Bad Boy Rebel (Salma Rebels Book 1)

by Skye Darrel

  “That boy always had a temper even when he was a kid,” Hoyt Dunkel mutters as he paces the living room. “Not like his sister, may she rest in peace. Or his brother. Eugene would’ve stayed in control.”

  I nod numbly.

  Two hours have passed since Asher went to the casino.

  My head spins. I’m worried he’s hurt. I’m worried he’ll hurt someone, although if that someone happens to be Titus Quinton, maybe I won’t mind as much.

  I close my eyes and I’m back at the roadside again. Those bony fingers in my hair, the glint of a long blade in the sun before it snipped through my ponytail.

  I hate how accommodating I was, standing with my back against Ladybug. I was scared. Couldn’t move. I stared ahead and whimpered while Titus played with my hair, and then I felt a tug on my scalp. He showed it to me, the lock of hair he’d cut off, and his smile almost broke my composure.

  That man is the father of Eli, Cora’s boyfriend.

  I can’t believe it. I should tell Asher about Eli, I really should. No matter how sweet Eli is, the longer Cora sees him, the more likely she’ll run into Titus. I’m afraid for her.

  I used to think the girl had good judgment, but the way she went all starry-eyed in front of handsome Verne Resnik suggests otherwise. At the end of the day she’s only sixteen.

  Chief Dunkel isn’t helping my nerves with his pacing. He keeps one hand on the holster at his belt. Every few seconds, he peeks through the blinds as if he expects Resnik’s men to show up any second.

  Sitting on Asher’s sofa, I do my best to breathe deeply. I think of my smashed flowers still out there on the side of the road and squeeze my hands into fists.

  “Sure you’re not hurt?” Dunkel asks again.

  “I’ll survive a haircut.”

  “Damn shame you stepped into this mess.”

  “I sell old houses, Chief. I’m used to mess.”

  Dunkel smirks. “You a tough one, ain’t you?”

  “Listen, I don’t know how things work in this town, but isn’t there something you can do? You’re a cop.”

  “I could arrest Titus,” he says. “But he’ll deny everything. Then it’s your word against his and he’ll have witnesses supporting him.”

  “What witnesses?”

  “The other three men. Sledge, for example. They can appear very proper and civilized when they wish to be. Well, maybe not Sledge, but Titus and the rest know how to look like gentlemen in court. Resnik himself will hire them the best lawyers, the best—”

  “I get the idea. What about the casino?”

  “Cops need warrants,” the chief says. “Everything is legal at Lucky Cherries, on the surface at least. Asher’s sister suspected drugs, but she didn’t leave any hard proof in her letters. Just accusations. I’ve gone over those letters with a fine comb and I believe every word, but I’m one man and I’m not a judge.”

  “I saw one of Resnik’s guys selling drugs in the parking lot at Ruby’s.”

  Dunkel looks at me with narrowed eyes. “When?”

  “About a month ago. I mean, it looked like he was selling drugs. I didn’t ask.”

  “You’re not the first to see something. But I’ve pulled over Resnik’s people before, and I’ve never found any drugs. Next time you see one of ‘em call me right away.”

  “Next time.” I still remember that baby in the stroller. I should’ve called the police that very day. “What about the dancers in the VIP Lounge? Have you looked into them?”

  Dunkel makes a heavy nod like he’s ashamed to be in the same zip code with Lucky Cherries. “Stripping ain’t against the law, Natalie. Resnik’s business has a license for that too.”

  I blush. “Asher’s sister mentioned a woman called the Swan in her last letter. One of the dancers at the casino. He thinks this woman could know something.”

  “He told me before, it’s a stage name. But the girls over there change stage names every month, and I’ve questioned them all. Not one knows anything about Priscilla Wade.”

  “But—”

  “Ms. Whipple, Asher treats his sister’s letters like they’re a trail of clues. But I’m not so sure. He has my sympathies, and I believe Resnik is guilty, but that don’t mean everything Asher says is right. He’s too close to this thing. You understand what I mean?”

  “Yeah.”

  Dunkel sighs and peers out the window again. “He’s back.”

  I hurry outside to see Asher’s black Mustang stop in the driveway, and he gets out holding his side, walking with a limp to the porch. He smiles through a grimace.

  “I’m fine,” he says.

  He’s not.

  I help him inside to the living room sofa, where he slumps down. The skin of his knuckles looks raw.

  “What’d you do?” Dunkel asks warily.

  “Taught them a lesson,” Asher says between heavy breaths. “Nobody died.” His silvery blue eyes fall on me. From his jeans pocket, he pulls out a lock of hair tied with a rubber band. “This belongs to you, Natalie.”

  I take it. Getting a clump of hair shouldn’t feel so satisfying, but all kinds of feelings shoot through me as our hands touch. “Thanks.”

  “How many of them were there?” Dunkel says. He avoids looking at the hair.

  “About a dozen. Titus, Sledge, a couple of others from Resnik’s security. Verne himself didn’t show, that’s like him. But he got the message. He’s not the only one who gets to send messages. Don’t worry, Chief. They won’t hassle you with any complaints.”

  “They’ll come back at you their way,” Dunkel says.

  “But not for a while.”

  Dunkel frowns. “Why’s that?”

  Asher grunts. “None of them could stand when I left.”

  The way he talks so casually about fighting bothers me, but maybe that’s how he deals with pain.

  Chief Dunkel doesn’t look happy either but says nothing. Asher thanks him for staying with me.

  I walk Dunkel to the door. He tells me to be careful and to tell my boyfriend the same. Boyfriend confuses me until I realize he means Asher. I would’ve given a hasty correction even yesterday, but today is not yesterday.

  After Dunkel’s car pulls away, I return to the living room.

  “You better get back to Goldilocks,” Asher says, still holding his side. “Juno will be worried.”

  “You’re hurt.”

  He tries to grin and ends up wincing. “Nothing to it, doll face.”

  I take a step closer so my bare knees touch his. The strap of my sundress slips down my shoulder and I push it back up as Asher’s eyes follow my hand.

  We stare at each other.

  Then I notice the tent in his crotch. “You can’t be serious.”

  “It’s your dress.”

  “What about my dress?”

  “You look good in it.” His jaw tightens, those eyes flicking to the hem of my skirt. “Pretty.”

  “Is that what you’re thinking about? How pretty my dress is?”

  “I’m thinking how pretty it looks on you.”

  My face gets hotter. “You think that anytime you see someone in a dress?”

  “Just you,” he says.

  “What else are you thinking?”

  “What’s under your dress.”

  “You’re nasty.”

  His eyes go fierce. “That’s right. Better go while you still can.”

  “Show me where you’re hurt,” I say.

  Asher shifts on the sofa and we both try to ignore his obvious erection. Grumbling, he opens his shirt button by button and shows me the chiseled lines of his torso. Dense muscles shift under the skin. There’s an ugly bruise on his left side below the ribs.

  “Titus gave me a bad punch,” he says. “It’ll heal.”

  I gulp. It’s not only the bruises I’m staring at.

  “Doll face, you keep looking at me that way and I’ll fucking lose it.”

  “What way?” I snap.

  “Like you want to get on my la
p and have me kiss you all over.”

  I feel a tug between my thighs. “You got any ice?”

  “In the fridge.”

  I dash to the kitchen and fill up a Ziploc with cubes. When I return to the living room, he’s sitting straighter.

  “Lean back,” I order.

  He ignores the bag and kisses the back of my fingers, and unlike with Resnik, whose touch had made me numb with fear, I feel Asher’s kiss from my hand to the tip of my toes.

  “Lean back,” I remind him in a tiny voice.

  He leans back.

  I sit at his side and press the bag against his ribs, and he spreads his arms on the sofa’s backrest and strokes my hair. The shock of cold makes him hiss, but I hold the bag firmly. Mr. Bad Boy needs to take his medicine.

  His eyes are so clear up close, the lightest shade of blue.

  “I knew you’d be a distraction,” he says. “I knew it the moment I saw you on my porch with that perfumed card.”

  “I came here to sell a house. Maybe you’re my distraction. Have you thought about that?”

  “I’m privileged to be your distraction.”

  “Oh shut up.”

  That day when I banged on his door, I was just a stranger to him. He could’ve told me to get lost, but he didn’t. He sent me to Juno instead, and if it weren’t for that, I’d be cleaning out my desk back in DC while Branigan laughs in my face.

  Asher leans into me.

  Our lips touch.

  His fingers work through my hair and I melt faster than the ice. The bag slips out of my fingers as his tongue slides into my moaning mouth. This feels too dirty to be a kiss.

  He pulls back. “Stand up.”

  His voice is gentle but firm.

  I stand between his legs, my heart rattling along.

  “Show me what’s under your skirt.”

  My hands trace along the hem and I pull slowly, my teeth in my lower lip. I’m wearing white cotton panties and I’m too wet. He can see it, I’m sure.

  A hand glides up my thigh to the damp heat and another squeezes my rear. I hold my skirt higher. He kisses my belly button and plays his fingers play along the elastic of my panties, and he notices the small ribbons in the waistband.

  “You like wearing little girl panties? Panties with ribbons?” Asher grits his teeth. “You want to be a princess?”

  “They’re just underwear,” I whisper.

  He rubs the fabric over my clit so lightly I barely feel it at first, and then I feel everything when he pinches me.

  “Did you wear them for me?” he growls. “Did you want me to see them?”

  “I dunno.” Maybe.

  The hand on my bottom squeezes harder, pulling me toward him. Then he sweeps me up and lays me on the sofa in one motion. He moves so fast I’m already on my back with legs wrapped around his hips and our eyes an inch apart.

  I feel his arousal against me.

  “It’s too late to leave,” he says through his teeth. “You’re staying right here.”

  “W-Wait.”

  His smile is subtle and wicked. “Any last words?”

  My face is on fire. “I’m not, um, very experienced.”

  “I could tell.”

  “I mean I’ve never done it.” The other thing I’ve never done is tell someone I’m a virgin. “I just want you to know because I’m not going to be great or anything.”

  I could die of sheer embarrassment.

  “You are you and that’s what I love,” he says.

  A hammer goes through my chest.

  “I need a shower,” I blurt out. Anything to put off what I want most in this moment, because what happens if we do it, and he doesn’t like me? The floral sundress I have on flatters my figure, but what if he doesn’t like what he sees once he gets it off?

  “You don’t need a shower,” he says.

  “But I’m all sweaty,” I whine. “So are you.”

  “Do you want me to shower?” Asher asks.

  I shake my head. He smells just fine, familiar and warm. He kisses slowly around my throat.

  “You don’t need a shower either,” he says. “I could smell your wet panties and I want you now, I want your juices all over my tongue and if you keep talking about showers I’m gonna pop your little virgin pussy right here.”

  I can’t even.

  He scoops me into his arms and lifts my body like air, and he carries me upstairs to a big bedroom filled with antique furniture. His choppy breaths tell me he’s still hurting from the fight, but he doesn’t slow at all. He sets me down on a massive four-post bed.

  “Your bedroom?” I whisper.

  “My bedroom isn’t good enough for you. This used to be a guest room.”

  “Oh, so I’m your guest.”

  He tosses off his shirt. I follow the taper in his torso down to those narrow, muscled hips still half-hidden by jeans. “You’re not a guest,” he says in a voice dangerous and intoxicating. “Guests leave. You’re not leaving.”

  He slides down the straps of my dress and hitches up the skirt. I bring my legs together on instinct before he pushes them apart.

  “Don’t hide,” he growls and unclasps my bra. He kisses my breasts, pulling on my nipples with his teeth. His bite brings no pain. He’s so attuned to me he feels like a dream. “These tits are so pretty, doll face. I could suck on them all night.”

  That dirty tongue is another story.

  He cups me through my panties, the heel of his palm kneading against my clit. “Have you had an orgasm before?”

  I smack his head. “I’m a virgin, not a nun.”

  The pressure of his palm is delicious torture.

  “Do you play with this pussy, Princess? Are you a dirty little girl?”

  I huff and stammer and jerk against his hand. That day when I walked in on him stroking himself is seared in my memory, and I’ll never admit to this brute I made myself cum that night thinking of him.

  “Do you play with your cock?” I shoot back.

  “Constantly. Ever since a little troublemaker showed up on my porch with her pink bag, I’ve been playing with my cock constantly.”

  He slips his hand under my panties, his thumb rolling over my clit as fingers massage my folds, skin on skin, nothing in between.

  My butt pulls tight. A gasp leaves me.

  “What a wet little pussy.”

  My body moves in rhythm to the rolling of his thumb and the curling rubs of his fingers. His tongue wets my chin, my cheeks, slides around the shell of my ear. He gives my clit a single flick that makes my whole body jerk.

  “Asher,” I breathe.

  “Open your eyes.”

  I obey.

  He scoots back, slowly unzipping his jeans, freeing his hard cock that juts out with a bounce. Cum beads at the knobby head and veins wreathe the thick stalk. He strokes himself, the motions of his fisted hand stealing my breath away.

  I stare at his gorgeous cock and twist my hands into the sheets.

  He peels down my panties, teasing my folds with the flat of his tongue. He forms a seal with his lips on my throbbing clit and I jump out of my skin. The trickling sensation in my pussy explodes, violent jolts of pleasure shocking through my body as I toss my head back and cry out in orgasm.

  His tongue plunges into me right as I cum.

  “Good girl,” Asher growls. There’s an animal behind his eyes. “Such a sweet pussy.” He rises on all fours and lines up his erection at my entrance, rubbing the tip of his cock into me as he strokes the shaft.

  I watch in a hot daze, the lips of my pussy clinging to him, and I want to sink down, feel him deeper, let his length fill me, but Asher puts his other hand on my belly and his face is stern.

  “Not tonight,” he says. “I’m too close. When I take your virginity, I want it to last. I want your first time to be perfect, but right now, I need to nut off before I lose my fucking my mind. So you take my cum like this, little girl. You’ll get all my cock later.”

  I see the moment of
his peak, the twitches in his face, the shudders wracking his body. A blast of cum splashes my slit and the musk of his release fills the air. His cock barely softens. Maybe it’s only his size.

  He lies down with his fingers looping through mine and his tongue goes back to teasing my breasts. When he feels my pulse slow, he flicks my clit rapidly to make me cum again.

  My pulse rockets. “Asher!”

  “Want more?”

  “It’s too much.” The pleasure I’d felt touching myself is bland compared to the sensations wringing me now.

  “Rest,” he whispers. “Sleep.”

  After a long while, I do just that.

  Early next morning I wake up from a nightmare I can’t quite remember, but it involved Titus’s ivory knife.

  I look around.

  Asher’s gone. He’d picked my panties off the floor and left them on the nightstand. That’s considerate.

  I have a headache like a bad hangover as I sit up in bed. Yesterday doesn’t feel real, but the smell in the sheets tells me it was very real.

  I swing my legs off the bed and realize I’m completely naked. I blush, thinking of last night as I gather my clothes.

  “Ridiculous,” I mutter under my breath.

  By the time I slip on my sundress, the fog of sleep has burned away. I have a more immeditate concern than Asher Wade.

  Liam Branigan.

  Three days left until my boss’s deadline to sell Gatsby’s house.

  I’ll call him today and ask for an extension. Get an extension. I’m sure I can sell Gatsby’s house if I had a few more weeks.

  Then I’ll get some new flowers. And then . . .

  Something smells good.

  I go downstairs to find Asher in the kitchen cooking eggs and bacon in a pan. His hair is tousled and wild, and he’s shirtless of course.

  “Rested?” he asks.

  “Yeah.” Yesterday he was a man out of control. This morning he seems to have regained his senses. So have I for that matter. “We should do that thing where we pretend nothing happened,” I say lightly, just to see how he responds.

  Asher sets down a loaded plate on the table.

  “I don’t pretend,” he says.

  “You did pretty well pretending to be a crazy man with your barbed wire.”

  He rakes a hand through his hair. “That’s not pretending. That’s what the military calls operational art. Deceiving the enemy. You’re not my enemy.”