. Sliding in the CD, I let the sweet tones of Nine Inch Nails lull me as the traffic stood silent in the August sun. The pack of people were all leaving at the same time, in the same general direction. Whoever came up with the idea of New York rush hour was one of history's greatest monsters.

  I was headed home like most of the rest of the millions when my phone let out its happy jangle. I wasn't actually driving at the time, so I answered, still leaving it in the hands-free mount. Just in case, by some holy miracle, the traffic cleared before the call was over.

  “Whato-ho?” I inquired.

  “You're only a ho if someone's payin’. I am a bit of a slut, though.”

  “Mercy.”

  “More like charity, but close enough,” Mercy said, smiling down the line.

  I had a psychic image of the entire thing.

  “Charity how?”

  “I'm taking you out.”

  “Thanks, but -”

  “But nothing. How long has it been since you've had a frivolous night out?”

  “I-I can't quite recall,” I said, searching the files of my memory.

  “Three years, four months and thirty-two days.”

  “Good memory,” I marveled.

  “Only for the important things.”

  “I don't suppose there is any point in trying to resist?” I asked rhetorically.

  “Nope, resistance is futile.”

  “I know,” I confessed, “I just wanted to hear you say it.”

  “Cheeky vixen. Meet me at McGinty’s as soon as you can.”

  “As you wish.”

  Despite the name, neon shamrock and sign declaring it an “authentic Irish pub,” McGinty’s was founded by a Russian immigrant by the name of Morolov. However, given the anti-Russian sentiment after the war and New York’s very large and rather old Irish population, Sergei decided to hedge his bets and deceptively bill it as 100% authentic Irish.

  If you ask me, it turned out to be a good decision. Most people who weren’t local couldn’t tell the difference, and those of us who were local didn’t care.

  It was surprisingly quiet for a Friday evening. All but five of the freshly painted spots in the parking lot were utterly vacant. Pulling up near the door, I slung myself down out of the truck cab, landing like a cat, owing to years of practice.

  I could hear it before I got there. The European soccer playing on the wall-mounted TV, the only pub I had seen who did such a thing, accompanied by the raging fiddle music from the P.A. system. The only way Dimity, Sergei’s oldest son, could try any harder was if he made ‘top o’ the mornin’’ the official greeting and dressed the staff like leprechauns.

  “You sent for me, mistress?”

  “Not so loud,” Mercy chided.

  “What?” I asked, in purest innocence.

  “Hey, no judgement on anyone. I’m into a bit of bondage and spank from time to time, but I am firmly with the menfolk.”

  “Oh,” I said, the quarter finally dropping.

  “Relax, I’m just messing with ya,” Mercy said, nudging me playfully.

  The origin of her name had become something of a family legend, with the
usual amount of embellishment, contradictions and exaggeration. The brass tacks of it were that Mercy’s mom, a lifelong atheist, had gone into labor unexpectedly and with more than a few complications. Exactly what these were, was a matter of some conjecture. The long and the short of it was that Mercy’s mom was rushed to the local Sisters of Mercy, who saved not only her, but Mercy, too.

  In gratitude, she named her first-born daughter after the hospital, forever after saddling her beloved daughter with the name Mercy McGee. The tradition among friends and co-workers alike was to refer to her either by her first or last name, depending on one’s level of familiarity. Anyone who called her both was treated with a death stare that could drop a rhino.

  “What can I get ya?” Lara inquired.

  “Guinness,” I said, sticking to the theme.

  “Vodka on ice,” Mercy said, with a wink.

  “Right,” Lara said, with the most subtle and friendly roll of her pretty blue eyes.

  “Bitch,” I teased, when Lara was out of earshot.

  “And you love it,” Mercy retorted.

  “Touché.”

  Both drinks came, free of spite spit, and Mercy paid with a fresh twenty from a thick wad, not actually believing in wallets. She knew they existed. Mercy wasn’t that kind of crazy. Although she did question their efficacy, especially when coupled with a purse, which she saw as just more for someone to steal. Her way, someone would have to get their hand inside her jacket. Something that lead to an elbow in the throat when done without permission.

  “Pay day?” I asked her.

  “Damn right. I fucking hate my job, but it does have its advantages.”

  “Like a living wage?”

  “Among others. You should ditch the goon squad and come work with me. With your sweet tones, you’d get lots of work,” she advised me.

  “I don’t know,” I said, feeling the warmth as crimson touched my cheeks.

  “It’s not that bad. Just a bit of banter. Beats the hell out of stripping, I can tell you that much.”

  “Yeah, but aren’t the guys, you know, creepy?” I inquired.

  “Some. Mostly they’re just lonely and a bit pathetic. If I had normal, human emotions, I might feel sorry for them.”

  “That’s not fair,” I objected.

  “I know, but it feels like it sometimes.”

  “You’ve always been a sweetheart to me,” I said, it being mostly true.

  “That reminds me,” Mercy said, getting a wicked grin.

  The last time I saw her grin like that, we both ended up on a bus in Hoboken wearing nothing but our unmentionables.

  “Uh oh,” I muttered.

  “Have you heard of Second Chance Bachelorette?”

  “The online avatar game that was crazy popular for five minutes until people started mistaking it for real life?” I asked, mentally running through my memory file once again.

  “No, that was Second Life; I mean the new online reality show.”

  “I can’t say I’m familiar,” I confessed.

  I was a traditionalist, using my computer mostly for music and videogames.

  “It’s an interesting idea, really. They choose one lucky old hag, give her a make-over to make the poor wretch look presentable, and send them on a series of dates with handsome young men until they find true love.”

  “Sounds great,” I snaked.

  “Great. I’m glad you think so. Because I signed you up.”

  “You did what?!”

  “It was an online application. Easy as pie.”

  “But all those things you just said about an old hag, a poor wretch… Is that what you think of me?”

  “Oh, no, not at all!” she quickly reassured me. “That’s why I’m sure they’ll pick you; you’re nothing like the stereotype of a middle-aged woman. You are still smokin’ hot, and a lot of guys are really into the single mom thing. That’s the cunning part. You barely meet the minimum age requirement and there’s no way you can lose, especially considering I used the bikini shot from vacation last year as your profile picture for the application. I know no other candidate could compete with you. It would be like challenging a fish to a footrace.”

  “Thanks?”

  “You’re welcome. But you haven’t heard the best part yet.”

  “What’s that?”

  “In addition to true love, in addition to hot sex with an athletic, muscular hottie, there is also a significant cash payout.”

  “How significant?”

  Rather than saying it out loud, Mercy opted for the super spy approach of whispering the figure into my ear. I damn near fell off my stool.

  This whole idea sounded like it could only lead to mortifying embarrassment. I didn’t want to be paraded around as one pathetic candidate out of many on some reality TV show for other people to point and laugh at and talk about as they gathered around the water coolers at work.

  And yet, for that kind of price tag, I would gladly sell my dignity. I wouldn’t need it once my child and I were set for life financially.

  Sign me up, I thought to myself, and then I remembered Mercy already had.

  I guess my best friend really did know how to look out for me.

  Chapter Two - Tobias

  It was almost a meditative experience. The rumble of the engine, the warm sun on my face, the dulcet tones of Delirium emanating from both the front and back speakers, enveloping my mortal form in a veritable bath of sound.

  The honk came sharp and loud. Slowly opening my eyes, I noticed that the car in front of me had moved another ten feet. The red-faced gent behind me was desperate for even the most incidental amount of advancement.

  It was like World War I all over again. He was even using quite colorful German swear words, shouting out his window, to express his deep discontent. Perhaps it was my Union Jack bumper-striker, accessorized with the phrase ‘Rule Britannia’ that set him off. Neither Germany nor America had the best of histories with Old Blighty.

  There was no real cause for worry. It was not as if they could start without me and I was as invincible as it was possible to be in terms of job security.

  Still, I was not the only one in the world, so I tried to make an effort. For the sake of others if nothing else. People really weren’t that bad, all in all. Just scared and a bit short-sighted.

  “Good morning, James,” I said to the valet.

  “Mr. Ford.”

  “Please, we’ve been over this, it’s Tobias. Mr. Ford was my father.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. - Tobias.”

  “Much better.”

  Surrendering my vehicle to his able hands, I made my way through the sliding glass doors to the white marble lobby of the studio building. The whole thing wasn’t ours, of course. The building had over thirty floors. One would need to be a trillionaire to afford such extravagance, and Jeff Bezos and I fell out some time ago.

  The studio only took up the first ten floors.

  “Good morning, Tobias,” Mike said, keeping his military bearing behind the security desk as I signed in.

  “Good morning, Michael,” I replied cordially.

  The competition for elevators was stiff with only two to go around and all. That was a clear oversight by the architect.

  “Thank you kindly, Adam,” I said, as he held the elevator for me.

  “Not a problem, Tobias.”

  “Good morning, Tobias,” Eva said, from right behind me, her tone one of milk and honey.

  “Good morning, Eva,” I replied, keeping things professional.

  My office was on the sixth floor, right above the actual studio where we filmed most of the interior shots. More and more, the board wanted things “out in the world.” It was something I could really do without, despite perfectly understanding it from an entertainment perspective.

  “Everyone is already here,” Mari said as I came into my office.

  “Of course they are. Which room?”

&nbs
p; “Babble on 5.”

  “Thank you, Mari,” I said, leaving the caramel éclairs I knew she loved on her desk.

  Babble on 5 was an in-joke no one under 35 really got. Conservatives would have called it ‘Board Room 5,’ though this was as likely to get a chortle than a respectful nod from a sizeable number of the ‘lifers.’

  The gang was indeed all there. Despite being nearly twenty minutes late, I got nary a side-eye as I came in and sat down, casually unbuttoning my suit jacket.

  “Right,” I said, instantly taking command of the room, “where would we like to start?”

  “Contestants would be the obvious answer.”

  “Yes, Tom, it would. Do you want to be obvious?”

  “Makes sense to me,” Tom said, his level of self-awareness being in the negative numbers.

  “How are the applications?”

  “Flood levels,” Maria said, scrolling through the phone always welded to her hand.

  “Good, I like the be spoiled for choice,” I said, trying to get to the good side of the situation.

  “We have the interns on it,” Samantha said, stopping just short of actually waving her hand.

  “Do you?”

  “Yes?” Samantha’s confidence mask slipping, if only a couple of inches.

  “Who ordered that?”

  “I-I did,” Adam said, bracing for impact.

  “That’s not part of their job,” I pointed out.

  “I know but -”

  “You thought you would dance on the line between a legal intern and blatantly illegal exploitation.

  “We never really thought about it that way,” Samantha said, trying to take the blame for both of them as she often did.

  “I thought it was his idea,” I said.

  “It was initially, but I went along with it. We should have asked you first.”

  “Yes, you should have. Let that be a lesson, yeah?”

  “Yes, sir,” Adam and Samantha chorus in perfect unison.

  “Take the interns off the selection process immediately and send all files to my direct email. I will handle it myself.”

  “Yes, sir,” they chorused again, sounding like cult members to a nearly spooky degree. It probably had something to do with them being siblings.