The Very Bad Fairgoods - Their Ruthless Bad Boys: A Smoking Hot Southern Bad Boys Boxset

by Theodora Taylor

  And now I’m the one lazily watching him as he looks around with the wild disbelief of an ER admit who’s just been resuscitated with a defibrillator.

  Then he looks up at me, gaze awed and humbled as he says, “Damn, Doc, I really didn’t think I could come that way.”

  I give him an ironic smile. “Think about all the stuff you were missing with those other girls.”

  But instead of laughing, his face clouds over. “Why did you say that?” he asks. “Why you bringing other girls into this, Doc?”

  I shift, uncomfortable on his lap now. “Because there must have been other girls,” I answer, my tone frank. “Maybe even one who’s looking for you right now, one you’ll eventually remember—”

  “No, Doc, there’s only you,” he says. “I’m brain damaged and confused. But you…” He pats his heart with his good hand. “You fill up my chest, and I know there ain’t anybody else but you in here.”

  I swallow. Wanting to believe him. Upset because I’m even thinking about taking the word of a man who can’t so much as remember his name.

  “Okay,” I say. Voice small. Agreeing with him just to get out of a conversation about disagreeing.

  It’s been a long day and I barely have the energy to climb out of bed and go to the bathroom to wash away all the things he’s done to me.

  He lets me clean up. But he says, “No pajamas,” his voice sharp, when I return and start to head to the dresser drawer.

  I simply reverse direction and climb into the bed without a word of protest. Trusting him to keep me warm. Trusting him more than any woman has any business trusting a man she barely knows. A man who barely knows himself.

  No, he definitely doesn’t have to keep me home from work tomorrow. He’s already fucked me out of thinking too much. But still…

  I go to bed wondering how bad or possibly good it will be when he finally remembers who he really is.

  Chapter Ten

  MASON

  Shitty little state. Shitty little warehouse packed with SFK’s guns. Shitty MC’s standing around while Mason “questions” their prospect.

  Mason’s becoming more pissed off by the second that D’s put him in this position. Somebody’s going to pay. Mason doesn’t know who, but somebody’s definitely going to pay.

  Maybe it’ll be the guy hanging in chains in front of him, while the rest of his motorcycle club, including the prez, watches.

  “Where is he?” Mason demands, stabbing his bowie knife through the prospect’s shoulder. A family heirloom, passed down from a grandpa who would definitely approve of the way Mason was using it now.

  The biker screams, but none of his fellow MCs step forward to help him. They know better. Know who Mason’s family is, and what they’ll do if any of these West Virginia fuckers so much as raises a finger to help this guy.

  New Rebels, his ass. Mason wouldn’t be at all surprised if a few of these pussies peed themselves watching his bowie go into the prospect’s shoulder, then come back out with the sickening squelch of skin and muscle losing against steel.

  In fact, the Rebel’s prez looks like he’s going to lose his dinner as he snivels, “I swear on my mother, man! I don’t know where he is. This prospect and the old sarge did the deal with him and he left with the money. We ain’t heard from him or seen him since. I swear!”

  The old sergeant at arms, the New Rebel Mason questioned last month. Meanwhile, the prospect hanging from the chains starts full on sobbing.

  Oh for fucking…

  Mason studies the prez, then the prospect. Decides. They’re telling the truth. They don’t know anything.

  Which means D. is either dead or hiding. Mason has not one ounce of Native American blood in him, but he senses it’s the latter. Which only makes shit worse. Hiding is way worse than dead in Mason’s opinion. One earned a little bit of Mason’s respect. The other earned his bullet.

  If D. is hiding from him, ignoring all Mason’s calls to his burner phone…

  Mason’s hand clenches and unclenches around the bowie’s wooden handle, and he suddenly decides to put it back in his waist holster. Not because he has to, but because D’s been missing near three months now, and these New Rebels fuckers have no clue where he went.

  These baby motorcycle clubs that keep springing up all over the country make him sick. Bunch of wannabe bad-asses who’d let anybody in, and when push really came to shove, you got a lot of them crying like pussies instead of taking a beating like a man.

  Mason puts the knife away.

  Then he pulls out something else his grandpa gave him before he died. A Beretta .92 compact. Now the prospect really starts sobbing. And screaming. And begging the other Rebels to help him. But not for long. Mason shuts him up with a bullet straight through his forehead.

  A hell of a lot nicer and cleaner than what he’d done to their sergeant at arms the month before, letting the guy bleed out with his bowie in his gut for not knowing what Mason wanted him to know. But a few of the New Rebels actually jump back like this bullet is so much worse, just because the sound of the shot hurt their sensitive little ears. Like they’re trying to figure out whether to run or stand their ground.

  Before they have time to decide, Mason holds up a picture of the man he’s looking for: a man who is the opposite of Mason, without any of his hulking darkness. No, this guy is clean-cut, blond, blue-eyed, and too clever for his own good. Mason suspected that about him from the start, and now it’s pretty much been confirmed.

  “Listen up!” he yells at the shitty group of men daring to call themselves a motorcycle gang. The men who ordered SFK guns, but have no idea where D went with the money they supposedly paid for those guns.

  “We been through this two times already!” Pointing to the prospect now sagging good and dead against his chains, Mason yells, “You fuckers know who I’m looking for, and what I do each and every time I come here and you don’t have anything new to tell me. I’m going home, but I’ll be back in another four weeks...”

  Now Mason’s eyes connect with the large swastika on the New Rebels President’s jacket. “And I swear to fucking Hitler, next time I ain’t settling for no prospect. I’ll take another one of your board members. Maybe even your president.”

  Nobody answers, but nobody has to. They know his reputation. Know he means every word he says. They’ll either figure out where D. got off to by the time he comes back, or be fully disbanded.

  Either way, Mason has no plans to stop looking until he’s found D. dead or alive, along with the SFK’s one hundred grand.

  Chapter Eleven

  No more thinking. A month passes faster than I ever imagined it could.

  John and I settle into a routine fairly quickly. He’s not my patient, but he lets me guide him through yoga every morning. His jaw clenches when an Amazon delivery with six sets of sweats, a 12-pack of boxer briefs, a bunch of weights, resistance bands, and a small all-in-one gym arrives. But I often come home to find the workout mix I made him blasting rap on his Beats headphones, while he lifts more weight than recommended.

  Cooking is new, but he’s taken over my kitchen, making recipes we both like and adding meat at the end to his plate. He’s not the first meat-eater I’ve been with, but he is the most respectful. Never mixing it in the same pans or making recipes with chicken broth, or any of the other million things that can come between couples on opposite sides of the vegan line.

  Which makes the fact that he’s dominated me every single night that much more curious. John is a man made up of contradictions. Tender and mean. Serving and dominant. Proud and humble. 100% clear on his now and a total blank on his then. I don’t know what to make of him, and I wonder if he knows himself.

  Or if his mystery frustrates him as much as it does me.

  Everything about us feels so fragile, but our co-habitation is shockingly strong.

  Weekday mornings, I go to work while he goes outside, no matter the weather. I’m still not quite sure what he’s doing out there, but I ofte
n imagine him taking long, meditative walks to the “Walking” playlist I made for him. Communing with nature like Walt Whitman, before he comes home to listen to a lot of gangsta rap while working out on the sad little home gym we set up in my living room.

  “Doctor Dunhill? Doctor Dunhill?”

  A voice rips me away from my thoughts and back to the real world. The one not filled with the crazy sexy mystery that is my John Doe.

  I look up from Ronnie Greenwell’s chart to find one of the peds nurses at the door of the office I’m allowed to use when my attending is making rounds. “Veronica Greenwell’s mother is here. She’s asking to talk to you.”

  I start. “Do you mean Dr. Higgson? She’s doing rounds, but if Caren has more questions…”

  “No, she’s already met with Dr. Higgson, but now she’s asking to speak with you directly.”

  I look back at Ronnie’s chart, then close it before standing.

  “Okay,” I say softly. Not wanting to speak with Ronnie’s mother. Deeply aware I’m a three-year fellowship away from becoming an official Pediatric Oncologist. But knowing I can’t turn down her request.

  “Okay,” I agree again. Then I get to my feet and take a deep breath.

  The house smells amazing when I walk into the apartment that night; the very opposite of a hospital. As usual, John’s finishing up his workout in the corner, so instead of bothering him, I go straight to the kitchen and find a curry simmering on the stovetop.

  “Indian food?” I ask a few minutes later when he joins me in the kitchen; Meek Mill’s “Ima Boss” bleeding out of the the black-and-gray Beats around his neck. “Is that new?”

  “Yeah, Indian food is new,” he tells me, pressing a kiss into my temple. “But the recipe sounded good and you had all the ingredients.”

  “Thanks to Amazon,” I grumble, thinking of the first time I discovered that unlike L.A., most grocery stores in West Virginia don’t carry garam masala.

  “Speaking of that…you got a package delivered. But it ain’t from Amazon.”

  My eyes go to the rather large box waiting for me like a specter on the coffee table. I sigh, wishing it had come any day but today.

  “You want to talk about it?” he asks.

  “My day or the box?” I answer with a tired smile.

  “Either,” he answers back, hooking the cast behind my back, and caressing my face with the side of his knuckles.

  “Not really,” I admit. Because it’s the truth. Because I don’t feel like recounting my day or my past to him tonight.

  He studies me for a moment, shrewd eyes gauging. But in the end, he presses another kiss to my temple and says, “All right, I’m gonna go take a shower before dinner.”

  As soon as he’s gone, I go over to the box. I don’t even bother to read the return label. It’s from Sandy. Of course it is. Inside I find the usual: a Hermés Birkin, which I will never actually wear on my person; a new special phone with a post-it reading “same number” attached; a couple of shoe boxes, most likely filled with the kind of heels a real doctor wouldn’t wear outside a TV show.

  After a few minutes of fishing things out, I throw everything but the new special phone back in the box and go through the monthly routine. Print out the label from my laptop. Tape it to the box with the same industrial-sized roll of packing tape I’ve been using for years. But this month, instead of putting the package by the door, I take it all the way downstairs and throw it into the trunk of my car.

  “How many times do I have to ask you to stop sending me these boxes?” I text Sandy after I close the trunk.

  “Eight more days,” is all she texts back.

  When I get back to the apartment, John’s already out of the shower, and he’s got our plates set up on the same coffee table where the box Sandy sent me used to be. I can feel his curious gaze on me as I go over to the small wine rack sitting on the kitchen counter. Since it’s Friday, and I don’t have to work the next day, I pick out a white to go along with this week’s beer.

  We’ve established that beer is “old” to John. So I’ve been trying a variety of beers from Pabst to Bud to see if anything sparks a memory.

  But so far, the only thing we’ve really established is that John likes beer and doesn’t “understand” wine.

  He squints at the Stella Artois I set in front of him, takes a swig, and says, “That’s new. But I don’t like it as much as the Yuengling from last week.”

  “Okay,” I say, trying but failing to keep the irritation out of my tone as I take a sip of my wine.

  He continues to watch me instead of eating. And after a moment, he says, “Got something to say, Doc?”

  “No,” I answer, picking up my plate. “You’re just…I don’t know, frustrating sometimes.”

  Another long silence, and I’m deeply aware I’m the only one eating during it. Finally he says, “I’m frustrating you?”

  No, he’s actually the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time. The best part of a shitty day. But of course I don’t say that. Of course, I let the old Nitra take a hold of me and snap, “You just don’t seem to be putting any effort into finding out who you really are. Hell, I think you’ve searched harder for vegan recipes than clues about your past this last month.”

  A dark look flashes across his face. And in an instant, I’m brought back to the episode on the eighth floor. When it looked like he would kill our neuro res because of something he triggered in John’s past.

  But he doesn’t say anything. Just sits there, as if waiting for me to go on.

  So I take another sip of wine, washing down the food before I say, “I mean, let’s face it. You’re a very good-looking guy. The chances of you not have a girlfriend are like zero to—”

  “I could say the same about you, Doc. I’m still trying to figure out how a pretty gal like yourself ain’t already taken.”

  The lazy smile’s back, and now it’s my turn to study him. To wonder what he’s really thinking about this line of conversation.

  “You know what? I’m tired and I’ve had a really long day. Do you mind if we just watch a movie or something instead of talking?”

  A beat. Then, “Sure, Doc. Whatever you want.”

  What I want is to not talk for a while. Or think. So I get up and pop Sweeney Todd into the player, and we finish our dinner, letting Johnny Depp and Helena Bonham-Carter do all the talking and singing. I clear our plates when we’re done eating, and only come back to the living room because it’s easier than having a conversation about going to bed early.

  I settle onto the other half of the couch and keep trying not to think. Maybe it works. The next thing I know, John is waking me with a tender kiss pressed to the side of my head.

  I’m no longer on the other side of the couch, and my head is in his lap. A familiar position at this point, because I’ve been falling asleep during our nightly musical wind down a lot this week.

  Fatigue. That’s a sign of depression, I think to myself. And I have to wonder if all of this: the sleepiness, the unorthodox relationship, the sudden sadness about leaving West Virginia, are latent signs of a grief I’d thought I was dealing with by upending my life to go to med school. My past and my present have been colliding a lot this week and apparently it’s exhausting me.

  “C’mon, Doc,” he says, interrupting my thoughts about Chanel. “Let’s go to bed.”

  When we get to the bedroom, I go straight to my long unused pajama drawer.

  “You looking to get punished tonight, Doc?” he asks my back as I strip out of my scrubs and bra.

  I don’t answer, just reach for the t-shirt I pulled out. But before I can put it on, he’s behind me, hard erection pressed into my back. Reminding me of how fast he can move now that he’s no longer using his cane.

  “How do you think this is going to end, Doc?” he asks, voice low and mean.

  “I don’t know, John,” I answer, purposefully stressing the name I’ve been forbidden to use. “With me sleeping on the couch becaus
e I’m too tired and bitchy to do this with you right now?”

  “You tired, Doc?” A hand finds my breast, stroking it, bringing it to life. “You don’t feel too tired to me. And as for the bitchiness, I got some ideas about how to handle that.”

  His hand drops from my breast and slips inside my underwear, fingers working me. I bite my lips, determined not to respond, determined to stay angry for reasons I can’t quite explain. But his touch is magic, and soon I feel my tightly held tension slipping away, my resistance weakening as my body becomes softer and softer.

  “You had a bad day, Doc?” he asks, voice thick in my ear. “You need me to do the doctoring tonight? Make you feel better?”

  I nod. Silently, helplessly, having no idea that’s what I needed until he said the words out loud.

  “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do,” he informs me. “I’m going to put you under me. Punish you for this pajama move you just tried to pull. Then we’re going to talk about whatever the hell is bothering you, because I just now decided we ain’t going to be one of those couples who go to bed mad.”

  Oh God, his touch is melting me. Making even the hardest parts of my heart feel softer. But there must be a little bit of bitchy Nitra left inside, because I answer. “We’re not a couple. I’m leaving next week. We’re just—”

  I cut off when I’m suddenly spun around and all but shoved toward the bed.

  The next thing I know, my back’s hitting the mattress and he’s on top of me. Using his weight to hold me down.

  His erection pushes against me as he reaches across to the nightstand, and even though I’m still wearing panties, I can feel him inside my slit. Hard as stone.

  Same as his expression as he rears back, holding my gaze while he puts on the condom.

  Same as his voice when he pulls aside my panties and roughly pushes himself into me.

  “Say that again,” he growls, voice guttural with unchecked anger.

  It’s an unfair command. Because as soon as I open my mouth to point out all our truths: that we’re not an official couple, that I’ll be leaving soon, that neither of us really knows who the other is—he devours my words with an angry kiss.