Badd Motherf*cker

by Jasinda Wilder

  Contents

  BADD MOTHERF*CKER

  COPYRIGHT

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  EPILOGUE

  ALSO BY

  BADD MOTHERF*CKER

  A Badd Brothers novel

  BY

  Jasinda Wilder

  Copyright (c) 2016 by Jasinda Wilder

  BADD MOTHERF*CKER: A BADD BROTHERS NOVEL

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover art by Sarah Hansen of Okay Creations. Cover art copyright (c) 2016 Sarah Hansen.

  1

  Dru

  I smoothed the ruched white fabric over my hips and sucked in a breath; the dress was crazy tight around my chest, which did wonders for my cleavage, but left me unable to draw a full breath.

  "I can't really breathe," I said, once again attempting to fully expand my lungs.

  "It's only for, like, an hour," Annie said. "Soon as the service is over, you can change into your party dress for the reception."

  "Yeah, I guess," I said. "Who breathes on their wedding day, anyway?" I joked.

  Lisa, another of my three bridesmaids, put the finishing touches on my hair, tucking a few strands into bobby pins and leaving a few strands loose around my face. "My wedding dress was so tight I nearly passed out during the service," she said. "Not breathing on your wedding day is a time-honored tradition."

  "Well...fuck that tradition," I said. "I like breathing. Breathing is nice."

  Annie was in front of me, touching up my makeup. "That cleavage is nice. Looking hot on your wedding day is also nice. Breathing? Meh, it's overrated."

  I tried another breath, feeling my breasts swell against the constraining material. My head spun, and I was glad I was sitting down. I was just dizzy from nerves, that's all. I was nervous, that much was true. But I also legitimately couldn't breathe. I was scared out of my mind. I loved Michael, I really, really did. I loved him. I was ready to get married. I was ready to become Dru Connolly-Morrison. Mrs. Michael Morrison. Dru Morrison.

  God, none of those sound right.

  But Michael insisted I take his name, even if it was hyphenated. "I'm traditional that way," he had grumbled.

  I liked my name, though, and I didn't want to change it. Dru Connolly: it had a ring to it. It was a strong name and, more importantly, it was my name.

  Breathing was becoming harder and harder with every passing moment--or maybe it was just the fact that I was close to hyperventilating. I tried to slow my breathing down, but my lungs didn't seem to be getting the message.

  "I need to see Michael," I said.

  He always had a way of calming me down when I started panicking and overthinking things. He'd kiss me and hold me and tell me it would be okay and, somehow, things always worked out. Not always how I wanted them to, or how I expected them to, but...they worked out.

  This wedding would work out, and the marriage would, too.

  But...I wanted more than just for my marriage to WORK OUT. I wanted it to be amazing.

  Annie and Lisa exchanged glances. "Um...well...you know it's bad luck for him to see you in your dress."

  "I'll cover up or something. Can you just go get him?"

  Another glance between the two ladies.

  "It's just nerves, hon," Lisa said.

  Annie zipped her makeup bag closed. "Just take lots of shallow breaths and focus on walking down the aisle. You'll be fine."

  I looked from Annie to Lisa and back, feeling, perhaps unfairly, like they were hiding something, or avoiding. Something. I wasn't close to either woman, since they were the significant others of Michael's best friends, Nate and Eric--Lisa was Nate's wife, and Annie was Eric's girlfriend. There was one more groomsman, Tony, Michael's cousin, and one more bridesmaid, Tawny, one of Lisa's friends, added just to keep the sides even; I'd barely met Tawny, and didn't really care for her all that much, but you couldn't have two bridesmaids and three groomsmen, right?

  I sighed. "I just need a few minutes alone, I guess."

  "Sure," Annie said. "We'll go help Tawny with the flowers."

  I frowned. "Help Tawny with the flowers? I had the flowers professionally arranged, and I checked them myself this morning."

  Lisa hesitated, and licked her lips. "I...she's just double checking. You know, just...to be sure everything is golden."

  I honestly didn't care what Tawny was doing, so I just shrugged. "Whatever. I just need a minute. Thanks, ladies."

  "Sure thing, Dru," Lisa said, and then she and Annie were out the door, finger-waving at my dad as they passed him.

  I really didn't have any girlfriends of my own, not anyone I truly liked or trusted. I didn't trust anyone but my dad.

  And Michael. I trusted Michael.

  Michael was amazing.

  Handsome, successful, kind. Worked in marketing for Amazon. No beer belly, had all his hair, went to the gym two or three days a week, and could last longer than five minutes in bed. What wasn't to love?

  I had to see Michael. If I saw him, all my doubts would be erased.

  That's how it always worked.

  Michael was a stickler for tradition, so I knew he wouldn't want to see me in my dress before the moment I walked down the aisle to him, so I stuck my head out of the door of the Sunday school room I was using as a dressing room. My dad was sitting on a bench opposite my room, scrolling on his cell phone. He was my best friend, and my namesake: he was Drew Connolly, and I was Dru Connolly. Maybe that was cheesy, sure, but he was all I had.

  "Daddy?"

  He looked up, smiling at me. "What's up, baby girl?"

  "Do you have that stupid trench coat you're always wearing?"

  He frowned at me. "We live in the Pacific Northwest, Dru, so a trench coat isn't stupid, it's practical. So, yes, I do. Why?"

  "I need to see Michael, but I don't want him to see me in my dress yet."

  Dad nodded. "Ah, of course." He stood up, moved to a coat rack down the hallway and lifted his beloved, twenty-year-old tan trench coat off the hook.

  I hated that trench coat. It made him look like he was trying to be a gumshoe detective in a late-forties detective noir flick. But for the moment, it was what I needed, so I put it on and buttoned it over my dress, and then did a twirl, kicking my heel up and posing...with zero percent sarcasm, of course.

  "How do I look?"

  Dad smirked. "You look great, baby. See? A trench coat is always fashionable."

  I rolled my eyes at him. "Don't even get me started, Dad. Trench coats are never fashionable. Ever. Like, maybe for five minutes in the nineteen forties, sure, but that's it." I leaned up and kissed him. "I'll be back, and then we'll be ready to get started, right?"

  Dad gave me the look, then. The one I hated. The look that told me he didn't quite approve of Michael, or the wedding, but was supporting me because I was his only child and he loved me. "If you're sure this is what you want, then yes, we'll be ready. Michael's family is here, all sixty-four of them." He grinned. "Rolando, Vickers, Johnson, Benson, Ayers, and Mickelson are all here too with their families, so we've got a few people to fill up our side. But i
f you're having any doubts, just say the word. We'll organize a getaway."

  "I'm sure, Daddy. I promise." I leaned up and kissed him. "Now wait here, I'll be right back."

  He sat back down, pulled his cell phone out, and resumed scrolling, content to wait as long as it took, as long as he had his Buzzfeed app to scroll through. "I'll be here, then."

  Michael's dressing room was down the hallway and around a corner. His two best friends, Nate and Eric, were lounging on a bench like Dad had been, passing a flask back and forth and cackling about something on Eric's cell phone. Lisa and Annie were crowded around Eric and his cell phone, cackling right along and taking hits from the flask when it got passed around.

  I strode up to them, and they were so involved with whatever they were watching that they didn't notice me. I was close enough to hear Eric's phone. It sounded like porn, and as I got close enough to see it, it looked like porn. Eric had his phone held away from himself, so everyone could see, his palms cupped around the back to reflect the sound. I stood next to Lisa and crowded in.

  "What are you watching?" I asked, but I was able to see enough to know what they were watching.

  Only, it didn't make any sense.

  It couldn't be.

  Eric did an actual double take: looking at me, looking back at the phone and then looking back at me in total surprise, which quickly morphed to panic.

  "Shit! Dru, I--we--we're watching...nothing." He clicked the phone off and stuffed it in his pocket. "Don't worry about it. A stupid video my buddy sent me."

  I was staying calm, so far.

  It's not what I think.

  He wouldn't.

  Would he?

  "That's not what it looked like," I said.

  Eric shifted, looking to his friends to help him out.

  Lisa glanced at Michael's dressing room door, eyes wide, and then looked back at me, speaking a little louder than necessary. "You want a shot, Dru?" She snatched the flask out of Nate's hand and shoved it at me. "Have a shot. It's Jim Beam."

  I pushed past her, ignoring her and the flask, reaching for the doorknob.

  "You're not supposed to see him before the wedding, Dru!" Lisa shouted, getting between the door and me. "It's bad luck!"

  "He's not supposed to see me in my dress before the wedding, you idiot." I had never liked Lisa, I realized. She was vapid and stupid and now she was getting in the way of me seeing my fiance on the day of our wedding? "Which is why I'm wearing the trench coat. Now get out of the way."

  I heard it, then.

  Michael.

  Making certain...sounds.

  Lisa heard it too, which was why she'd tried to talk louder than necessary.

  I bit my lip, blinked hard, and forced my imminent breakdown aside. Turning to Eric, I held out my hand. "Phone, Eric. Now."

  He hesitated. "Why do you want to see it? You know what it is, obviously."

  I got in his face. "Phone...now." I used the hard voice I'd learned from Dad, the one with the snap of authority.

  Dad was a cop, a former USMC drill instructor, and an overall badass, so he was an expert in what he called The Voice of Authority. He'd also taught me self-defense from the time I was old enough to walk, so I could hand most men their own asses in thirty seconds or less, and Eric knew it. Hell, he'd seen me do it more than once.

  He dug his phone out of his pocket, unlocked it, and handed it to me--the video was cued up, on pause.

  It showed the door behind me, the door to Michael's dressing room. It was cracked open, and the video was being shot through the crack. Michael was visible through the crack, tuxedo pants around his ankles. His bowtie perfectly tied, his vest buttoned up, his coat left open, white shirt hanging below the vest and coat.

  In front of him, bent over the back of a chair, was Tawny, Lisa's best friend and my third bridesmaid. Yes, her name really was Tawny. And she fit the name, too: fake blond hair, big fake tits, skanky, had done a turn as a stripper. In the video, she was taking Michael's cock and, from the sounds she was making, she was loving it. Loudly.

  I wanted to see what had been so funny, so I scrolled to the left to bring the video back to the beginning. The video had caught Michael as he tripped over his own pants and fell backward onto his ass, leaving Tawny bent over the chair, dress shoved up past her gyrating hips. Michael's erect dick flapped and flopped and wobbled as he toppled backward. Honestly, it was hysterical. It was funny enough that despite the circumstances, I actually giggled.

  But I sobered quickly.

  "He's still in there?" I demanded, tossing Eric's phone at him. "Fucking Tawny?"

  Nobody answered, which was all the answer I needed; I'd seen enough, no need to confront him.

  I wiggled my full-carat diamond solitaire engagement ring off my finger and sucked in a deep breath--well, as deep as I could, anyway--to fend off the meltdown for a few more minutes. I turned to Lisa, grabbed her wrist and pressed the ring into her palm. "Tawny can have him."

  I turned and left, fighting off the need to have a total nervous breakdown.

  Dad was still waiting on the bench, and he looked up as I stormed past him. "Baby? Dru? What's going on?"

  I kept marching, and let Dad catch up. We were out of the church, and into the pouring Seattle rain in less than sixty seconds.

  "You were right, Daddy," I managed, as I approached the driver's side of Dad's beat-up red '07 Tacoma--he'd driven us here, but now I needed to drive. I needed to get away as fast as possible.

  Dad wasted no time hopping into the passenger seat, which was good since I wasn't waiting around. The second my ass hit the faded, ripped cloth seat, the engine was on and I was peeling out.

  "Right about what? What's going on?" he asked as I skidded out of the parking lot of the church and onto the main road.

  Dad having trained me to drive, he was fairly relaxed despite my wild driving.

  "About Michael, about everything." I sniffled and tried to stop the next one, because I knew once I let it out there would be no stopping it. "He--he--Tawny, he was--SHIT!" I slammed my fist on the steering wheel so hard the whole truck shook. "That piece of shit was fucking Tawny in the dressing room."

  Dad's eye twitched, and his massive fist clenched. "Knew that punk was a slimy bastard."

  "Yeah, you did."

  "So now what?"

  I unbuttoned the trench coat, shrugged it off, and handed it to Dad. "Now I go get shitfaced. After that? I don't know." I contorted in place, trying to loosen the bodice, and managed to give myself enough room in the dress so I could actually take a breath without it hurting.

  Dad rested his meaty hand on my shoulder. "Pull over, baby-cakes. I'll drive."

  I yanked the wheel to the right, hopped a curb, and skidded to a halt in a drug store parking lot. We did a Chinese fire drill, and when I was seated Dad took off again, albeit far more sedately than I had.

  He glanced at me. "You gonna cry?"

  I nodded. "A lot. I'm gonna ugly cry so hard, Dad, you don't even know."

  He dug into his back pocket and produced an actual handkerchief. Dad, classic, right there. He's not all that old, since Mom had me at nineteen, but he acts like someone from a previous generation. Handkerchiefs, trench coats, and I'm pretty sure he has a fedora somewhere.

  I stared at the handkerchief. "Do you use that on your nose?"

  He shrugged. "Well, sure, it's a hanky."

  "That's disgusting."

  Dad stuffed it back in his pocket. "Suit yourself. But it's clean, you know. I have several, and I wash them. It's not, like, the same hanky with twenty years of snot crusted into it."

  That got a laugh from me, because that was kind of what I'd been imagining. But the laugh was what broke me--I couldn't hold my feelings back anymore. It started with a single tear and a sniffle, which turned into a sob, and then I was full-blown ugly crying, as promised.

  I took the hanky, gross as it was, and wiped my eyes with it, not caring if I smeared my mascara.

  Pretty soo
n I was crying so hard I couldn't see, and I felt Dad pull the truck over. He unbuckled me and hauled me to his side, wrapped his thick arm around me, and held me close as I sobbed. He smelled like Dad and felt like comfort.

  He let me cry for I don't know how long, and when I was finished, he took the hanky from me, wiped my face with it, and stuffed it back into his pocket. "Better?"

  I shook my head. "No, not even close. But I'm done crying for now. Time to get hammered."

  Dad took me to his favorite dive, a cop bar near a small rural airfield way outside Seattle. By small, I mean postage-stamp tiny. The biggest airplane anywhere on the field was a twin-engine prop plane getting loaded with crates; the rest of the planes were single-engine Cessnas, Piper Cubs, Beechcraft, and other single-engine private aircraft. He knew everyone there, since he'd been on the force for twenty years and had been going to that particular dive bar for even longer; it wasn't so much a cop bar as it was the personal, mostly private hangout of Dad and his cop buddies.

  When we walked in every head turned, because it was the kind of place you just didn't go into unless you knew you were welcome. So when the guys saw me in my dress, bedraggled from walking through the downpour, mascara smeared from crying...well, those cops were a tight bunch. They took care of their own. One look at me, and they pulled the tables into a circle, sat me down, pulled a bottle of the finest scotch in the joint and poured me a double on the rocks. I'd grown up with these guys, you see. Their wives had babysat me when Dad worked a weekend or school night shift. They had come over in the middle of the night when Dad had to go interview a suspect. They had covered for me when I snuck out to make out with boys in high school. These cops had all been there for me my whole life.

  I finished my first double scotch and listened to them discussing plans for Michael, and then waited while Detective Rolando poured me a second. I looked at them all in turn: Rolando, Vickers, Johnson, Dad, Benson, Ayers, Mickelson...Dad had obviously texted them to meet us here after I'd bolted from the wedding.

  "No revenge, guys." I stared them down until they saw I was serious. "He's not worth it. He can have Tawny and she can have him. No revenge. Although, if you ever catch him speeding, don't let him off with a warning. I'm not going to waste another moment of my life on him, and neither should any of you."