British Bad Boys: Box Set

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  Copyright

  Spider

  Copyright © 2017 by Ilsa Madden-Mills

  Cover Design by Shanoff Designs

  Model: Amadeo Leandro

  Photography: Wong Sim

  Editing: Caitlin with Editing by C. Marie

  Formatting: Little Dove

  Little Dove Publishing

  Copyright Law:

  If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, this book has been pirated and you are stealing. Please delete it from your device and support the author by purchasing a legal copy. All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the above copyright owner of this book or publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked statue and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Author’s Note

  This is a full-length standalone novel loosely based on a short story I wrote in 2013. This short story, and I mean short, appeared in two anthologies: Breakaway and Beaus and Arrows, both of which are now unavailable for purchase.

  Flawed, broken, and utterly gorgeous, Spider’s been talking with a British accent in my head for years.

  Now, he’s all yours…I hope you love him.

  Ilsa

  Part I

  One often meets his destiny on the road he takes to avoid it.

  1

  Rose

  Before

  A flash of lightning crisscrosses the ceiling of my bedroom, and I jerk awake in the darkness. Mama’s been playing loud music all night, but it’s the storm that startles me, its rumble shaking the walls inside our tiny house in a rundown neighborhood outside of Dallas, Texas. Commonly referred to as Tin Town because of its junkyards, recycling centers, and used car lots, it’s a hotbed of poverty and crime. How do I know this if I’m only eleven? Because I watch the news, thank you very much. Sometimes I even see my street on there when someone gets shot or mugged.

  Dripping sounds reach my ears, and I watch as a small trickle of water slides down my wall. A big gust of wind blew shingles off the roof last spring, making the ceiling leak in the corner of my room. Mama said she was going to get the landlord to fix it, but she never did.

  A man’s deep voice carries over the sound of “Hotel California” by the Eagles, and my heart dips.

  All thoughts of going back to sleep vanish.

  I know that voice well. It’s Mama’s boyfriend Lyle—or piece of shit, as Granny liked to call him.

  He comes around every now and then and gets Mama riled up. They fight like cats and dogs, tearing at each other with their fists and hurling insults, and then just as hurriedly they make up and kiss each other.

  From out in the hall, it sounds like they are arguing, and I stiffen, the air crackling with a weird energy. Maybe it’s the storm beating against the house or the dark timbre of his voice, but something is off. I hear Mama cackle like she does when she’s high, and fear prickles over me, sending tingles all the way to my scalp.

  Granny always said I had good instincts and that I’d inherited her ability to read people, and I trust it now.

  Time to hide.

  Scrambling out of my covers, I scoot under my small bed, pushing dust bunnies out of the way. Clutched to my chest is a stuffed teddy Granny gave me before she died.

  There’s scuffling at my door.

  Whispers.

  My fear ratchets up.

  “Just let me look at her,” I hear him say to Mama. “I won’t hurt her.”

  “She’s asleep. Leave her alone,” Mama says in her sly way, and I picture her running her hands across his chest like she does before they go to the bedroom.

  She’s trying to distract him from me, either because she cares about me, or because she’s jealous. I never know her motives; she’s one of the few people I can’t read.

  “Come on,” he cajoles in a teasing voice. “Let me see your pretty girl. I want to see how she’s grown.” His tone is light, but there’s darkness there, a quality to it that makes the hair on my arms stand straight up.

  I do not want him to come in my room.

  I know what men like him want.

  I see the way he looks at me.

  He says I have legs long enough to wrap around a stripper pole.

  Granny warned me that one day he’d come for me too.

  The doorknob rattles.

  Run!

  Scrambling on my hands and knees, I fly out from under the bed and crawl to the window beside it. Jagged streams of lightning flash outside as I shove the glass up and raindrops beat at me as I heave myself up to the sill, perching for half a second before jumping. I land in a mud puddle at the bottom, streaks of brown splashing up my bare legs.

  The wind whips at me as I run, aiming for the skinny pine trees behind the house. Looking over my shoulder, I see a light click on in my bedroom and hear Mama calling my name. I hear his voice, angry and hard, as he shouts at me from the window.

  His tone fills my stomach with ice.

  I dart behind a log and hunker down, shaking as the storm batters from above.

  He never comes.

  She never comes.

  Hours later, I blink my eyes open as the sun comes up. I want to go back home, but sometimes Lyle stays for days until he gets tired of Mama.

  In the low light of morning, I walk along a trail through the woods to the Quickie Mart on the main road. My intent is clear: steal something to eat. I’ve done it before, a bag of chips here, a candy bar there.

  I see the rusty green dumpster in the back parking lot and come to a halt, my senses on high alert, watching as a wad of money and a brown package are exchanged between a teenage boy with tousled white hair and a known drug dealer in the neighborhood.

  I can’t look away.

  The teenager is new to me, beautiful with high cheekbones that perfectly accentuate his straight nose and full lips. He wears a pair of clean jeans that make me envious and a tightly fitted black turtleneck that makes his white hair pop. His hair is so shiny and styled, I imagine he spends more time fixing it than I take in the entire morning when I shower and get ready for school. An expensive looking leather jacket completes the outfit. He looks like a movie star and obviously doesn’t belong in this neighborhood.

  I should at least hide in the tall weeds since it’s a drug deal, but I don’t, immobilized by how different he is from anyone I’ve ever met, from his thickly lashed eyes to the way his shoulders shrug effortlessly as he talks.

  I analyze him like I do everyone, filing him away in the cabinet of my mind: handsome, arrogant, rich, trouble.

  His face turns directly toward me, dark eyes lasering in on my own. Faster than lightning, I drop down in the weeds, heart flying.

  Minutes tick by slowly as I crouch in the rain-soaked grass. Finally, I hear a car start and pull away. Relief rushes through me. Last year one of the kids from my school witnessed a drug deal and bragged about it, telling us every single detail down to names. About a week later, he just disappeared, and no one knows what happened to him.

  I wait, counting to a hundred before I stand.

  I get to fifty then a pair of expensive tennis shoes appear in front of me.

  “Hiya. You looking for bugs down there?” the beautiful guy says, his accent weird.

  I blink up at him. “I didn’t see a thing.”

  He does that shrug thing, the one where your eyes automatically go to his chest. It’s a nice chest as far as I can tell. He isn’t beefed up like a f
ootball player—I can take him if I have to.

  “Don’t care what you saw. What’s your name?”

  “I’m no one important,” I say tersely, daring him to dispute it.

  His lips twitch. “Nice to meet you, No One Important. How’s about you stand up and let me see you?”

  I maneuver to my feet and face him.

  He arches a brow at my bare legs and sleep shirt.

  I tug at the hem of the fabric, hoping it covers my butt. It does—barely. I must look like a drowned rat.

  He purses his lips, brown eyes studying me intently, making me squirm. I think I see a flash of compassion on his face. “Let me guess—you ran away from home?”

  My lips tighten. I’m not telling him jack. I can knee a boy in the nuts in two seconds flat and then run like the wind if I have to.

  He looks around the parking lot. “Things might be tough at home, kiddo, but this isn’t a good place for you. Stuff goes down back here, ya know what I mean? A girl could get in some big trouble.”

  I squint at him. Does he think I’m slow?

  Of course this place is dangerous.

  My whole world is.

  “You got somewhere to go? Somebody you want me to call?” His eyes sweep over the teddy bear I grabbed on the way out. I tug it closer to my chest.

  “I’m hungry,” comes out of me.

  He sighs heavily and scrubs his face, his expression thoughtful as he bends down to me. Out from his pocket comes another wad of money like the one I saw before. He peels off three bills. “Here. Take this and get yourself some food—and don’t waste it on candy. Get some protein in you. You’re skinny.”

  I eye the money suspiciously even as my fist clutches it tight. I’ve never seen a hundred-dollar bill, much less three at one time. It’s enough to keep me in candy bars for months.

  “What do you want from me?” I know what happens when men give women money. They always want something in return.

  He frowns again and sticks his hands in his pockets. “Nothing. Just get something to eat, and if things get tough at home, call the police okay?”

  “Police ain’t any good. They’ll just put me in a home, and it might be one that’s even worse.” I give him my you must be an idiot look.

  “I ran away a few times too, kid. Been there.”

  “Yeah, so?” I shrug.

  He laughs at me, and I stare up at him, fascinated once again. The more he talks in that weird accent, the more I want to look at him. I check out the skull ring on his finger, the swirl of a tattoo that peeks out from the sleeve of his turtleneck. He looks like a bad man, but he isn’t—even if he is in the back lot of the Quickie Mart.

  It’s the heart that always knows, and mine does.

  “How old are you?” I blurt out.

  He grins at me with a flash of even white teeth. “Sixteen.”

  “I’m eleven.” I spear him with a look. “Do you dye your hair that color? It’s awfully white. At first I thought you might be an albino, but your eyes are the wrong color and your skin isn’t pale.”

  He tosses back his head and laughs…like he’s untouchable and owns the world.

  My stomach rumbles.

  He sobers. “You need to eat.”

  I shrug. It doesn’t help that I went to bed hungry.

  “Why are you looking at me?” I ask after a few moments of his watching me.

  He shakes his head, as if bemused. “I don’t know. You intrigue me, and I’m bored.”

  I indicate the bulge in his side pocket. “You got your drugs. What’s keeping you in Tin Town?”

  He scratches his head, and we have a bit of a stare-off.

  “Give me your arm,” he says a few ticks later as he steps closer to me.

  I flinch, an old habit, and take a solid step away from him. “No.”

  He holds his hands up in a placating manner then pulls a pen out of his jacket pocket. “I’m not going to hurt you…just let me give you my digits in case you get in some big trouble, okay?”

  I nod, watching him warily as he eases in closer, picks up my arm, and writes the numbers across my forearm: 555-481-9066. “That’s my mobile number.”

  “It’s called a cell, and if I ever get one, I’ll call you,” I say coolly, trying to play older than I am. “Might be a while. I’m not rich, you know.”

  His lips kick up again and he shakes his head. “You remind me of someone.”

  I cock my head. “Who?”

  “No One Important.” He pauses, his face rueful. “Me.”

  I smile.

  “You’ll be okay, right? Will you call me if you need help?”

  “Yeah.”

  He nods and saunters away from me, walking backward as if he wants to keep his eyes on me the entire time.

  But it isn’t a weird, sleazy look like Lyle has when he watches me; no, it’s more…as if he doesn’t know what category to put me in.

  I get that.

  I put everyone in a category.

  I have a nose for it.

  Lyle—bad. Granny—good. Mama—who the hell knows.

  Beautiful Guy is one of the good ones.

  Maybe he thinks I am too.

  A warm flush colors my face.

  “Where are you from?” I call out to him as the distance between us increases. I don’t want him to go.

  “Across the pond,” he replies with a jaunty wave as he walks toward a black Jeep with wheels so shiny and crisp they glitter in the sun. He sends me one last look and cranks the car up, rap music blaring as he spins out of the lot.

  I miss him immediately.

  After devouring a bag of chicken tenders and two candy bars, I make my way back along the trail, my thoughts still on him.

  He gave me money and wanted nothing in return.

  Who knew such people existed?

  I come to the tree line and my window is still up, the curtains blowing idly in the soft wind. Walking around to the front, I see that Lyle is gone already. I ease open the door and step into the den. The room smells like stale cigarettes and old food. I take in the overturned coffee table, the broken vase, and the bottles of beer littering the floor.

  I’ve seen this before.

  It’s fine.

  She’s fine.

  I find Mama behind the couch, her head cocked at a weird angle, her blank eyes staring up at me, reminding me of a dead fish from the market.

  She’s scary.

  My breathing changes, coming faster.

  “Mama?” My hand grips the armrest on the couch.

  “Mama?”

  I inch toward her, touch her hand, and jerk back at her cold skin.

  I drop my bag of food and scream as loud as I can.

  Until my throat is raw.

  Until tears run down my face.

  Until the police run in the door.

  And later, nothing falls into place until fate tiptoes in and sets me on my path.

  Until I see him again…

  2

  Spider

  Six years later

  Bugger me.

  Not only does my head pound, but I’m striking out big time with a lady old enough to be my nana.

  The neatly dressed gate agent crosses her arms. She’s sick of me. Most women get to that point eventually.

  “Sir, you can’t carry your guitar on. You’ll need to check it.”

  “Make an exception for me? Please, Betty?” I say, glancing at her nametag and accentuating the English accent. Usually, my clipped tones get me out of sticky situations, especially with the female half of the population, but I’ve been hitting a brick wall since the moment I walked up to the desk. Maybe it’s my tattoos, leather jacket, and mesh tank top—I don’t exactly scream nice guy.

  Her beady eyes sweep over me, lingering on the black widow artwork on my neck and then moving to check out my hair. I touch it self-consciously. It’s cobalt blue this month, swept back in a gelled pompadour style with the sides shaved close to my scalp. Next week, I’m dying it
white. No matter the color, girls go nuts over it.

  Not Betty.

  “I’m sorry, but you already have a carry-on bag and a personal item. That’s all that’s allowed on the plane. Those are the rules, and they’re clearly marked.” She points to a sign on the wall next to me that explains the rules for flying with Delta. It’s the second time she’s pointed them out to me, and the stubborn arsehole I am, I refuse to look.

  “But this is my one true love.” I lightly stroke the case.

  “It’s a guitar,” she says dryly.

  I lift the case up on the counter and pop open the metal snaps, giving her a view of the yellow and blue instrument. “She’s a Gibson Les Paul that’s gutsy as shit but lightweight at the same time. She’s made from maple with rosewood inlays—the best money can buy, worth over five grand. Paid for this baby myself. Dear old Dad didn’t even help.” I point to a small horizontal strip at the end of the fingerboard on the neck of the guitar. “See this here? That’s the nut on the bass and it controls the string placement. It’s made from real bone. I don’t know what kind of bone it is, but I like to think it’s from a lion or a tiger. Of course, they weren’t killed to make the guitar, but their bones were donated after they died in some majestic battle in the wild. Fitting, right?” I grin.

  Come on, Betty, let us on the plane, my eyes beg.

  But Betty bristles at me, her bushy gray eyebrows lowered in a scowl behind tiny reading glasses. Her lips thin as she gazes down at the beautiful piece of art. “Please remove your item from my desk, sir.”

  I lean over the counter, widening my eyes, giving her the full-on Spider effect, or in other words: my gorgeous peepers with long black eyelashes. People tell me it’s a gaze that’s devastating to the female reproductive organs, and I question if she has working anatomy because she doesn’t seem fazed by my allure, even when I bite my lip. “Helene and I—that’s her name, Helene—have been together since I was fourteen.”