Bad Boy Benefits: A Standalone Little Sister's Best Friend Romance

by JD Hawkins

  There are words around the pictures too. Articles, comments, captions. And though my thoughts are too chaotic and thunderous to focus on reading, my eyes skim over them and catch their awful gist. A cool couple… So good together… He’s perfect for her… Maeve and her gorgeous date…

  If there was any part of me still rational, any semblance of sense, I’d put the phone away and go for that run before I do something stupid, but this agony feels too true. As if the fact that it hurts makes it easier to believe. I think about calling Maeve and showing her my anger and jealousy, but I know she’d just remind me I have no right, that she didn’t do anything wrong—however much it feels like that to me. My instinct is to speak to Mia, the sister who’s always there for me, who I turn to whenever I feel this way, but even that avenue is locked away. I could…but it would only make all of this worse.

  I flick through my phone looking for something, anything, that could distract me. A brief urge to call up any of the women in my contacts to fuck and forget, but none of them seem like enough, and I know I’d only remind myself even more of what I’m trying to forget. A petty desire to get my revenge bubbles under everything, as if I’d fuck another woman just so I could tell Maeve I did so, just to prove that I’m as cold and unyielding as she is… But I’m not. That’s why this hurts in the first place.

  The more I browse through my phone, through the unread messages and missed calls and gigantic contact list, the more this self-pitying grief spreads out to encompass every aspect of my life. All the famous and powerful names I know who’d drop everything if I asked them to, and not a single one I’d want to talk to about this. All the invitations to exclusive parties and underground gigs, all the comments about great nights in the past, all seem so empty and superficial right now. The hot women sending me nudes, asking if I’m free, letting me know they still think about me, all just reminding me of how little I really cared about anyone until now, about anyone other than her. The whole thing, my whole life, it’s all nothing if I can’t have her.

  I’m about to break—and I don’t even know what kind of break it’s going to be—when I see one name that doesn’t make me even more depressed. One name that still feels somewhat pure, somewhat accessible, somewhat like a path out of whatever you’d call this dark, oppressive mood I’m slipping further into. I press it and bring the phone to my ear.

  “Hello?”

  “Hazel,” I say, my own voice sounding different, harder, tougher.

  “Toby?” she says, her voice groggy as if she was asleep. “It’s two a.m. What is this? Is this a booty call?”

  I smile, her joke opening a crack of light in my thoughts.

  “More that I couldn’t be bothered to find a crisis hotline number.”

  I hear the rustle as she sits up in bed, the swish of a water bottle, and the groaning sighs of someone waking up.

  “Maeve again?”

  “Maeve always,” I reply, then suddenly feel guilty. “I’m sorry for waking you up. You probably had a long shift so I’ll—”

  “No, no,” she interrupts quickly. “It’s all right. It must be pretty bad if you called me of all people.”

  “Yeah… That’s the funny thing about having a lot of friends. You end up with nobody you can really talk to.”

  She takes her time answering, her mind still in first gear. “So what’s wrong? Did something happen?”

  “You remember Asher? From the dinner party?”

  “Of course.”

  “She went out with him again. Fucked him.” The last two words come out like I’m spitting them. I can’t help saying them with all the resentment and bile their meaning creates in me.

  “Oh no…” Hazel coos sympathetically.

  “And she’s having a party this weekend—a big deal. She’s invited everyone in town except me.”

  “Damn…”

  “And we’re supposed to be working together on this jewelry thing of hers. We even met for it the day after she went out with Asher and…well…”

  My silence says it all.

  “You ended up sleeping together?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Except it was…well, it was amazing, but we didn’t really talk or anything. It was like…like it was just sex.”

  “I see…”

  “Shit. I shouldn’t be telling you all this.”

  “No, of course you should.”

  “I’m just kinda fucked up tonight.”

  “I can tell.”

  There’s a long silence. The swish of her water bottle again. And yet the silence feels good somehow, as if just having her there makes it a little easier just to be.

  Maybe it’s the late hour. Maybe it’s that I barely realized I’ve gone through a bottle of whiskey tonight. Maybe it’s just Hazel, and the strangely comforting vibe she gives off, but I feel like I speak my mind as quickly as I think it.

  “I want her, Hazel.”

  “Hmm.”

  “I don’t even know why I want her. She gets me pissed. Frustrates me. Provokes me. Riles me up and always leaves me feeling like something is…not right. And I just want her.”

  “That’s…life.” The way she pauses before saying it makes me think she was going to use another word.

  “If none of this was so messy, if we didn’t have to do everything in secret, and could just be together—maybe we’d just date for a month and get it out of our systems.”

  Hazel takes her time before answering. “You think?” she says doubtfully.

  “Don’t you?”

  “I mean… Haven’t you known her for a long time?”

  “About six years.”

  “What do I know? I’m just a single girl with a dating history as long and depressing as a Russian novel—but I sort of think people who get together after knowing each other a long time usually have pretty good chances.”

  “You think?”

  “Yeah. Six years is a long time to know someone, for them to reveal all their quirks and flaws. If you knew her that long and it’s only allowed your feelings to get stronger… I dunno.”

  I let the silence settle a little as I consider it.

  “You think it’s the same for her? The other way around?”

  She sighs and says, “I don’t know, Toby. I really don’t. I wish I could tell you what she feels… The only thing I can say is that, from where I’m standing, you’ve got to make a move. You’ve got to tell her. I mean, you’ve got to at least try, right? Otherwise, you’ll never know what could have been.”

  I feel like I can detect a little of her own pain in that last bit, as if she’s talking to herself a little, trying to convince herself that she still needs to “try.” I instantly feel a little selfish for unloading on her.

  “Hazel,” I say, after a long silence.

  “Yeah?”

  “How come you’re still single?”

  She laughs, and I once again find myself infected with her positivity.

  “Toby, I still haven’t figured that out for the past ten years of my dating life. I’m definitely not gonna be able to give you an answer before my shift in six hours.”

  I laugh and reluctantly realize I should probably let her get back to sleep.

  “Fair enough,” I say. “I guess we can save it for when I buy you the drink I owe you.”

  She laughs. “Deal. On one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That when you do buy me the drink you owe me, you’ve at least told Maeve how you feel.”

  I smile. The silence goes on for long, but it doesn’t feel like it with Hazel.

  “Deal,” I say. “Good night.”

  “Night.”

  She hangs up and I put the phone down, leaning my head back to settle into the feeling I’m left with. Not quite the end of all my problems, but the hope of a solution. A decision already made, but yet to be acted on.

  I’m crashing that party.

  22

  Maeve

  It had to be the mansion.


  A gala hall in the center of the city would have been more convenient, and probably resulted in a few more famous faces—but it would have been too “showbizy,” too common. One of those modern architectural homes in the hills would have made for some striking photos and impressed the guests—but those open-plan, angular buildings feel too inhuman for a good atmosphere. For a few, brief moments I’d entertained something quirky, like a party in the desert, or in an abandoned warehouse, but though it would have gotten tongues wagging, this is a party with a purpose, and that purpose is to reflect on me. That’s why it had to be the mansion.

  The large estate is well-maintained but still feels somewhat lived in, despite the fact that the owner—a secretive tech billionaire I have fortunate access to—rarely stays there. The gigantic, detailed building isn’t dissimilar to the mansions of England; though the resemblance isn’t a gaudy pastiche, the building really is old enough to exhibit its colonial influences. Vibrant flowers line verdant green areas. A pool shaped like a half-moon forms the centerpiece of the rear, an oak-lined driveway as long as a side street leads to the large cherubic fountain that forms the centerpiece of the front.

  Inside the place is even more impressive. Carpets as soft as the grass outside, beautiful artworks far newer—though not noticeably so—than the walls they hang upon. The acoustics are so good that a group of five people can feel like a hundred, and there are plenty of corners and rooms for people to tell secrets and enjoy moments of intimacy.

  With the location settled on, just like one’s shoes, the rest of the party falls into place. The catering is French, the cocktails classic, the decoration inspired by Fellini. For music in the lobby, I’ve booked a string quartet that I instruct to only play modern pop songs after ten-thirty (once everyone is reliably tipsy enough to not think it in poor taste). Outside, a versatile jazz band. And as an indulgence to Brent, a DJ and bar in a distant wing of the mansion where they can only be heard by the willing.

  Harriet suggested we convert several of the large rooms on the first floor into “themed” areas, and I allowed her and Brent to go nuts. A cabaret room with some era-appropriate entertainment that I didn’t have time to double-check and which I’m putting my faith in them to get right. A game room with poker and pool. And even one of those “puzzle” rooms people seem so fond of these days. Personally, I don’t think they’re exactly on-brand, but Harriet and Brent have earned the indulgence, and the mansion is large enough that those who aren’t interested can easily ignore them.

  For goodie bags the guests will be able to choose from either a carefully selected range of niche cosmetics and perfumery, or a designer scarf and bottle of malt whiskey. All the bags are emblazoned with my name in my own cursive—the logo for my brand, though since the jewelry line hasn’t even been announced it seems more like an emptily egotistical gesture. It’ll make sense eventually—as will the gigantic ice sculptures both inside and outside that have been cut into the shapes of various famous historical jewels.

  At three in the afternoon, the estate is already buzzing and alive with just the employees.

  “Sir?” I call out to a white-waistcoated waiter as I march through the foyer, “we need two people with champagne at the entrance at all times, yes? I don’t want a single person to come in without being offered a glass, thank you so much darling… You there!” I stalk toward our head of security, whose shoulders are so broad he looks like an ape in a suit. “Do you have the list of photographers we’re allowing in?”

  “This is the list we were given,” he says, pulling out a neatly folded piece of paper.

  I scan the list of names.

  “Oh no, not him,” I say, pointing at one of them before drawing a line through it. “He took a downright malicious photo of a friend of mine last week—he’s blacklisted.”

  The man nods and heads off.

  “Where’s the fireworks crew?” I call to the hurrying workers dashing in all directions around me.

  At seven sharp, a sizable contingent of journalists and photographers (and a few overly eager attendees) have arrived, and we corral them around the pool and serve them drinks to the sound of the bands tuning up. I put on my pre-evening dress and heels to schmooze with them a little and get them onside in between my dashing about the estate to ensure all preparations are up to scratch.

  By nine, the party’s already in full swing, although I barely even noticed it since I’ve been doing nothing but managing it. Photographers are crowded at the front taking pictures of celebrities as they arrive, stepping out of their supercars to pose and smile their way inside. There’s a throng of people around the pool making almost too much noise to hear the band. The vast dining hall is full of a surprising amount of people sitting down to take advantage of the dinner our caterers are laying out. Judging by the steady stream of people heading toward Harriet’s cabaret room, it’s a hit. And I’m in one of the lavish bedrooms hoping to get changed into my well-planned outfit quick enough that I’ll actually have some pictures taken of me at my own party, still wondering where the hell my fireworks crew is.

  There’s a knock at the door.

  “Go away!” I shout back. “This room is out of bounds!”

  “It’s me, Maeve!” Harriet calls back.

  I wince as I squeeze myself into my little black dress.

  “Well get in here then! What on Earth are you knocking for?”

  Harriet opens the door just enough to sneak inside, looking like an absolute stunner with her hair up and her ruched cocktail dress.

  “Get over here and help me with this, sweetie,” I tell her and she quickly puts her clipboard down to help me zip up. “And leave the clipboard here—it ruins your outfit.”

  “Stay still,” she says through a grimace, “I think I’ve got it.”

  With a final tug she pulls the zipper up, and the dress squeezes me into a satisfying, upright posture of dignified elegance. And they wonder why I think so much about fashion…

  “One week is nowhere near long enough to plan a party,” I say, checking myself in the mirror before putting on my carefully laid out jewelry.

  “Um. We have a problem,” Harriet says.

  “My biggest problem right now is being seen at my own party, honey.”

  “Do you know Melanie Powell and her family?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “Well they’re filming the first season of their reality show and our security refused to let them in because they’ve got the cameras with them. There’s a whole fuss at the front gate.”

  I smile in the mirror.

  “That’s not a problem at all,” I say, looking at Harriet in the reflection. “Tell her that arguing petulantly with a security guard to get into a party she wasn’t invited to is as close to ‘reality’ as her viewers are going to get from her.” I turn to point at Harriet. “That’s not a euphemism, honey. I want you to tell her I said those exact words.”

  Harriet winces. “She’s pretty hot right now though. Are you sure you want to make her an enemy?”

  I turn back to the mirror to put some fine touches on my makeup.

  “I give it six months before her affair with her married producer gets out and she ends up dragging down everyone associated with her. Some enemies are better kept than reconciled with.” I turn back to her. “Anything else before I get my first glass of champagne?”

  Harriet faces me but her eyes flick to the clipboard on the bed, and she sidesteps slowly toward it as if not wanting to show that it’s actually pretty important to her. I smile and sigh as if I get the message and she grabs her clipboard to read.

  “Lars Lynch brought the entire cast of his latest movie and I let them all in—that’s okay, right?”

  “He’s a sensational director. Of course.”

  “Also, Maria Neves is quite worried because she’s got a blemish on her cheek and even though she’s wearing her hair over it she’s worried one of the photographers is going to release a photo of it.”

  “Tel
l her I have a grip like Stalin over what the photographers can release—but if some rando takes a photo and uploads it himself then she’s on her own. Tell her to go to the DJ room, it’s dark there.”

  “Okay.” Harriet nods quickly and scribbles something onto her clipboard. “Oh, and what’s your final decision on the outside lighting once it gets dark?”

  “Leave the colored lights on the ice sculptures, one light on the outside bar, the pool lighting—and that’s it. There will be enough light coming from the house, but I’d like it to be on the darker side.”

  “Got it,” Harriet says, and carries on scribbling on her clipboard.

  I step toward her suddenly and she looks up, aware I’m about to do something. I take the clipboard, tear off the top sheet, fold it, then wedge it carefully down into the bustline of her dress.

  “Honey, I’d rather you get something wrong and look fabulous doing it,” I explain.

  Then I take the pen from her hands and toss it away.

  “What if I need to write something down again?” she pleads.

  “Ask the nearest handsome stranger,” I say, gently turning her by the shoulder to come with me to the door. “Anyway, it’s nine-thirty. No more planning. Now the party goes where it goes.”

  Harriet seems to relax a little and smiles.

  “Actually, one more thing,” she says. “Your friends are here. Mia and her husband.”

  “Wonderful,” I say, as I open the door for her and she steps through.

  “And also,” she adds, with a big smile and a strange sense of mischief in her voice. “Asher.”

  “Asher…” I say, remembering there’s still some work to do. “Very good. Okay, darling. Oh—listen, if you see the guy in charge of the fireworks crew, tell him I’m going to light a fire under his own ass if he doesn’t come find me.”

  “Will do,” Harriet says, then nods a farewell as she heads off to one of the theme rooms. I move toward the staircase, ready to descend into the crowd that’s amassed in the vast hallway and let some steam off.

  For the next hour, I’m in my element. The taste of champagne fizz on my lips, the sound of laughter and compliments in my ears, handsome and beautiful faces as far as I can see. My fingers on a cold glass, trailing numerous expensive suits and dresses as I pose for pictures and get close to old and new friends. My skin vibrating to the music, the crowd, the atmosphere. An uplifting thrum that seeps deep into my heart and makes me feel genuinely happy. The alcohol, the dusk, the attention, the energy, and most of all: the people making each moment more beautiful than the last.