by Penny Wylder
Big Bad Boy
Penny Wylder
Contents
More Must Reads by Penny Wylder
1. Jenna
2. Jenna
3. Jenna
4. Gil
5. Jenna
6. Jenna
7. Gil
8. Gil
9. Gil
10. Jenna
11. Jenna
12. Jenna
13. Gil
14. Gil
15. Jenna
16. Gil
17. Jenna
18. Jenna
19. Gil
20. Jenna
21. Gil
22. Jenna
23. Gil
Epilogue
Copyright © 2020 Penny Wylder
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the author.
Big Bad Boy was previously published as Big Mountain, but has been revised and expanded with additional content in this new release.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or businesses, organizations, or locales, is completely coincidental.
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1
Jenna
As my train pulls into the quaint Bailey Village station, I feel a weight lifting from my shoulders.
I love my job, I really do. It’s taken me years to get where I am, but I’m finally doing what I love full-time—taking photographs. But it’s hectic to keep up with the market demand. My boss gives me great assignments, but I hardly ever have time to breathe, between chasing down my next photo shoot, actually doing the shoot, then editing all the photos post-event.
I didn’t notice how stressed I was feeling lately, between the four weekend weddings I photographed in a row on the side, and my regular job shooting events and festivals for the Philadelphia Gazette. But when my boss asked me to take on this project, shooting the big spring festival in Bailey, a small town about two hours outside Philly in the Poconos, for a feature he’s got planned on nearby weekend vacation spots, I practically tackled him to volunteer for the gig.
This is just what I need. A weekend away from it all—the hustle and bustle of the big city, the constant pressure of lining up my next gig practically before I’ve even finished the former, and even just the noise. My apartment is adorable but it’s right in the thick of things, above a bar that doesn’t close until 2am (and doesn’t quiet down until at least 4am) on the weekends, not to mention the traffic and construction sounds during the day.
I like keeping busy, but not at the expense of my sanity.
A whole weekend to myself, just to photograph one sleepy little village’s springtime traditions, with three whole days to shoot to my heart’s content, and plenty of time in between to meander around the village, breathe the fresh mountain air, welcome in spring along with all the locals out here.
I can’t wait. I’ve been living and breathing photography for the past four years. Laser focused on my career. Slaying misogynistic photo editors at smalltime papers, picking up small gigs to pay my rent, playing nice with the editors in Philly until I finally, victoriously, earned my spot on staff. Staring out the window, speeding away from Philly, for the first time I feel satisfied, like my life is all lined up, and I can finally enjoy the ride. I earned it.
From the moment I step out of the train station, I can tell I’m going to love Bailey. It’s got that European old world feel to it, with stone cottages as far as the eye can see, and even a cobblestoned street in the center of town lined with cheerily-painted shop fronts in a pastel rainbow of colors. The trees that line the narrow streets are in full bloom. I spot magnolias, even a couple cherry trees, mingled among the usual poplars and maples.
It takes my phone a few minutes to catch up to the slower reception out here—mapping the little hotel in the center of town I’ve booked for the weekend takes a full two minutes—but I don’t even mind. It’s nice to be a little disconnected for once. I have the perfect excuse if anyone tries to bug me over the next few days. “Sorry, no service!”
Finally, the map loads, and I take off, weekender bag slung over one shoulder, my camera bag slung over the other, winding through increasingly narrow alleys until I get to a street that’s pedestrian only, at the end of which there’s a view of the massive central village square, where I can see people setting up tents and food trucks for the upcoming festival. I spy more than a few beer tents, not to mention catch the scent of some mouth-watering food cooking over an open fire somewhere in that direction.
My hotel is right on the corner, the perfect location for darting in and out between shooting the festival and events around it. As I stroll up to the entrance, a short man in a red hotel uniform darts out, hand extended toward my bags.
“Checking in?” he calls, before I’ve even reached the entrance. “Let me help you with that.”
“Thank you,” I tell him, grateful, as I shrug the bags off my shoulders. It’s only the essentials, since I’m just here for three days and two nights, but I had to lug most of my camera equipment with me too, so that really adds up.
“Wow, how long are you here for, the whole month?” he jokes as he hoists the bags under one arm.
“I wish.” I laugh. “Sadly, just for the festival.”
“Up from the city?” he asks, sizing up my outfit, and probably also weighing the bags under his arm.
“How could you tell?” I joke, with a glance down at my outfit. Heeled boots, tights, a slim-fitting pencil skirt and my work blouse—I’m not dressed for the countryside yet. I had to come straight from the office today, but it really makes me stand out. Everyone I passed on the walk here was wearing jeans and flannel, maybe with the occasional flowery spring dress, loose and deliciously comfortable looking.
“You’re not the first to check in today,” he reassures me, “and you definitely won’t be the last. It’s crazy—most of the year we have ten guests here, max.” We reach the check-in counter and he hauls my bags onto a bellhop cart with comical effort. “This time of year, though, around the festival?” He gesticulates wildly. “Sold out, every single room.”
“How many rooms are there?” I ask as I gaze around the lobby. It’s adorable, just like the rest of this village. The floor is parquet, the walls adorned with full-length mirrors on both sides to make it seem larger than it is. Between the mirrors, there’s gold gilding that looks straight out of a 1920s movie, and old-school style gas lamps, like the kind I’ve seen in photos from London or 1800s period pieces, stand out above the mirrors, lighting the whole lobby a cheery yellow. In a small nook are two overstuffed chairs surrounded by bookcases, lined with paperbacks. I spy several Stephanie Meyers, and now I’m really excited. Gosh, when was the last time I sat down and devoured a book? It’s going to be hard to keep my head in professional mode when everything here is whispering to me, “Relax. Slow down.”
“Twenty-two rooms in total,” he says as I pass him my credit card and I.D. to begin the check-in process. “Plus a garden room down in the basement—code for windowless and dingy,” he adds.
I smirk. “I live in the city, trust me—I understand that code.”
He sighs. “That’s my room, of course.”
I grimace in sympathy. “Does it at least come with the job?”
“It does, though they definitely deduct the ren
t from my salary to make up for it.” He forces a smile then, and I feel a pang of empathy. “Ah well, can’t complain. This town really is my favorite spot in the world. You’ll see what I mean later tonight, when the festival gets going.”
“It’s that good, huh?” I reach out to take my cards back, now that he’s finished running them, and cast another glance back over my shoulder, out through the double doors toward the town square. I am excited to peruse the tents out there, for sure. I plan to eat my way through as many food trucks as I can this weekend, not to mention sample some of the local brewery beers later in the evening, after I’ve got enough pictures for the day.
“I don’t want to oversell it, but…” He flashes me a wink. “It’s the best weekend of the year. Something about is just magical. You’ll see what I mean.”
Just then, a breeze hits us, as another traveler swoops into the lobby.
“Welcome, sir,” the man calls, still smiling. “I’ll be with you in one minute, just as soon as I finish checking in this young lady.”
The new arrival doesn’t even seem to notice the receptionist speaking to him, let alone acknowledge his words. He’s got to be a city-slicker like me, to judge from his expensive-yet-artfully-torn jeans, his tight-fitting leather jacket, and the flashy leather boots he’s wearing, which I’m pretty sure cost at least as much as my camera equipment.
On top of the outfit, he’s got his cell phone tucked under one ear, into which he’s shouting loudly as he digs through his enormous leather briefcase. Inside his briefcase, I catch a glimpse of not one but two brand-new MacBooks, and a snakeskin wallet that I’d bet anything costs just as much as his boots.
“I know,” the guy practically yells into his phone. “This village is a shit hole. Look, I didn’t volunteer to come here, it’s just where Henry insisted we hold the retreat this year—one second,” he tells the person on the other end, when the receptionist and I trade sideways, sarcastic glances. “Can I get some service here already?” he barks, and it takes both my new friend the hotel caretaker and me a second to realize he’s not talking into the phone anymore.
“Have a nice stay, Ms. Walker,” the receptionist murmurs to me, having read my name off my I.D. card, no doubt. “Your room is just up that staircase. Third room on the right. Please ring down if you need anything at all.”
“Good luck with this one,” I whisper under my breath, flashing him a wink.
“Oh, I know how to handle his type,” the poor guy replies, in just as low a voice. He raises a single eyebrow as he studies Cell Phone Guy. “Locals here know when to keep their mouths shut and lie low.”
I snort under my breath, then I scoop up my bag and turn to head up to my room on the second floor. As I leave, I hear Cell Phone Guy return to his conversation, still just as loudly, while the receptionist sets about checking him in.
“I mean, last year’s retreat was a fucking ashram in India, I know this is a downgrade of epic proportions. But Christ, they couldn’t find anywhere better than Podunk Pennsylvania, population five inbred mountain people? Hey. Hey, bellhop, don’t put the room on that card; I want to use the black for this, better points for mileage…”
My sympathetic grimace remains as I reach the second floor and scurry along to my room. Thankfully, from this height, I can’t hear Mr. Complainer anymore. I fling open the door to my room and burst into a smile.
This is definitely what the doctor ordered. Queen size bed, pretty, understated wallpaper, a desk I’ll be able to use for editing photos in the evenings, if I’m not too tipsy after visiting the beer tents… And a balcony right next to it overlooking the town square. From this vantage, not only can I see the square itself and the tents popping up all over it, but I can also make out the thick forest that borders the far edge of the square and winds away up into the mountains. The Poconos peaks are visible too, snow-capped and still melting in the early spring sunlight. It looks like a fairyland, the sort of magical place you could lose yourself in.
I hope to do that this weekend. Forget about everything. The stresses of work, the bustle of the city. I just want to breathe in all the mountain air I can.
So, energized anew by the prospect of doing just that, I set about unpacking. The faster I get settled, the faster I can head right back outside into this town and start exploring in earnest.
2
Jenna
The festival is every inch as adorable as described. I spend the first hour after its official opening wandering around in wide-eyed, open-mouthed excitement. Then, once the crowds begin to trickle in, presumably as the locals finish up their day jobs on this fine Friday afternoon, I pull out my trusty DSLR and start to snap candid shots. I get a phenomenal shot of a pair of twin girls, dressed identically right down to their pigtails with matching red ribbons, sharing an ice cream cone from one of the trucks that advertises itself as locally-sourced, farm-fresh dairy.
I snap another picture of what looks like a big bachelorette party, everyone dolled up to the nines, clinking their enormous local brew beer steins together; and more than a few shots of locals, especially older couples, strolling through the festival and eying all the different wares. There are some adorable craft sellers here, making everything from soap to jewelry to wooden furniture that looks like it would be right at home in a countryside cabin—or in an exposed-brick city center studio trying to dial up the rustic vibes.
Near the latter tent, I can’t help but linger on the seller. He’s in the middle of talking up a cabinet to an older couple he clearly knows, to judge by the way they’re all laughing and leaning close together. But if I’m honest, it’s not the sweetness of the scene that captures me.
It’s him.
At six-foot-something-crazy, with broad shoulders and a beard that would make a Viking jealous, the man stands out above the crowd. Literally. But despite his height, and the bulging muscles I spot underneath the loose flannel he’s wearing, there’s something gentle about his demeanor. The way he grins at the older couple and demonstrates a hidden drawer in the wardrobe, his big hands deftly working the wooden puzzle-like contraption in a way that tells me the man knows how to work with his hands. His smile goes right up through his eyes, and I wonder what it would feel like to have that warm attention directed at me. I wonder what it would feel like to stand close to him. I imagine what he’d smell like. I imagine what he’d feel like.
My face goes hot. I raise my camera—one of my favorite things about photography is the way the camera lens offers me a kind of shield, like an invisible barrier between me and the world. If I just gawk at people in real life, I’m awkwardly staring. But put a lens between us, and I’m working on high art.
I snap a few photos of the guy mid-sales pitch. A picture of him raking his fingers through his thick hair. Throwing back his head laughing at his customers’ jokes, exposing his strong neck and sharp jawline. He makes a fantastic subject, but eventually I force my legs to move, to carry me away from him before I leap into the middle of his conversation and do something stupid like inform him how attractive he is.
Pull it together, Jenna. I know it’s been a while since my last hookup, but damn. I’m not just sex starved, I’m attention starved, and this man is bringing all those hunger pangs right to the surface. I’ve spent so much time since college working toward my professional goals that I haven’t had much of a personal life. Every weekend was devoted to either photoshoots for cash to pay my bills or hitting up networking events, hoping to meet someone with pull who could give me an in at an important paper. And hoping not to meet someone whose only idea was getting into me. It was cutthroat, but now that I’m past that, and enjoying the fruits of my labor, I realize just how lonely I’ve been. I used to be a girl who had fun. Where’d she go?
For the rest of the afternoon, I finish taking rounds of photos. There’s an adorable talent show set up on a small make-shift stage where the local children play their instruments, and a small group of toddlers attempt a very simple, and extremely adorable,
dance. As the sun sets, I hike up a ridge, loving the way my legs stretch and my muscles begin to burn. The air is so crisp and fresh, and I breathe deeply, loving how my body feels out here, away from the city. From this height, I shoot down over the town, with its stone walls and painted rooftops, and the festival awnings and bunting all done up between them. It’s all abuzz down there, with families and couples walking along. I can hear the faraway sound of the town band playing a slow song, and just make out a few dancers in the distance, moving slowly under a gazebo. These shots are going to be perfect. And while I shoot and frame and think about how happy my editor is going to be, I also wonder where that handsome man is, down there in the town square. I wonder, with a pang of jealousy, whether he’s holding hands with someone or swinging her around the dance floor.
I’m sweating by the time I hike back down to town, and the perspiration mixed with the chilly spring air is giving me goosebumps. Time to head back to my room to change into something better suited for this chilly mountain air.
The hotel is chilly, and weirdly silent and empty—I don’t even hear the shrieks of the children who took up the room next to mine, arriving about twenty minutes after I did. I guess everyone is out at the festival celebrating. Part of me yearns to fall into the hotel bed, maybe find Twilight downstairs and settle in for the night, but I know there are plenty of more pictures to take as the celebration continues into the night.