Bad Boy Boxset

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Bad Boy Boxset Page 29

by JD Hawkins


  She gives me another scrutinizing look, a little more lust disappearing from her face, then shrugs and starts talking again.

  “Yeah. Well, I’m working on a couple of things.”

  “What are they?”

  She blinks at me for a second, probably not used to her dates feigning interest in her work. “One of them is a project over by…”

  I’d like to believe my lack of sexual, intellectual, and emotional interest is due to the fact that I got hammered before midday, fucked Margo, then woke up in a daze to find her missing and myself late for this date. But the fact is, I woke up with a hard-on stiff enough to lift weights with, and fucking two girls within the space of ten hours wouldn’t even be close to a record for me.

  No…as much as I don’t even want to admit it, the reason I’m off my game is because I fucked Margo. Not only that, I fucked a friend, not to mention a co-worker. I broke a cardinal rule, cheated my own self-made laws. Being drunk is no excuse, and the eight years we’ve been friends only makes this more complicated. Unlike a normal one-night stand, I can’t just put it behind me. We sit next to each other every day, we talk about everything, she’s going through a breakup, I actually care about her…

  “…but I have enough time to complete it. Anyway, I feel like I’m boring you. Why don’t you tell me something about yourself?”

  “Um…” I say, poking at the paella I have no appetite for while I remember where I am, “I’m a writer at TrendBlend, you know that, but I’m currently in talks regarding—”

  “No,” she interrupts, smiling, the sultry lip-licking back now, “nothing as boring as work. I wanna know…something more interesting. More personal.”

  I’m not sure how to take this, but I do my best to smile back. “Oh yeah? What do you want to know?”

  She leans forward, lowering her voice. “I wanna know…what turns you on? I wanna know how to push your buttons, how to make a man like you happy…”

  The question catches me off-guard, as does the fact that she reaches over and caresses my fork-holding arm—but I don’t show it. I look at her hand like a bee just landed on me, and take a slow sip of wine while I think, suddenly feeling the tug of some unexplored thought.

  “Let’s see,” I say, putting my glass down carefully. “Intelligence, that’s for sure. And I like a girl who has a way with words. Adventurous enough to keep up with me, funny—”

  “No,” she says, looking down and laughing a little before looking back up at me, crossing her arms tightly so I get an expensive-seat view of that cleavage, “I meant physically. What makes you hot? What do you look for in a woman?”

  Now I get it. She wants me to describe her. But instead of taking the bait, I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “To be honest…I like legs, nice legs. Long, toned…yeah. Glasses too, they can look real cute on a girl I think. And I like it when girls have that kind of don’t-give-a-fuck attitude, you know what I mean? In the way they move, the way they walk. Messy hair too, like they just rolled out of bed and tied it back…”

  It hits me like a ton of bricks, sudden and crushing. I’m describing Margo.

  All I had to do was tell this girl what she wants to hear; that I’m most attracted to women with architecture degrees, silky blonde curls, and cleavage you could fall into—but I still can’t resist my mind going back to Margo. Not only that, but thinking of her—visualizing her blindfolded with her lush mouth opened in a breathy moan—is the closest I’ve felt to lust all evening.

  “Hey,” I say suddenly, pulling my napkin from my lap and throwing it onto the table like a coach throwing in the towel. “I’m really, seriously, sincerely sorry, but I’ve got to run.”

  Her eyes go big and round as I pull out my wallet, put way more than the meal cost on the table, and stand up.

  “What?” she says.

  “You’re great, and on any other day I’d be so fucking into you right now, but I’ve just got something really complicated I’ve got to deal with.”

  “Are you serious right now? You’re just gonna walk out?”

  “Again, I’m sorry,” I say, holding my palms out one more time before making for the door like there’s a fire in the building.

  What the hell is going on with me? Am I really doing this? Did I really just bail on a date with a girl that hot? Did I really possibly just fuck up my proposal of the vlog to Melissa?

  I get to the taxi stand with a million thoughts tangling themselves up in my head. Each thought ending with me returning to images of how Margo’s thighs looked in those tight leggings, how her mouth tasted, how her skin felt. Pangs of regret and the notion that I’ve fucked everything up mixing with the dark, forbidden, blood-thumping bliss of what we did, how perfectly our bodies fit together.

  By the time I’m sitting in the back of the cab, I feel better. Half-hoping that Margo will call me tonight, or shoot me a text. Because even if this was a mistake—a massive, possibly-unrepairable mistake—maybe I can make it happen just one more time…just once more. Just to get it out of my system, to shake off this fixation. Because that’s clearly all this is. Right?

  I’m burning up with desire by the time I reach my apartment, a heady cocktail of testosterone and lust rushing in my blood. Muscles aching to get my hands on her again, mind wild with all the things I want to do to her.

  Except she’s not there, of course. Time to fix that.

  I drop onto the couch and start typing out texts to her, inviting her over for dinner or telling her all the things I want to do to her, how good I’m gonna make her body feel when she gets here—but I don’t end up sending a single one. Because it would be a mistake.

  In the end, I know the right thing to do. To just move on, pretend nothing ever happened. Chalk it up to the alcohol and her breakup and never speak of it until it ends up being so long ago that we can laugh about it. To focus on our work, to fall back into the same groove we had of supportive jokes and mutual respect. To edit what we did out of our memories like a deleted scene in the story of our friendship. Doing that would be smart.

  I could even write a long list of reasons why it would be smart to be sure this goes no further. Margo’s vulnerable mental state over her messy breakup, the fact that we work next to each other, the fact that I might be given a vlog about my serial dating if I’m lucky. Maybe throw in the fact that she’s the type who’s looking for a long-term, meaningful connection, while I’m just happy having fun with my clothes off.

  Letting this go would be mature, responsible, and beneficial to both of us.

  But at the moment I’m sitting in my apartment with a head full of her, an overactive imagination and a body full of pent-up tension—and maturity isn’t going to fix that. I take my phone out again, suddenly sure that Margo must have sent me a text by now, but in the stack of messages none of them are hers. I browse lazily through a couple of dirty texts, mainly from the girl I saw a couple days ago for the dating blog. A couple of messages from Manny, my best friend, asking me to go hit the town with him and take advantage of the St. Patrick’s Day party weekend. No Margo. I toss the phone onto the coffee table and lean back against the couch cushions, hardly believing I’ve gotten myself into this mess.

  The fuck do I want anyway? Why does the idea of letting this go bug me so much? I wrestle with my thoughts, trying to turn them back toward the girl I just sat in a restaurant with (whose name I’ve already forgotten). I think about her tits, glorious enough for her to show that much of them. Unconsciously, I undo my fly. I think about those crimson-red lips she kept licking as I pull my cock from my boxers. Those prom-queen curls, falling about her fluttering eyes. I start stroking slowly, letting my mind take over, letting the images play out behind closed eyelids, except the moment I stop forcing it I think of Margo in that thigh-length sweater, how I could see the curve of her thighs when she crossed her legs…

  “Shit,” I say, stopping myself suddenly.

  What exactly do I want? To fuck Margo again? And then what? To ca
rry on fucking her at the same time I fuck my career up? To fuck up our friendship too? How would that even work, sitting next to her day after day? And what happens when it all, inevitably, turns to shit? Or when a decent guy who wants her for more than just a fuck buddy comes along?

  It’s not like I could just drop a note on her desk as I walk by one afternoon, telling her to meet me in one of the conference rooms. Maybe on a day she’s wearing that pencil skirt/blouse combo, the one that makes her look kinda like a hipster secretary. I’d wait for her there, blinds down, and she’d enter with that stoic smile. I’d tell her to lock the door before grabbing a fistful of hair and pulling her head onto me. Fill her mouth with cock, look down at her kneeling body, ass like a mountain range, tell her to be quiet so nobody hears us. Tell her she’s mine and have those green eyes look up at me in devoted awe. Fuck her hot, wet mouth while I let those misty, perfect eyes get me closer and closer to…

  I come so hard I don’t even care about the mess. Hours of tension and lust leaving my body like weight. Jerking off shouldn’t feel this good—it never has before. Something’s definitely wrong, and now that my mind is at least a little bit clearer, I think I know what it might be. Nothing left to do now but figure out how to fix it.

  6

  Margo

  My sister Louise is four years younger than me, but we could be twins—albeit twins separated at birth and raised in completely different households. We’ve got the same green eyes, the same half-moon smile, and even the same physique. But while I wear glasses, Louise wears contacts all day long. I leave my hair its natural brunette but Louise changes hair colors like she changes outfits. She says I dress like I’m in a new wave band, I say she dresses like she’s on the cover of Glamour magazine.

  Whatever the differences though, we both love big novels, awesome food, and each other. That’s why my favorite day of the week is Sunday, when we meet up to indulge our other shared passion—open-air markets.

  Today it’s the Melrose Trading Place, and after we hug each other like we haven’t seen one another in years (it’s only been a week), and grab a few lemon blueberry donuts from a vendor, we start ambling between the vintage clothes and upcycled antique furniture.

  “So how have you been?” I ask as we navigate the relaxed crowds, lazily taking things in.

  Louise whips her straight, newly-blonde hair aside as she turns to flash me a roll of the eyes.

  “Another audition,” she sighs, “another sleepless night in my tiny studio in a noisy apartment complex, another week of minimum-wage slavery at the Baby Gap. Pretty uneventful, actually.”

  “Aww,” I sigh, rubbing her back sympathetically. “What was the audition for?”

  She purses her lips as she chews her donut and looks a little nervous before speaking—Louise has a habit of projecting what she’s going to say before she actually says it.

  “It’s a pretty big deal. I’m trying not to think about it too much, because if I do I’ll drive myself crazy.”

  “Smart.”

  “Yeah,” she says, as we stop to check out a rack of psychedelic-patterned shirts. “It’s a pilot for a TV show. Kind of a…speculative, crime-thriller type thing. Like Supernatural, but not. Almost like the old X-Files, but not that either. But it’s fucking great.”

  “Sounds pretty interesting. You actually like the writing, or just the show idea?”

  Louise leans forward, quickly glancing aside and lowering her voice to say, “I love the writing. That’s the thing. See, my character’s kind of a bit-part player, but it’s obvious that whoever’s writing this likes her. Her dialogue is so funny and sharp, and she’s totally kick ass. So if the show gets picked up, I think my character’s going to be one of the stars before the end of the first season.”

  I nod appreciatively and smile. “Your character?”

  “Oh god, did I say that out loud?” Louise tosses the sleeve she’s fingering away and turns back into the crowd. “I’m trying not to think about it like that. Why do I always get my hopes up?”

  “Since when did hope become a bad thing?” I ask through a mouthful of donut (even though I swear my manners are normally better than that).

  “Since I realized how much it can crush you,” Louise says, cutting off a sad sigh with another bite of donut. She smiles at me afterward, licking a bit of blueberry glaze off her lip. Sometimes eating your feelings isn’t such a bad thing.

  We saunter slowly, deeper into the market. Stopping every once in a while to examine an ornately patterned mirror or old cookie-tins with beautifully drawn images on them.

  “Owen would love these,” I say absently, as I open up the drawer on a bleached mahogany nightstand. “He probably bought half his stuff here.”

  “Owen?” Louise says, and I glance over to see her face screwed up in thought. “You still hang out with him? God, I used to have such a crush on him!”

  “Well we’ve been working together for a year, so yeah, you could say we hang out.”

  Louise grins.

  “And you keep ‘forgetting’ to give me his number.”

  “I didn’t forget,” I say, suddenly self-conscious that I’m talking about Owen when I’d done such a great job keeping my mind off him. “I told you all about him. He’s too dangerous for you. He’s not boyfriend material.”

  Louise shrugs sassily.

  “Guys that good-looking rarely are—but they make great bootycall material.”

  Something sticks in my throat and I start coughing, bending over almost double.

  “Oh god! Margo, are you ok?!” Louise says, pounding me on the back as she rummages around in her purse. “Here, I have water.” She pulls out a plastic bottle and hands it to me.

  I take it gratefully and sip until I can breathe easy and catch my breath.

  “Was it the donut?” she asks.

  “Ha. No. Sorry,” I say, taking another slow sip. “Dry throat…I’ve had a hell of a weekend.”

  “Mm hmm,” Louise nods, but she’s wearing an expression I haven’t seen since she played a detective in her demo reel.

  We continue on, rubbing shoulders with hipsters looking for stuff that looks old and old people looking for stuff that looks new. I buy a couple of old paperbacks, classics with kitschy covers printed in the 1970’s, while Louise hems and haws over a hand-knitted scarf she saw when we first entered. A couple of young girls come up to me and ask for a selfie with the ‘cat lady,’ to Louise’s amusement, and I go on a long rant about my job and the New York Month interview until Louise calms me down with a little pep talk—though I quickly realize it’s only to rush me back through the market to pull the trigger on that scarf.

  As she’s paying the woman at the stall, who’s savvy enough to spot a shopaholic when she sees one and begins offering Louise a bunch of other stock, I get a text on my phone.

  It’s Owen.

  My heart thumps, and I bite my lip to stop myself from smiling, or cringing, or both.

  You left your panties at my apartment. You’re too good of a writer for that kind of cliché…want them back on Monday?

  I glance up surreptitiously to check and make sure nobody is noticing that I’m freaking out a little, then type out a quick reply.

  You can keep them. Maybe add to your collection?

  Owen’s reply is almost immediate. Too quick for me to regret going for a goofy joke rather than just a single-word answer.

  You sure? Don’t you need them? I hear it’s hard to get your panties in a bunch if you haven’t actually got any panties to begin with.

  I stifle a giggle and try to push down the heat of my chest. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, and I sure as shit don’t know what Owen’s doing either. This is a long way from the awkward silences and overly-polite small talk I was expecting between us after what we did yesterday. Is Owen actually flirting with me? Does he want to carry this on? I will never let a man tell me that women are a mystery ever again…

  I’m in the middle of a response when
Louise snaps my attention away.

  “Who are you texting?”

  I look up and see that detective-look again. She really is made for the role.

  “Nobody. You done?” I reply nonchalantly, already stepping away.

  “Whoa!” Louise says, grinning like she’s struck gold as she keeps pace beside me. “Oh no! I know when you’re lying, Margo. Who was that?” Her expression changes suddenly, going hard and judgmental. “Was that Carl? It was Carl, wasn’t it? Are you still talking to him after the way he treated you?”

  “No!” I hastily tuck my phone into my bag and turn away, trying to project indignant annoyance instead of blushing guilt.

  Louise grabs my arm and spins me around to face her directly.

  “Are you seriously grinning like a prom date while texting with that no-talent, sleazy, Jim Jarmusch wannabe? Don’t tell me you’re getting back together!” Louie exclaims loudly, arms wide, imploring the heavens before covering her face with her hands. She pulls them away to reveal the crippling sadness she feels at her self-concocted revelation. “You think you still love him, don’t you? You just can’t get him out of your system. It’s that whole needy, sensitive artist thing, isn’t it? You can’t fix him, Margo! Let him go!”

  I stare blankly at Louise’s pained face.

  “Cut the dramatics, Louise, I’m not a member of the Oscar academy. It’s not Carl.”

  “Then why were you smiling all suspicious like that? You’re clearly hiding something.”

  “It was Owen. We were just…just an inside joke at work.”

  Louise leans in to stare into my eyes, as if she’s trying to detect a lie. I stare back and laugh, “Can I please write a reply, now?”

  “Sure,” Louise says slyly, as we start walking again. “Go right on ahead.”

  I let her wear her intrigued grin and turn back to my phone to finish my message as we walk.

  A little bird from the office told me you went on a date last night…very interesting.

 

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