Dirty Bad Boys Box Set: Forbidden Romance Collection

by Kat T. Masen

  “What?” My cheeks are flushed, but it’s also hot out (and below). “We were both drunk, but I swear it was all you.”

  “I wasn’t drunk.”

  I look at him. “Yes, you were.”

  “I rode my bike. I never ride my bike if I’ve been drinking.”

  I let out a panicked laugh. “I saw you drinking.”

  “That was root beer.”

  “I don’t get it then, you weren’t drunk but you . . .”

  The penny drops and I stare into his eyes to read the truth behind his admission. He wasn’t drinking. Therefore he knew fully well what he was doing. Unlike myself; I kinda just went with the flow, or should I say Kitty’s commands? Does this mean he wanted it to happen? Did he plan for this to happen? Was what he said in my parents’ kitchen true?

  “Presley . . .”

  “Haden, what the hell does this mean?”

  In a quick change of emotions, his sympathetic face turns defensive.

  “I wasn’t drunk but I was pissed off at you. That was it.”

  “If you’re pissed off at someone you throw a martini in their face, or bash them on social media. You don’t fuck them in the alley!”

  I turn to face away from him. Just when I thought there was more to this, he reminds me why I am a hormonal mess. The tears are building up and I watch the people strolling past as a distraction.

  He places his hand on my shoulder as a kind gesture, but I shake it off, not wanting him to touch me. And so, we sit in silence for a very long time while I try to calm myself down. A good hour later, my stomach rumbles and all I can think about is food.

  “It’s done, okay? How about we grab some lunch and head to the lake? My treat,” I say, hoping to redeem myself.

  He smiles cautiously, then stands up to take his ringing cell out of his pocket. Excusing himself, he walks towards the tree, and the moment he answers the call, his face lights up.

  I can hear the words as he speaks, saying something about the wedding and honeymoon, but shortly after, his smile fades and an argument erupts.

  “I told you I don’t want to go there. Why won’t you fucking listen to me?”

  He is talking loudly enough for me to hear the conversation but I pretend to be engrossed in the kids running near the church entrance.

  “Eloise, I don’t give a shit what you want. You said this wedding was going to be small and uncomplicated. Not the splashy affair you’re turning it into.”

  He is kicking the tree with the toe of his shoe and utters more words. “I need to go, okay?” His face softens again and a small smile escapes him. “Yeah, me too.”

  I remember the “me too” at the end of the conversation. It’s the reply to “I love you.”

  It was like a stab into my fantasy bubble. Reality check. No matter what he does or says, he’s marrying her. I’m just the woman carrying his baby.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Awkward lunch partners. Someone should create a reality show based on that. After returning from his phone call, something between us changed. Haden seemed less friendly and almost annoyed that he was forced to have lunch with me. That, in turn, put me in a foul mood. We still had another day left in each other’s company, so I took the mature approach. Or so I thought.

  “Okay, I’ll bite. Why are you acting like a jerk?”

  Chewing his mouthful of bread at a slow and annoying pace, he eventually swallows to answer my question.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” he mumbles, taking another bite to avoid talking.

  “God, you’re such a woman. Whenever someone says ‘nothing’s wrong’ there is always something wrong,” I complain.

  “Geez, you nag like the rest of them.”

  “Did you say that I nag like the rest of them? You know what?” Whether it is the stifling heat or the anger consuming me, my body temperature rises and suddenly I feel woozy. “I’m jumping into the lake.”

  His knee jerk reaction is laughable. I had jumped into this lake a million times and today was no exception. Taking my wedges off, I carry them and place them on a rock. It would have been a good idea to wear my swimmers, but this heat was overbearing and my dress would dry within minutes.

  “There could be anything in that lake,” he warns me.

  “Can’t be as bad as what’s beside me,” I mutter under my breath.

  My feet move towards the shoreline, and instantly, cool water graces my skin as I breathe a sigh of relief. Moving further in, my muscles relax as I sink my entire body. A couple of kids are playing in the water not too far away, and on this hot summer day, I can’t think of a better way to pass the time.

  The Jerk is standing on the sand bank, watching me in amusement.

  “What?” I yell out. “Worried you’ll get that pretty hairstyle of yours wet?”

  Didn’t Vicky say he’s into extreme sports? Not that lake swimming is an extreme sport, but reality is, who knows what is lurking in the murky water?

  He takes off his shoes and places them beside mine. Next he pulls his shirt off, revealing his perfect—and I mean perfect—set of abs. Shit, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Wearing only his shorts, he takes his glasses off and hides them in his shoes. Moving towards the edge of the rock, he dives in, causing a huge splash before he resurfaces right beside me.

  “FYI, I’m not afraid to get my hair wet,” he says, out of breath and way too close to me.

  “Could have fooled me. Thought you were an adrenaline junkie . . . or what was it your Facebook said?”

  “You’ve stalked me?” He grins, swimming around me like a hunter circling its prey.

  “Uh . . . no, not me. Vicky did. She’s the social media whore.”

  “You stalked me,” he gloats.

  “I didn’t stalk you! But I have no idea who you are. So yes, Vicky stalked you and I may have listened but I want to point out that I resisted.”

  I’m folding my arms like a petulant child as he continues to grin like he is winning this battle. Well, two can play at this game.

  “Two Yorkshire terriers . . . really?” I tease.

  “Harry Potter . . . really, Malone?”

  “Wait.” I grin unwillingly. “You’ve stalked me?”

  “I had no idea who you were.” His smile remains fixed. “Let’s see, aside from Harry Potter, you’re into swimming, extreme cleaning, and what’s the other thing . . . ?” He continues, “Oh, that’s right! You have an obsession with cats.”

  “No, no,” I correct him. “I am not into cats. I just have a lot of crazy cat lady friends. Personally, becoming a crazy cat lady is my worst fear.”

  He laughs with ease. “You’re too beautiful to be a crazy cat lady.”

  Oh Kitty, sit the fuck down and don’t you dare say a word!

  I respond quickly, “Didn’t you watch that episode of The Simpsons where they show how Crazy Cat Lady became just that? She was beautiful, graduated with a doctorate and a law degree, and then became so burnt out that she began drinking. She got one cat . . . then another . . . and so on.”

  His expression remains fixed as he watches me in a curious yet heartwarming way.

  “Why are you looking at me that way?”

  “You’re cute when you’re quoting The Simpsons.”

  “Um . . . thank you? So anyway, anyone can become a crazy cat lady.”

  Continuing to swim circles around me, he appears to be unable to wipe the smirk off his face. I’m not quite sure what’s so funny, but the looming grey clouds followed by thunder in the distance divert my attention.

  “Time to get out,” I suggest. “Plus, I’m hungry.”

  “You just ate,” he points out, swimming beside me to the rock.

  I walk out slowly and squeeze my dress to wring out the excess water. It’s an excuse to ignore his wet body right beside me. Bending down to grab his shoes, the muscles of his back tense, and boy oh boy did Kitty just wake up . . . again. With quick reflexes, he catches me looking and gives me a wink. Okay, what a jerky thing
to do. I let out a huff, then tell him to hurry his ass up.

  We head back home to find that Gemma and Melissa have arrived early. Seeing the both of them makes me super excited. It’s been a while and I’ve missed their fun-loving ways so much.

  Gemma is also known as the Chameleon in our family. The last time I saw her, she had black hair with streaks of blue. Today she’s rocking a new, shorter style dyed grey. People often said she looked like Dad. Which isn’t such a bad thing, unless she had inherited his beer gut. Thank God she didn’t.

  “Lil’ sis!” She rushes up to me and squeezes me tight. I forgot to mention that she was only five feet tall, making her the shortest in our family. I hold onto her until she pulls away and rubs my belly till it bugs me, forcing me to swat her hands away.

  “I can’t believe I’m going to be an auntie!” She hands me a green gift bag and I stare back at her, confused. “For the baby, silly.”

  Finally catching on, I place my hand in the bag and pull out a white onesie. It’s tiny, and I mean one of my boobs could barely fit in there kind of tiny.

  I hold the onesie up and read out the print. “My aunt is hotter than your aunt.”

  Everyone around me laughs, and even though it’s lame, I laugh along with them.

  Melissa pushes Gemma aside and reaches out her arms. I happily embrace her and she gently whispers in my ear, “He’s cute, Pres . . . real cute.”

  No shit. That is half my problem. If he was drop dead ugly I wouldn’t be in this mess to begin with.

  The obligatory introductions begin, and already Gemma has found something in common with the Jerk; they both love horror flicks (something I despise). We move into the living room and Gemma pops in a DVD. It’s something about a lunatic murdering people in some rural town. It’s gory, unpleasant, and by the time the second person is killed within ten minutes of the movie starting, I jump ship and escape to the kitchen where my sanity and will to live remain intact.

  “Since you’re in here, how about you peel those potatoes for me?”

  Mom hands me the bag of potatoes as I happily chat away about work, life in the city, and Vicky.

  “That girl sound like a bad influence,” Mom scowls.

  “Honestly mom, I’m not ten. If anything maybe I’m the bad influence. Uh, hello!” I point to my belly.

  She simply shakes her head then entertains me with the latest family gossip. Before I know it, the food is ready and I am famished just smelling the enticing aromas.

  The dinner table was spread with an array of food; my mom, a.k.a. Martha Stewart, has gone all out, even using her fancy silverware. Everyone else enters the room, talking animatedly about the movie. I take a seat beside my dad and Haden follows by sitting on my other side. We say grace, then dig into the food, all the while talking about random topics including Gemma and Melissa’s house in L.A.

  “I love L.A. There’s a nice buzz to it. Plus I love surfing,” Haden says.

  “You’ll love our new place,” Melissa adds. “We’re a block from the beach and there’s plenty of cafes and shops along the boardwalk. Maybe Presley can bring you along next time?”

  “I’d love that.” He grins, shoving a piece of chicken into his mouth while he watches me.

  What the hell just happened? Now he’s taking vacations with me? When did it cross over from enemy to friend? Note to self: do not rely on your family to hate him because clearly, he has them under some magic spell. Stupid charm.

  “So Haden, tell us about your family?” My mom moves to the subject that I had so desperately wanted to ask about but never found the courage to. He places his fork down and appears to change his demeanor. His smile whittles to nothing but a bleak stare. The light in his eyes almost darkens.

  “My family lives in New Jersey. Mom works at the local library in her spare time and my twin sisters Lucy and Lennie are in college.”

  “You have twin sisters?” I blurt out, almost spitting out my peas.

  “Yes. Annoying twin sisters, but yes.”

  “Oh my god, Pres, you could be carrying twins!” Gemma cries out loud.

  I shut her down immediately. “No, there is definitely only one baby inside.”

  I take my cell out of my pocket and produce the photo I had taken of the ultrasound. I point out the baby as my cell is passed around the table until it lands into Haden’s palms.

  Quietly, he stares at the photo and I realize only then that he hadn’t seen any photo of the baby. That was partly my fault. For a man that yo-yos from giving a shit to not giving a shit, I figured that he didn’t care about stuff like ultrasounds.

  I watch his facial expression, the look of curiosity as his eyes narrow in on the photo, and the way his lips purse contently. He turns to face me and, embarrassed, I try to look away, but he has caught me staring.

  “Do you know what the sex is?” he asks, just short of a whisper.

  “Uh . . . no. I could have found out but the baby decided to do this somersault thing and covered its bits. I’d say it’s either a boy or girl,” I say, trying to lighten the conversation and ending with a short chuckle.

  “Our friends Ella and Jess were told they were having a girl and bought everything pink. Turned out to be a boy,” Gemma tells us. “Let’s just say that kid may give Elton John a run for his money, what with all the pretty colors and sparkly fabrics.”

  “Happened to your Aunt Kathy too,” Mom adds.

  “It doesn’t matter what the baby is,” I mumble as the conversation continues around me.

  “Of course not. As long as the baby is healthy, that’s all that matters.” Mom smiles.

  I hate to admit it and I feel like the worst person in the world, but it kind of does matter. I’m terrified of having a girl because I am one and I know how high-maintenance they can be. My dad once told me that having two girls was a sure-fire way of dying from a stroke early. It was around the time that we were both in high school and felt the need to disregard our curfew.

  On top of that, I had joined part of an online group made up of single mothers. A lot of them talked about how raising a girl in their teens is difficult and how boys tend to protect their mothers. Now, I don’t know if that’s all bull, but one mother posted about her 14-year-old daughter running off with her 25-year-old boyfriend one night. I decided then and there that if the universe cared for me at all, just the slightest bit, I would have a happy little boy.

  With dinner almost over, the conversation moves to sports, and I leave the table to clear the dishes. At the sink, my mom stands alongside me and places her arm around my shoulders.

  “One step at a time, Presley. You have your whole family here to support you,” she reminds me. “And by the look of it, you’ve got Haden’s support, too.”

  “I don’t even know him, Mom.”

  “Then get to know him, Presley. He’s going to be in your life whether you like it or not.”

  “How is that even going to work, Mom?” I whisper beside her. “He is getting married. Does the baby stay at his place on weekends? What about when they have their own kids?”

  “Honey, you’ll work it out. You always do. You’re my little planner,” she reassures me. “And besides, have you thought about moving back home so Dad and I can help you?”

  I try not to laugh. Living with my parents again would only highlight how pathetic my life has become. I am used to being a strong, independent woman, even in my relationship with Jason. I don’t need a man. Hand me a toolbox and I’m Miss Fix-It. Turn the TV to ESPN and I’ll talk stats with the best of them. No, I don’t need a man . . . except for sex. Greedy Kitty needs more than a flick of the bean.

  “The offer is here, Presley. Pride aside, think about what is best for your child.”

  I place my hands in the water and think about what Mom just said as I listen to the conversation at the table about baseball. When Dad starts to talk about the Yankees and Haden expresses his love for the team, I can hear the shift in my Dad’s voice, and soon he’s calling him
“son” and inviting him out to the range tomorrow.

  They both ramble on, the conversation turning to extreme fishing. Haden whips out his cell and loads a video of it from YouTube. Really? Extreme fishing.

  With the final plate put away, my mom calls it a night with my dad at her tail. Haden follows me to the living room to join everyone else. Gemma has decided to put on a Stephen King movie (much to my disapproval) and the only seat available is on the two-seater sofa beside Haden.

  I take a seat beside him and brace myself for the worst. Honestly, I could kill Gemma and Haden right now with the nightmares that will plague me because of this damn clown. I swear I am so close to shitting in my pants. The moment the face pops up from the drain, I jump in fear, and at the same time that familiar flutter pokes my belly and I’m almost one hundred percent certain the baby just moved.

  “I think the baby just kicked,” I say.

  Gemma pauses the movie, rushing to my belly and placing her hands across it. Melissa, is also waiting and places her hands near Gemma’s. I feel like a science project with all hands on me but Haden’s. He looks uncertain, and waits for me to allow him to place his hands on there too. I tell him it’s okay and I guide his hand to the part where I felt the last flutter. Of course, nothing happens, and everyone grows bored (including me), so the movie is turned back on. With the lights turned off and the volume cranked up so loud, my body tenses in anticipation. Then again . . . that little prod.

  I wasn’t going to waste the moment, so I inch closer to Haden. Grabbing his hand, I place it on top of my stomach, and within seconds the baby kicks again.

  I hear him gasp, followed by a heartwarming, on-top-of-the-world type of smile. His hands still on my stomach, we watch the rest of the movie until the credits start to roll. When the lights turn back on, he removes his hands and I feel an instant loss.

  Don’t get attached, Presley.

  We all call it a night, especially because Haden is waking up early the next day to go out with Dad.

  In my room, dressed in my tank and boxers, I toss and turn, unable to sleep with the face of that fucking clown taunting me. Stupid Gemma. Even as a child she would do this to me, and the worst part was, she never got scared.