Bad Boys for Hire_Nick_Christmas Holiday

by Rachelle Ayala

  “Well, I’m not on a beach,” Carol said. “I can go any time.”

  “Why not now?” Marisa insisted.

  “Why not?” A deep male voice sounded as the double doors to the studio flapped open. A predatory looking man, dark-haired and bulging, sauntered in like he owned the studio. He took off his sunglasses and let his eyes rove from female to female, skipping over Carol. It figured he would pass over the only woman in a wheelchair.

  Seven pairs of female eyeballs, eight if she counted the visitor sitting at the side, rolled toward the stranger who flaunted himself in a skintight t-shirt and a pair of skinny jeans.

  Tall, dark, and hot didn’t even begin to cover it.

  Marisa immediately forgot her nursing professionalism and smiled at the intruding hunk. “How may I help you?”

  “Nick Wolff, from Bad Boys for Hire, here about the Toy Drive you’re doing for Wheelympics,” the hotlicious hero sandwich replied.

  Wheelympics was an adaptive sports program for young wheelchair users, and Carol was the volunteer who was in charge of the party.

  “That would be me.” Carol wheeled toward him, only to be headed off at the pass by Leanna who jutted her ample chest toward the musclebound man.

  “What can I do for you?” Leanna said in a sweet, syrupy voice. “I’m Leanna Rivera.”

  “Wait, wait,” Nikki blinked rapidly and fanned herself. “Talk to me, Nikki Chu. I’m president of the Bumblebees.”

  Terri pushed herself between Nikki and the scrumptious stranger. “Terri Slade. I’m the sergeant at arms.”

  “Well, I’m vice president,” Jolie chimed in, sweeping her flaming red hair over her shoulder. “Jolie Becker Cassidy.”

  Only Sherelle stood back with her eyes narrowed. She was the treasurer and had control of the purse. The Bumblebees needed someone wise as the banker.

  Carol was inclined to agree with Sherelle. Men who worked for escort services were so full of themselves they were like ticks on a hound dog’s ear. The god-man in front of her preened and puffed at the attention of her friends. What an immature dick.

  She hadn’t expected someone quite so young when she’d called Bad Boys for Hire and asked for a Santa impersonator.

  No matter how tempting this delectable dish was, she couldn’t have him ruin the toy drive with his overactive sex appeal. Look what he was doing to their rehearsal!

  Carol’s mouth watered, and she swallowed her drool as she steeled herself. She was the secretary, and the girls had shoved the job on her, so she was within her rights to force her wheelchair into the midst and park right in front of the hired help. “Listen, there must be a mistake. I asked for a Santa impersonator, not an exotic dancer.”

  The man held out his hand, looking down at her. “Nick Wolff, at your service.”

  Heat flushed Carol’s cheeks at the way he drawled the word “service.”

  She lifted her hand and found herself eye-level with his belt buckle. Slowly, her gaze traveled from below his belt, wandered up his well-defined abdominals, skittered over his pectorals, tickled his collarbone, grazed his cleft chin, and brushed over his smirky lips, to lock onto the dark, hooded bedroom eyes.

  In slow motion, or so it seemed, she grasped his offered handshake.

  Even though she wore half-fingered leather gloves, electricity sparked and zapped, flushing the upper half of Carol’s body with a web of tingles as Nick’s strong palm enveloped her firm handshake.

  “Uhm … If you have a Santa suit, you’re hired.” Carol heard the words tumble from her mouth. “But no stripping. It’s a kid’s party. Got it?”

  “Any stripping I do will be in private.” Nick zeroed his sexy gaze straight through Carol’s eyes, and a faint sensation zinged down through her belly and tickled between her legs. Was it even possible for her to be aroused?

  Carol’s eyes widened as she held Nick’s mesmerizing gaze. What was he doing to her? Did he have the magic touch? For the first time since she was injured almost a year ago, she felt a slight throbbing lower down.

  Holy moly! She was still alive!

  Three

  Interesting. Nick grinned at the woman in the wheelchair as her friends stepped back and made excuses about getting back to the dance routine. It was almost as if she’d tagged him, and they had an unspoken agreement to let her have him.

  That was what he got for automatically flirting with every woman he encountered. It made for better tips. He was used to women fawning over him, drooling, fainting, flirting and pawing, but this one was coming apart at the seams with a simple handshake.

  Figured. She was paralyzed and probably hadn’t had sex in a millennium. Not that he was remotely interested. Most women didn’t realize it, but they sucked in bed. They viewed it as his duty to give them multiple orgasms, and only after they were thoroughly satisfied did they allow him to finish off. Did they bother asking him how he liked things? Where his erogenous zones were? Whether he liked to be touched or handled? No! It was all them, them, them, and their pleasure, and then getting pissed when he refused a repeat waste of time.

  He let go of the woman’s hand. She wasn’t bad looking. Wavy brown hair, fern-green eyes, and a cute ski jump nose, but then, he wasn’t looking for Miss Right, so who cared if he turned her on with a handshake?

  She, in turn, recovered from her slack-jawed stare and clamped her mouth shut, pursing her lips. “The toy drive isn’t until Sunday afternoon. Why are you stalking our rehearsal?”

  Fine. Be a bitch. Too bad for her he’d already caught the signs of her arousal. A slight hitch in her breath, her dilated eyes, and the faint tinge of blush that made its way to her face.

  She hadn’t affected him one bit. Boning a paraplegic would be plain weird. He crossed his arms and bent down to speak to her, knowing it was insulting. “I’d like to know why you hired me for a children’s party. If all you wanted was a fluffy, fat, white-bearded guy, you could have tried the senior center at the park.”

  “Why I hired you or someone from your company is none of your business. Show up at the appointed time in your Santa suit, beard, and padded pillow, and do your job.” She placed her hands on the rim over her wheels and spun away from him.

  No horny woman ever turned her back on him.

  Nick took two big steps and blocked her path. “I’m not done talking to you.”

  “If you don’t want the job, I’ll call for a replacement. I don’t care.” Her nostrils flared like a fire-breathing dragon letting out steam.

  He didn’t either, except one glance at her friends told him they’d be big tippers. Maybe after the children left, he could hand out his card and pick up a few side jobs. The big-breasted Latina chick looked like loads of fun, and was probably a party animal.

  He turned back to the paralyzed woman and extended his hand. “Let’s start over. I’m Nick Wolff, personal trainer and entertainer, and you’re?”

  Her gloved hands remained on her wheelchair, gripping the rims. “Carol Cassidy, cripple, and I’m not the least bit interested in arrogant, overly masculine, extreme hunkoid, testosterone pumped, sex studs like you. Just because you’re so fine on the outside, doesn’t mean you’re nice inside.”

  “I could say the same for you.” He tucked his proffered hand into a pocket and clenched it. “What’s made a pretty woman like you so bitter?”

  As if he didn’t know. That was a low blow, but then again this Carol Cassidy and her brand of arrogance tweaked him the wrong way. She wasn’t polite at all—accusing him of stalking the rehearsal when all he wanted were details about the gig.

  “You have no idea,” Carol said. “Your life can change in a split second. Turn upside down. Then maybe you won’t be such an ass. I’ll take your suggestion and try the Senior Center. Consider yourself dismissed.”

  “You fired him?” Marisa hovered over Carol as she took out her kit for the bathroom. “I graciously let you have at him because I thought you two had a connection.”

  “He’s an arrogant ass.
Besides, we don’t need all his sex appeal for a toy drive.” Carol wheeled herself into the handicapped stall.

  “He’ll be perfect for the after-party.”

  “What after-party?” Carol gave Marisa a side-eyed glance. “I haven’t heard anything about it.”

  “Ooops.” Marisa put her hand over her mouth. “Some of us figured that after the kids go home, we could, you know, have our own toy drive.”

  “No one told me,” Carol spat out. She was sure whatever they’d planned wouldn’t be fun for her. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I don’t need you to help me with the toilet.”

  Despite the twinge she had earlier while holding Nick’s hand, she doubted she could make use of the types of toys her friends were thinking of. She was dead down there. She’d tried touching herself, and nothing had happened. It was one of the first things she did after going home from rehab.

  “I can help, you know. That’s what I do,” Marisa whined, oblivious to what Carol was thinking.

  Marisa was overbearing because she was a nurse who specialized in taking care of quadriplegics who were unable to move their arms and legs. They needed help with every bodily function because they broke their necks. Carol could have used her help when she was first injured and her cord was swollen higher up, but her stepsister had been in a relationship and didn’t want to drop everything and move across the country to San Francisco.

  Showed how little she cared. Now all she was interested in was a no-rent place to stay in exchange for groceries and housework while she schemed to repair her broken heart.

  “I appreciate it,” Carol said while washing her hands at the sink. “But I’ve been doing this ever since I got out of rehab.”

  “Sure, then let me sit and talk to you.” Marisa helped Carol position her chair, holding it steady as she lowered her yoga pants and swabbed herself with a betadine wipe.

  Marisa spread the supplies on a clean towel on top of the shelf provided in the handicapped stall. “I take it you didn’t like Nick Wolff. Do you mind if I talk to him?”

  “Sure, but if you don’t want to get hurt all over again, I wouldn’t recommend his type,” Carol said, as she strapped on her leg mirror and slipped a thin tube out of its sterile wrapper.

  Her stepsister was a love addict. Each man she met, she fell head over heels and swore he was the one. Unfortunately, the bad boys she went for didn’t see her as their be-all and end-all, just a means to an end.

  “Don’t you think he’s hot?” Marisa sighed, clearly oblivious to what Carol was getting at.

  Carol sighed as she collected her urine into a disposable bag, making sure to empty her bladder completely before withdrawing the tube. She’d given up privacy a long time ago, what with the steady stream of doctors, nurses, and aides helping her with every bodily function.

  “Just because he’s hot on the outside doesn’t mean he’s a good person. Seriously, you should know that by now.” Carol made a note of the amount she’d collected in the bag before emptying the contents into the toilet. She had never been the OCD type before her injury, but now, she had to log everything and pay attention to every detail.

  “Yeah, but nice guys are boring, and they’re usually out of shape.” Marisa pranced around the handicapped stall, her breasts bouncing lightly along with her ponytail. She was a fitness fanatic, a nurse, and strict about eating right and exercising, but she was big-boned and no matter what she did, she was on the stouter side. “I admit I’m a very physical person.”

  “Well, if that’s important to you …” Carol didn’t bother finishing her thought. Don’t complain about getting your heart broken.

  “It is, and I’d rather take my chances with a fine guy, than be bored stiff with a loser.” Marisa reached down and helped Carol tug her yoga pants in place, not that she needed her to.

  “Fine guys like Nick are usually players. I hate to see you getting hurt because you think you’re different than any of the other women he’s boning.”

  “How do you know Nick’s a player? You’re basing it on how he looks. Maybe you’re not being fair to him.” Marisa took the trash from Carol and stuffed it into the bin. She turned to wash her hands while Carol packed her towel, mirror, and log book into her zippered pouch.

  “Guys like him don’t need me to be fair.” Carol washed her hands. “He’s got plenty of ready and willing females to give him the benefit of the doubt, over and over again. Be careful.”

  “Why can’t we have him at the party?” Marisa clasped her hands and rolled her pretty brown eyes at Carol. “Just because you didn’t like him doesn’t mean the kids won’t. He seems like the life-of-the-party type. All you have to do is sign the check. It’s not like he’s a threat to you.”

  True. Why had she reacted so negatively to Nick? Carol turned and unlatched the handicapped stall. Was it because she’d felt that flutter and tightening deep inside her? Places she thought were dead? Marisa was right. With all the other hot women at the after-party, the last thing Nick would be doing would be shaking her hand or any other numb body part of hers.

  She was being selfish.

  “Okay, I’ll give Rex a call and let him know Nick meets our standards, but only if he wears a big white beard and a pillow over those rock-hard abs of his.”

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Marisa squealed, bouncing up and down like a toddler with a chocolate Easter bunny, or in this case, a large, chocolate foil-wrapped Santa.

  Let Marisa and all the rest of the unmarried Bumblebees throw themselves at Nick. Whatever had happened back there was definitely one-sided. His ultra-masculinity had turned her on, or so Carol imagined. Big deal. It was obvious he was amused at her predicament and not in the least bit turned on by her—a woman in a wheelchair without sensation below her waist.

  She was definitely not going to the naughty after-party only to be reminded about all she’d lost.

  Tears welled in her eyes as she ducked out of the bathroom and wheeled herself back to her van. The music was still jamming inside the studio, but she no longer felt like rehearsing or going to dinner with the rest of the gang.

  She wanted to be alone.

  Four

  Nick slammed the door as he stepped into the apartment he shared with his brother, Sam, and his sister-in-law, Heather. He couldn’t believe he was dismissed from his first Santa gig. What right did the lady who couldn’t even walk have to tell him he wasn’t good enough to play Santa? All because she couldn’t handle his sexiness. Sheesh.

  “What’s up with you?” Sam, a police officer, eyed him as he stirred sugar and cream into a cup of coffee. He was getting ready to go on duty for an evening shift.

  “My brother put him on probation.” Heather set the baby blanket she was knitting over her pregnant belly. “He’s lucky he wasn’t fired.”

  “Oh, really?” Sam’s eyebrows rose. “You can’t even keep an escort service job?”

  “It’s not an escort service,” Nick and Heather said at the same time.

  “People, mostly women, hire you to go to parties or on dates,” Sam huffed. “It’s skirting pretty close to the line.”

  “That reminds me,” Heather said, turning to Nick. One corner of her lip perked up as if she was suppressing a giggle. “That lawyer lady called again. She says you stiffed her for a workout and massage.”

  “Why is she calling me at home?” Nick palmed his head where the beginnings of a headache threatened to flare up. “How did she get our number?”

  “Did you ever bring her here?” Heather twirled a knitting needle accusingly at him.

  “Better watch it,” Sam growled. “When my kid gets here, I don’t want any strange women coming around.”

  “Don’t worry. They all know you’re a cop,” Nick said.

  “Which makes it even worse if you’re getting paid for sex.” The muscles in Sam’s jaw bulged, and his face reddened.

  Nick put up his hands. “Got the message. Anyway, I’m out of commission. Rex has me stuck playing Santa
for the kids until Christmas.”

  Unless he picked up some moonlighting jobs on the side …

  “Poor baby.” Heather snorted as she resumed knitting. “Guess you’re going to have to be good now. Does it come with a costume?”

  “No, I have to buy one and get fitted with an awful yak’s hair beard.” Nick grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and slouched on the recliner. “Can you ask your brother to pay for it?”

  Obviously, his existing red-hot G-string and sexy, low-slung and tight “Santa” pants wouldn’t be appropriate.

  “Sorry. Money’s tight everywhere,” Heather said, her knitting needles click-clacking as she got into the rhythm. “If you buy one, you can keep it and reuse it next Christmas for our baby’s first Christmas.”

  “Only if you help me buy the costume. Just because my name’s Nick doesn’t mean I fit the part of a fat old man with a jelly belly.”

  Besides, if he got a costume, he could always use it for a sexy Santa gig. He’d pretend to be an old, fat man with a sack of naughty toys, then surprise his client as he stripped. Maybe he’d even get paid to slip down a chimney into a willing female’s room.

  “I’ll pay for it, if it’s your Christmas present for this year,” Sam cut in. “And you pledge to forever be the Wolff family Santa.”

  Nick threw up his hands and sighed loudly. “I didn’t go to college and get a history degree to play Santa for the rest of my life.”

  “If you want meaningful, sign up for the police academy.” Sam drained the rest of his coffee and patted his badge. “Better keep your record squeaky clean. No felonies, no arrests, and definitely, no charges for prostitution.”

  Nick’s jaw dropped, and he gaped at his brother and then his sister-in-law. What had Rex told them he did?

  “I am not a prostitute.” Nick hammered the beer bottle on the coffee table.

  “Keep it that way.” Sam stood and tucked in his shirt. “I think the Santa gig’s a good thing. When you apply for the academy, you’ll need character references. Working with children is always a good one. You should consider doing a few nursing home gigs, too.”