The Bad Boy Next Door

by Lexxie Couper

  I tried not to react to the fresh pain ripping through my shoulder and head, but a choked whimper escaped me before I could bite it back.

  Lucas flicked a glance at me. It was the first time he’d acknowledged I was there since his unexpected arrival. What I saw in his eyes when they met mine made the pit of my stomach clench and my pulse quicken—icy-cold murderous rage.

  “You see,” he said, his focus returning to Dewey, “while you and Kitchner banked on the Trinity wanting me dead after you revealed I was your C.I., they also wanted you and Kitchner dead more. Plus the Trinity members who’d betrayed them. The one thing the Trinity value more than loyalty is their privacy, and when you invaded that, it made you a dead fucking corpse.”

  Dewey dug his fingers into my wrist. The gun did the same to my temple. “So Trinity is going to kill me now?”

  Lucas laughed. “Oh, no, I’m going to kill you.”

  Dewey gripped my wrist tighter. I’d completely lost all feeling in my hand by now, and my shoulder was a ball of fire. “For exposing you?”

  A calmness fell over Lucas. “For hurting Ronnie. I’m going to break every bone in your body with my bare hands for that.”

  “I’ve got a better idea.” Dewey released my wrist, encircled my body with his arm and crushed my back to his chest, squeezing my boob as he did so. “How about I fuck her face and you watch me, before you bend over and I fuck you in the ass?”

  I’d had enough. This guy was a dick. And he was making Lucas angry. Very angry. I’d never seen him so detached and calm. And scary.

  If I didn’t do something soon, who knew how this was going to end? Above all else, I wanted all three of us to be alive when it was done. I didn’t want Officer Dewey standing—hell, I didn’t want him conscious, but I didn’t want him dead. Dead by Lucas’s hands would bring a whole load of shit down on him, and this pathetic cop wasn’t worth that.

  “Hey, Dewey,” I said over my shoulder, keeping my stare on Lucas’s face. “You know you actually need a have dick to get a blowjob, right?”

  His hand on my boob grew cruel. “Why, you little—”

  I let my knees crumple beneath me. Gravity did the rest.

  With abrupt speed, I slid downward, completely out of Dewey’s arms before he could react to my unexpected move.

  Hey, if you’re a woman in your twenties living alone in this country and you haven’t attended at least five self-defense classes, you need to get your act together.

  The last thing Dewey had expected me to do was suddenly drop to my knees. My instructor—a woman who, according to her brochure, had trained as a Marine before surviving a rape attempt—had spent many a session telling those in my class to use our attacker’s energy against them. When being held, your attacker is going to expect you to fight against them, not turn to a sudden boneless limp noodle.

  “Bitch,” Dewey yelp as my shins collided with the stair and the back of my head slid down his gut. His hand—the one that had been pawing my boob—tangled in my hair as I slammed my head backward, hoping against hope I was going to hit his groin.

  I heard what Hollywood told me was the distinct click of a gun just above my head, and then Lucas was roaring, “Ronnie, stay down!”

  I turned myself to a puddle, just as Lucas charged Dewey.

  Slammed into him.

  Drove him backward into empty air.

  And then they were both crashing down the stairs in an insane tumble of growling, shouting, punching.

  “Lucas,” I screamed, scrambling up to the top of the stairs even as every molecule in my body wanted me to run down them.

  Lucas. I had to help—

  They hit the bottom of the stairs in a sickening crunch, Dewey on top of Lucas.

  My stomach sank. I screamed Lucas’s name again.

  The police officer smashed his fist into Lucas’s jaw. Swung again.

  But before his knuckles could hit their target, Lucas snapped his body into some kind of wicked V, locked his calves around Dewey’s neck and then, with so much speed it was dizzying to watch, yanked his legs back to the ground, taking Dewey with them.

  The cop’s head collided with the floor a heartbeat before Lucas flipped into this awesome body-bending jump and was on his feet.

  And then he was only on one foot, as his other swung in a fluid arc and slammed into Dewey’s ribcage.

  It was both beautiful and horrific to see, a kick of extreme power and damage and grace. Oh God, was this what Lucas was like when fighting all the time?

  Dewey let out a strangled oof I heard all the way at the top of the stairs.

  Hot relief and hotter elation rushed through me at the pained sound. Lucas swung his other foot before his first even landed on the ground, this time his shin smashing against the side of Dewey’s head. The cop spun into a lurching tumble that finished face first against the floor.

  “Ronnie?” Lucas looked up at me from the bottom of the stairs, his chest heaving, his stare locking on mine. “Are you hurt? Did he—”

  “Look out!” I screamed as Dewey damn near threw himself at Lucas from the floor.

  The kick was a blur of movement. One second, Lucas was gazing up at me, the next he was spinning in a 360-degree turn, his feet completely off the floor.

  I heard his booted heel smash into Dewey’s jaw before I saw the cop’s furious movement become a wild fall to the side, his head leading the way.

  By the time both of Lucas’s feet were on the floor, Dewey was a motionless lump sprawled facedown on the floor.

  “Is he dead?” I called.

  Lucas dropped into a limber crouch and pressed his fingers to the cop’s neck. He shook his head and flicked me a quick look. “No.”

  “Good,” I burst out. “Don’t let him move.”

  I didn’t wait to see Lucas’s reaction to my command. I scurried as fast as I could until I found what I was looking for.

  The butcher’s knife.

  I paused long enough to pick it up from where Dewey had forced it from my hand and then ran back to the stairs leading to the basement.

  My heart stopped when I found no sign of Lucas or Dewey.

  What the fuck?

  “Lucas?” I yelled, gripping the knife like it was a lifeline.

  An image of Dewey straddling a motionless Lucas filled my head, and for a moment I could barely breathe.

  “Down here,” Lucas’s shout floated up from below.

  “Oh, fuck.” Relief flooded through me like a tsunami as I began to run down the stairs. “Don’t do that to me, Pratt.”

  I stumbled to a halt when I reached the bottom. The site of Dewey cable-tied to one of Lucas’s exercise weight machines made me blink.

  “He’s not going to touch you again, Ronnie,” Lucas said, looking up from Dewey’s right ankle as he yanked the thick red cable-tie binding it to the machine tight.

  I drew in a deep breath. And another as Lucas straightened to his feet and slowly crossed to where I stood frozen.

  I was numb. And angry. And hot. And worried.

  But above all, I was so glad to see him I had no hope of not throwing myself into his arms when he was close enough to do so.

  “Lucas fucking Pratt,” I burst out, face pressed to his chest, nails hooking into his shoulder. “Don’t you ever do that again.”

  A low vibration rumbled through his chest as a relaxed chuckle bubbled up from him. “Do what? Fight a corrupt cop to keep you safe?”

  I shook my head violently without lifting my forehead from his chest. “No. Don’t you ever fucking not be where I expect you to be.”

  I burst into tears. I felt stupid and ridiculous even as they were streaming down my cheeks, but I couldn’t stop them.

  Lucas shifted in my arms, pressed a strong finger beneath my chin and raised my head until I was looking up at him.

  He was a smudgy blur, of course. A tear-soaked blur. “You’re a bastard,” I complained, trying to turn my head away.

  He chuckled again. “Because?�
��

  “Because you are,” I grumbled back, frowning when he refused to let me look away.

  “Okay, if you say so.” He gently stroked his thumbs over my cheeks, wiping at the fat tears trickling down them. “I’m a bastard. Are you opposed to kissing a bastard?”

  I glowered at him, even as my tummy fluttered. “Yes.”

  He laughed. I shoved at his chest.

  He snagged my wrist with a loose grip as he took a step backward and pulled me to him.

  “Too bad,” he murmured, threading his fingers through mine to snake my arm around his back as he cupped my jaw with his other hand. “Told you you weren’t a lesbian.”

  I glowered at him again even as I accepted he was correct. He was an exquisite example of the male species, and I wanted him so freaking much. “Shut the fuck up, Pratt.”

  He chuckled and took possession of my lips with his.

  With a raw groan of surrender and want, I kissed him back. There truly was no other option. I wanted it too much.

  His tongue slanted and stroked mine, the hard ridge of his cock pressed to the lower plane of my stomach telling me as clearly as the hungry ferocity of his kiss how much he wanted it as well.

  I rolled my hips, aching for more.

  He gave it to me, raking the hand on my jaw down the column of my throat, over my collarbone to the swell of my breast. My nipple beaded instantly against his palm, the reaction eliciting a deep moan of appreciation from him.

  My head had just begun to swim with pleasure when he pulled away.

  I whimpered in protest, chasing his lips with him.

  “Ronnie,” he murmured, returning his palm to my jaw. “I could make love to you right now, on this very spot, but I’m not much of a fan of the idea of Dewey coming to and watching us.”

  I startled, heat flooding my cheeks. God, how could I have forgotten about the corrupt cop so quickly?

  Jerking back a step, I shot Officer Dewey a worried look.

  He was still slumped on the weight machine, eyes closed, blood trickling from the wide, deep gash just below his right eye. Was that the spot where Lucas’s boot had struck his face?

  “How did he find you?” I asked, rubbing my hands up and down my upper arms.

  Lucas’s sigh was ragged.

  I frowned, turning back to him.

  “You led him here,” he said.

  I blinked at his statement. “I what?”

  “Come on,” he answered, which was no answer at all. He took my hand and began to ascend the stairs, tugging me along.

  I followed, confused and uncertain. I led him here? Like hell I did.

  “What do you mean, I led him here?” I asked when we’d reached the top of the stairs.

  Lucas didn’t respond. Instead, he walked to the same sofa he’d been lying on when Doctor Winchester had performed minor surgery on him and lowered himself onto it.

  I didn’t follow suit. Instead, I stood before him and frowned.

  He sighed again, slumping against the backrest to drag a hand through his hair. It dawned on me he’d never looked better. No fresh bloody wounds, no grungy T-shirt. Just a pair of faded blue Levis, a simple black T-shirt, his messy hair and killer eyes.

  “When I learned Dewey hadn’t turned up for work at the station a day ago,” he said, holding my gaze, “I suspected why. By then, I was over an hour away.”

  “You were heading back there?” I crossed my arms over my chest. For some reason, I was suddenly very angry with him. “Without telling me. Without letting me know what was going on? What were you going to do? Beat up the entire station?”

  He had the nerve to laugh.

  I wanted to kick him.

  “I was going to draw Dewey out. Use Kitchner as a trap.”

  “With Kitchner’s phone?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t have Kitchner’s phone. I lost it as I was getting away from the fuckers who grabbed me off the street.”

  I frowned. “But the phone you showed Dewey…”

  “A burner. One I’ve had for a while.”

  A sick tension curled in the pit of my stomach. “You were bluffing?”

  “One of the best ways to win any fight is to bluff, Ronnie. I remembered enough of their texts to gain me the advantage and I used it.”

  I swallowed. The tension in my stomach was now creeping through me. “What do you mean, I led him here? How did I do that? I didn’t even know he existed until today, so how did I lead him here? And did you know he was here?”

  “I didn’t know until he went AWOL. I turned around and was driving back to you when Winchester called me. Our mutual contact had come through for me. I knew exactly who was dirty and who wasn’t. Which meant I only had Dewey to deal with, given Kitchner wasn’t going to cause me—or anyone else—trouble again.”

  “What about…about the Trinity? And how did Dewey follow me. How did he—”

  “Trinity thinks I’m dead.”

  That sick tension turned to a suffocating blanket of cold shock. “What?”

  “And Dewey put a tracker on your car. I found it underneath the rear wheel arch when I got back.” A devilish glint filled his eyes. “Thank God another case kept him from tracking your location before now. Otherwise we may have been interrupted at the most inopportune time.”

  Holding up my hands at him, I frowned. “Wait, wait, wait. Go back a second. The Trinity thinks you’re dead? How?”

  He pulled a face and scrubbed at the back of his neck. “Loco, the head of the Trinity, owes me.”

  “Owes you?” My brain couldn’t process the declaration. How could the leader of one of the state’s most notorious gangs owe Lucas? What could he have possibly done to make that be the case? “Did you throw a fight for him?”

  Indignation and disgust etched Lucas’s face for a moment. If I hadn’t been so stunned by how surreal my life had become in the last few hours, I would have laughed.

  “I did not throw a fight,” he said. “Are you kidding? Throw a fight?”

  “Then what did you do?” I don’t know why, but I felt like his answer for the question was more important than any other he’d given so far.

  “I saved his little sister from being raped by his stepfather.”

  A soft breath slipped past my lips. My stomach rolled.

  “And delivered her to their mother, who now lives in Melbourne.”

  “In Florida?”

  He gave me a lopsided smile. It infuriated me and made me ridiculously horny at once. “In Australia.”

  My mouth fell open. I shook my head, hugging myself again. My head was spinning. “I truly have no idea who you are, Lucas Pratt.”

  An unreadable tension fell over his face. He straightened from the sofa until he stood directly before me, our thighs brushing, his gaze holding mine. “I am the guy who’s loved you for longer than you will ever know. The guy who will fight the world to make sure nothing ever hurts you. The guy who will give up everything he’s ever known to see you happy.”

  My heart swelled in my chest. I swallowed, my throat tight. “Does that include fighting? Will you give up the whole MMA fighting circuit?”

  “Hell yeah,” he said. “I’ll even settle down here for the rest of forever, if you’ll settle down with me. Will you? Live with me? Here? For the rest of our lives together?”

  “Hell yeah…” I whispered with a smile. And then I gave up any hope of other words, tangled my fingers in his hair and kissed him.

  He was all those things. But more importantly, he was mine.

  The boy next door. My savior. My fighter.

  My lover.

  Mine.

  The world, my world, had just got a whole freaking lot better.

  Bring it on.

  The End

  Preview - Blowing It Off

  Stimulated, Book 1

  Lexxie Couper

  Chapter 1

  Morpeth, Australia

  “You know they’re going to call the big guys in for this, don’t you
?”

  Sliding her fingers over the smooth, solid length gripped firmly in her left hand, Phoebe Masters flicked a sideward glance at the tall streak of stunning blondeness beside her and bit back a sigh. “I don’t want the big guys.”

  The blonde—a.k.a. Sami Charlton, a.k.a. BFE (Best Friend Extraordinaire), a.k.a. Australia’s most successful female motocross rider—let out a chuckle. “I don’t think you’ll have a choice, Pheebster. Your studio’s been gutted. With a fire this bad you know they’re going to call in the investigation team. If Dad was alive he’d tell you the same thing.”

  Phoebe’s stomach lurched and she ground her teeth. Damn it, when she’d upped and moved from Newcastle to the utterly parochial, completely charming historical village of Morpeth six months ago, she’d planned to never see the investigation team again.

  “And I don’t believe for a second that you don’t want to see them.”

  Sami’s calm statement made Phoebe’s pulse pound just a little harder in her neck. She bit back another sigh. Here she was, standing in the smoking, charred remains of what was once her studio, the place she spent every day blowing molten glass into artworks of stunning beauty, with the acrid, wholly jarring stench of scorched wood and wet timber stinging her sinuses with every breath. Reminding her with no uncertainty that everything she held dear and valuable was destroyed—and she was thinking about Damon Hunt and William Bradley.

  “I don’t want to see them,” she grumbled, glaring at the object she gripped in her hand, the only thing salvageable in the heartbreaking mess. A long, thick shard of glass that, thanks to the fire, now looked like a massive, slightly demented glass dildo.

  “See who?”

  The gruff male voice behind Phoebe made her jump, the glass length almost slipping from her fingers as she did so. She pulled a face, wrapping her fingers tighter around the accidental dildo like it was her one and only life preserver. “No one.”

  “The investigation team from Newcastle,” Sami said to the elderly man now standing on Phoebe’s left. “This has to be arson. There’s no other explanation for such an accelerated burn of materials designed to withstand high temperatures, don’t you think?”