Saint Jude: Los Angeles Bad Boys

by Frankie Love

  “I’m going to put Etta down,” I tell her. “The menus are in the top drawer next to the dishwasher.”

  A flash of disappointment seems to cross her face, but she doesn’t press.

  That’s fine, I’ll press her soon enough.

  In fact, I’m thinking I’ll press her right against that fucking wall.

  Chapter 6

  Am I really doing this? I mean, I don’t know Jude all that well, but I was looking for a way to get my mind off the shittiness that is my life.

  And I’m thinking he’s the perfect distraction. After spending two hours in his house, noticing plenty of signs that Rachel is really, really gone—like gone for good—I don’t even feel that bad about sleeping with Etta’s father.

  Rachel’s toothbrush isn’t in the bathroom. No phone charger by her side of the bed. No clothes in her drawers. This woman is gone. Like, for reals.

  I’m guessing Jude feels about as lost as I do.

  Well, that’s probably a pretty shitty thing to say, considering I don’t have a daughter to take care of. If he’s lost, I can’t even begin to imagine the sort of pressure he must be feeling right now.

  I pull open the drawer next to the dishwasher, and smile. There’s a stack of menus; I didn’t even realize people used paper menus anymore. Every menu I get is off of Yelp. I bite the side of my lip.

  Jude is older than me. A good five years older than me. Should that matter?

  When he walks back into the kitchen, I have my answer.

  Jude is clearly looking for a way to let go of the shit he’s dealing with, even if only for one hour, one time. I can give him that.

  I can definitely give him that.

  “So,” he asks.” Did you find anything that looks good to eat?”

  “Yeah,” I say, waving the menus I’m holding. “I found a few options.”

  Jude walks toward me, the distance between us going from ten feet to ten inches, in less than ten seconds. My heart beats fast in my chest, and I can’t help but think that this is so much better than the first time Yuri seduced me.

  I say seduced, but we all know that’s not what it was at all. I was drunk. He was drunk. Well, he was much drunker.

  Actually, I don’t know who was the drunkest. I just know it was bad.

  A bad idea.

  A bad relationship.

  A bad escape.

  Not that I’m actually out of his clutches. The most recent voicemails he left, demanding I return to Berkeley ASAP, pretty much sum up that he’s still trying to control me. I don’t even know what he wants anymore.

  But I know exactly what Jude wants. And there’s a relief in knowing what he wants. In knowing I can give it to him.

  “Thanks for helping with Etta today,” he says. He’s half a foot taller than me, and when I look up at him I love the way his body casts a shadow over mine. Like, he could protect me. Take care of me. Even for this hour.

  It’s reassuring, to be in the presence of a man like this. A man who seems to know how to take care of people so well.

  “I didn’t mind,” I tell him softly.” I didn’t mind at all.”

  “And would you mind if I kissed you?” he asks, looking down at me, those dark eyes hitting me where it hurts.

  I smile softly. “In romance novels, those alpha guys never ask for permission. They just take what they want.”

  “Oh girl,” he says, laughing, as his hands cup my face. “You got me pegged all wrong.”

  “Oh, so you’re not a bad boy?” I tease. My heart flutters, with his hands on my face, flutters because I’m this close to a man who is just that: a man.

  Not an asshole. Not like Yuri.

  Jude is a man who knows how to hold a woman. And yeah, he’s just holding my face right now, but I know he’s capable of holding much more than that. Sometimes you just know.

  Sometimes you just know it’s right.

  “I didn’t say I wasn’t a bad boy.” Jude shakes his head, ever so slightly. “But there are different sorts of bad boys, aren’t there?”

  “And what kind are you, Jude?” I ask, my eyes dropping to his chest. For some reason, I don’t want to see his eyes as he answers the next part.

  Like it’s too vulnerable, or too intense a question to ask someone I barely know—to ask someone who is touching me like this. As if the answer might pull him away.

  And God knows I do not want him going anywhere right now—I mean, anywhere besides my pussy.

  “I’m the sort of bad boy who tries to fix things.”

  “That doesn’t sound so bad, Jude.”

  “Girl,” he says, “people only want to fix things if something is broken.”

  My eyes search his. I’m sure confusion is written across my face.

  “You think I’m broken?” I ask, slightly offended, but also wondering how he got to the root of all my issues so damn fast.

  “No,” he says laughing again. “I didn’t say you were broken. I just said something was broken.”

  Now that I’m looking in his eyes, I see he wasn’t talking about me at all.

  He was talking about himself.

  “Saint Jude is the patron saint of lost causes.” I say it as a statement, because it is. I don’t even know what kind of question to hitch it to; it’s just the only thing that flashes through my mind when I look up at him.

  “I’ve heard that before,” he says.

  The way he says it tells me that he has heard it before … but he’s never heard those words from me. And maybe I’m dreaming, but I feel like they have a different effect on him.

  “You can kiss me,” I tell him.

  He doesn’t hesitate; his lips are all mine.

  In a hot flash, in a way that crashes over me. Like I’ve never been kissed before.

  Like I may never be kissed again.

  This kiss is a lifeline. But I don’t think it’s a lifeline for me. I think it’s, like, a lifeline for him.

  Like he needs this kiss in order to survive, in order to breathe.

  I’m not trying to be dramatic here. I’m being honest. This kiss is life-giving. And I sink into it, into him.

  Our lips are soft as they press together; my lips part and I feel his tongue slide into my mouth, intertwine with mine. His hands grip my face tighter, reaching toward the base of my neck. He runs his fingers through my hair as he pulls me close.

  I drop the menus I’m holding. I hear them as they flutter to the floor, and then I don’t think about food, or my life, or a job, or a plan.

  All I think about is this moment. The moment where Jude reaches for my ass, and pulls me to him—tighter, closer. I feel his raging cock in his pants, and it makes me wet, just thinking about him and me.

  Us.

  He picks me up effortlessly, and being picked up like that in a man’s arms, arms like his—that’s what I’m talking about.

  That’s what I mean when I feel like he could take care of me. Because somehow, in a matter of moments. I’m cradled in his arms.

  Jude sets me on the counter. My legs are spread apart as he leans in close. Raising my hands in the air, he strips off my shirt; my breasts are bare before him.

  I didn’t put on a bra this morning, because I think it’s stupid to wear a bra when my breasts don’t sag. I mean, my mom always tells me that’s exactly what is going to cause my breasts to sag, but I’m living in the moment. It won’t always be this way—so as long as I don’t have to have an elastic band around my rib cage restricting me from breathing, underwire digging into my chest, I won’t.

  And right now, I’m really glad I listened to my women’s intuition regarding undergarments, because I know the fact that I’m not wearing a bra is turning Jude on even more. His hands are on me, plucking my hard nipples, and I don’t want him to stop. Ever.

  Our kissing intensifies as his hands run up and down my back, then around to cup my breasts. I want to run my hands over his chest the exact same way, so I pull up the hem of his shirt, needing to feel his chisele
d body, see his skin.

  He pulls off the shirt, and now I can feel the heat of him as his body presses closer to me. “I’m going to fuck you,” he tells me.

  “I know.” I arch my back, smiling up at him. “The question I have is: how? How are you going to fuck me?”

  “Here. Right now.”

  “Good.”

  He drops his pants, his boxers, steps out of them. I love the fact that he’s not going to draw this out. This is a pure and simple hook-up.

  Maybe it’s a fantasy of his—you know, to sleep with a babysitter. I don’t care. I don’t care at all. I can be his fantasy. Damn, I think this is a fantasy of mine, too. A few hours ago I was eating popcorn in my brother’s guesthouse. Now? I’m looking at biggest cock I’ve ever seen.

  I’m not joking. This is magnificent. I think I may be drooling—but if I am, Jude doesn’t comment. Instead he wraps his hand around his shaft and strokes up and down.

  “You are most certainly a bad boy,” I tell him, jumping off the counter. Unbuttoning my cut-off shorts, I shimmy out of them until they fall from my hips and drop to the floor. I step out of them, watching as Jude’s eyes zero in on my covered pussy.

  Now he’s the one nearly drooling.

  He’s still touching himself, and something about that is so fucking hot and intimate. Like he’s letting me into a private slice of his life. His cock is ten inches long, his hips narrowing into a deep V that is literally nature’s way of forcing my eyes toward the only part of his anatomy that matters.

  And damn, his anatomy matters.

  “Don’t be a dick tease,” he tells me.

  “Oh,” I tell him, “I’m not teasing you at all.”

  Maybe it’s the fact that his baby is asleep, but he’s not wasting any time with me. He pulls me close to him again, his cock raging against my belly button.

  His fingers run under the waistband of my panties, and he pulls them down, as if he has done this hundreds of times before. I hope he has, because if I’m going to have fantasy sex with him this afternoon, I want it be off the charts.

  I have a feeling it’s going to be.

  But with my panties off and his hand pressing against my pussy, it’s as if he’s never touched one before—and not because he doesn’t know what he’s doing. No, not that at all.

  He’s touching me as if with a sense of wonder. As if this is the most magnificent pussy he has ever touched in his whole damn life.

  Which, okay, I can get behind that. I want to feel like a goddess, like my body is something to want and desire and fawn over.

  I’ve never been with a man who could make me feel holy. Blemish free. Pure. Every time I’ve ever slept with a man, I’ve walked away feeling dirty.

  But with Jude, I don’t think that’s possible. I don’t think I could feel that way. Because, right now, I feel blissed out. His fingers move over my folds, dipping into my entrance, and I’m not even embarrassed about the fact that I’m dripping wet for him. Maybe because I can tell how much he likes it.

  A smile slowly crosses his gorgeous face, and I let out the slightest moan. My hand reaches for his raging hard on, and moves up and down on his solid rod. Just touching his manhood turns me on, excites me about what’s to come: him, coming in me.

  “Girl,” he says shaking his head. “You feel so good. Your pussy is so wet.”

  I’ll admit, a sigh of relief escapes my mouth. Part of me always wondered if my pussy is broken, because I like to be touched so much—and when I am, my pussy drips in pleasure.

  More than drips. My pussy gets sopping wet when turned on. I gush, and if I get finger-fucked nice and hard, I start squirting.

  At least, that’s what happens when I touch myself. A man has never gotten me off like that.

  But the way Jude is touching me now, it makes it feel reverent. Like a gift. Like my pussy is a fucking altar, and he’s worshipping it with every flick of his finger.

  How is he doing this? How is he touching me and making me so perfect?

  I know I’m dripping now; as he touches me, my release runs down my thigh. I don’t think I’ve ever reached a tipping point so quickly in my life.

  My arms wrap around his neck as if I’m clinging to him for dear life and the next thing I know he’s reaching for a condom in his pants pocket. He rips open the package and rolls the latex over his hard cock.

  Then he lifts me to his waist, his hands squeezing my ass as he carries me toward a bare wall in the living room. With my back against it, he lowers me ever so slowly onto his massive cock. My arms wrap harder around him, my chest pressed against his chest. I kiss his neck, my eyes closed, bracing myself for what I’m expecting will be pain. Ten inches is not exactly something my pussy is used to.

  But as he begins filling me, there’s no pain. There’s no moment where I want to block anything out. I let out a deep sigh, as if I’ve been holding my breath all day long.

  But I’m not holding anything back anymore. In this moment, I’m letting go. In this moment, with my back literally against the wall, Jude is allowing me to fall into his arms.

  I’m filled with him, his firm hands on my ass, my tits bouncing as we move. He rocks against me, steadily, with certainty, with a force to be reckoned with.

  Well, a ten-inch force, to be exact.

  We move together, and I’ve never been fucked like this: hard, but also slow and tender. It’s everything.

  He thrusts into me—again, again, again. He thrusts until his cock is pulsing inside of me, throbbing for release. My pussy is begging, too, desperate to climax. A different kind, not the gushing sort—I’m talking about the complete toe-curling orgasm I know I’m in store for.

  And then it comes, him and me and me and him, and together we whimper, moan, cry out. I don’t even know what he says. I don’t think I say anything coherent. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.

  “Oh, Catalina,” he says as we both get off.

  Our bodies rock as we finish. He shakes his head, catching his breath, lowering me from him and him pulling me close.

  His hand is on the small of my back and he wraps around me as if he won’t let go. “Thank you. Thank you for that.”

  A bizarre rush of emotions washes over me. Tears prick the corners of my eyes.

  I know that this means nothing beyond an afternoon quickie with my brother’s best friend—and let’s be clear here, I’m not on the verge of crying because I want something more than a hook-up with Jude—but the emotions come because he just made me feel something I have never felt with a man before.

  Precious. Valuable. Worth something more than what my body can give.

  Which is pretty much insanity, because I just gave him all of me.

  Maybe we didn’t just give our bodies to one another this afternoon. Maybe we gave one another pieces of ourselves.

  Chapter 7

  I’m not usually the sort of guy who obsesses about one person in particular. I usually do my best to help anyone who comes across my path … and the ones that stay in my path, I help even more.

  I haven’t seen Catalina in a week, but I can’t stop thinking about her—thinking about the way her body pressed against mine, the way she so openly gave herself to me, without any sidebar requests. She didn’t ask for a single thing.

  What are all the other relationships in my life? Not Holden and Cassius, of course. They have my back, I know. But the vast majority? I don’t hear from them unless they need something.

  After Etta woke from her nap, Catalina quietly slipped on her flip-flops and left through the front door without even asking me for my number. Without asking for a goddamn thing.

  And now? Damn, I want to ask her for something. A date, maybe? Do people even do that anymore? It’s been so long since I’ve taken a girl out.

  Besides, this isn’t just a girl. This is Holden’s sister, which opens up a whole different floodgate of problems.

  I still haven’t told my friends that Rachel’s gone. It’s been two weeks now; she se
nt a quick one-sentence text, and when I returned it she didn’t reply. I sent her photographs of Etta, thinking maybe that would be the thing that brings her home, wakes her up.

  Damn it, Etta needs her mother. I haven’t told anyone this, but in the back of my mind I’ve had questions about if I’m really her biological father. Rachel leaving makes me wonder if I will ever get any answers.

  But hell, maybe having answers won’t fix anything.

  The only thing that let my mind hit pause on my baby-mama-drama was Catalina coming over last week. With her, things felt light. Easier. Bearable.

  Etta’s crying now, ready for a bottle. I pick her up from the swing that lulled her to sleep an hour ago, then carry her into the kitchen, debating if I should just get some balls and call Catalina.

  I don’t want to be weird—don’t want to be that creepy guy, the older brother’s friend—but I also want more of her sweet, sweet pussy. More of her smile, more of her laugh. More of the distraction from this difficult reality.

  The phone rings before I can think about it any more.

  “Hello?” I don’t recognize the number.

  “Hey, it’s Cat,” she says breezily.

  Cat. I like that.

  “Have you missed me?” she asks, laughing nervously—probably because neither of us knows what we’re doing.

  Maybe neither of us should care.

  “Yeah,” I admit. “I actually have.” I sit my phone on the counter, putting it on speakerphone. I grab a bottle from the drying rack, and fill it with prepackaged formula. I Googled if this shit was toxic. It’s not.

  “Tell me more,” she moans playfully.

  I shake my head, knowing this girl is trouble. Knowing I want this sort of trouble. Knowing I want her.

  “You want to come over?” I ask, before I can even think about the repercussions of this request.

  Fuck it, I want her here. I’ve got nothing else going on, on a Saturday night. I screw the bottle cap on and give it an unnecessary shake. Cradling Etta in my arms, I offer it to her. She sucks it greedily.

  At least I’m doing something right. Etta is happy. Fed. Clean. Mine.