Machine: A Bad Boy Romance: Barnes Family Book 2

by Normandie Alleman

  I don’t know how much time passed before Marla tapped me on the shoulder. “Dynassy, we’re leaving. Do you need the car? We can leave it for you, and I can catch a ride with one of the cameramen, or we can send it back for you.”

  Before I could say anything, Bridger offered, “I can give you a ride.”

  4

  Dynassy

  * * *

  I swallowed then turned to Marla. “I can get a ride with him.”

  Marla widened her eyes as if to say are you sure? This guy could be a crazy person.

  “It’s okay. I know him.”

  “Alright,” Marla said before walking away.

  It was true enough. Sal wouldn’t hire a serial killer to work for him.

  “So, I’m not a stranger?” Bridger teased.

  When he held me in his arms like that, the last thing he felt like was a stranger.

  “No,” I managed shyly. I couldn’t believe how comfortable I was around him. He and I came from different worlds, but there was something about his embrace that made me feel like it was the safest place in the world. I suspected those big strong arms that just pulled me around the dance floor could also protect me and take care of me better than any man I’d ever met.

  “Want to dance some more?” he asked.

  “Yes.” I nodded enthusiastically.

  We whirled across the floor, his hand on the small of my back guiding me, my hand on the back of his neck feeling the pulse of his muscles underneath my fingers. He smelled better than I would have dreamed, a combination of sandalwood and leather that awakened a sense of longing between my legs and made me imagine kissing his earlobe.

  But before I could summon the courage to do it, the band stopped playing, and Bridger grabbed my hand. “Ready?”

  I was ready for anything he wanted, so I mumbled, “Sure.”

  He walked me to the parking lot and stood me next to an old gray pickup truck. That didn’t surprise me, but when he opened the passenger door to the eggplant-colored Dodge Viper next to it, I was caught off guard.

  “I thought—” I started, but then tried to stop myself before I said something stupid, or worse, insulting.

  He chuckled. “That the pickup was mine?”

  I kept my mouth shut, but I smiled.

  “I get it.” Then he mumbled something about an inheritance and got behind the wheel.

  So, the mechanic, who’d been wounded in combat and was a SEAL no less, was also an heir of some sort. The better I got to know Bridger, the more I realized he was much more complicated than I’d originally thought. There was a lot more to him than that deliciously curly brown hair and those piercing green eyes.

  “Alright, Dynassy. Where do you live?”

  “Oh, I’m staying at my mom’s in Beverly Hills. I hope that’s not too far.”

  “No problem.” We settled in for the drive, and my body was completely tuned to his. Every move his hand made to shift the gears, I imagined his fingers moving up and down my back. I didn’t miss anything—not his full lips as he talked, the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed, or the tensing and relaxing of his biceps as he turned the wheel of the car.

  Often, when I spent time with people who were not in the entertainment industry, there was an awkwardness. That was completely lacking with Bridger. Being around him was as easy as if we’d known each other all our lives. And in some ways, I thought that was the key.

  My brother Nick had recently had a baby—two actually, twins—with my friend Eden, who we had known all our lives. He and Eden had spent most of their childhood around each other. We’d all been best friends and in the past year, they had reconnected, hence the resulting twins. But whenever I was around them, I realized how in love they were, and that love was based on the sort of friendship that had lasted years.

  It was as inspiring as it was depressing.

  There was no one in my life that I had known since childhood who might become a romantic partner. No childhood crushes or long-lost boyfriends to reconnect with.

  But maybe you could find something like that with someone who made you feel the way Bridger made me feel. It was, after all, pretty magical.

  My mother’s voice entered my head, reminding me that I needed to be focused on getting my career back on track. The last thing I needed was something else to complicate my life and distract me.

  Always one to talk back to my mother, I had an idea.

  Having a man who was also a veteran. What could be a better way to make America think I was sensitive to veterans’ issues than to be dating a former SEAL who’d been injured in the war?

  “So tell me what it’s like to be a veteran, to be a SEAL?”

  “Well, war is hell. I’m sure you’ve heard that before, and it’s true. I’m proud of my service, but there’s a lot of baggage that comes with it. A lot of shit you can’t unsee.”

  That wasn’t very much information. I waited for him to say something else. But before I could ask him more questions, he said, “Tell me about being a model.”

  “Well, modeling is certainly not hell, but it is harder than people think. But when you tell people that, it’s kind of like bitching about being too rich—they want to slap you.”

  Bridger laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling into tight little wrinkles. His laughter made me all warm inside, so I kept going.

  “The travel is nice, and the clothes, but it’s tiring, the sort of schedule I usually keep is kinda grueling.”

  “Yeah. Sometimes we’re our own worst enemy, us workaholics, huh?”

  “What makes you think I’m a workaholic?”

  He raised a brow. “Aren’t you?”

  I thought about it for a moment. I guess everyone in the Barnes family was a workaholic. I don’t think we know anything else. We Barnes kids had worked since we were children, and the way our mother drove our careers, I didn’t see us slowing down anytime soon. The only ones of us who might not want to work as hard were the twins. My brother Leo was more of a musician at heart than a performer. I think he would’ve enjoyed more time to sit around and create music, while Ivy was more free-spirited, and I could see her wanting to just have more time to herself to do the weird, adorable projects she was always coming up with. In fact, the twins had set their foot down, and Ivy had insisted on having the summer off so that she could stay with Nick and Eden to help with the little Junior twins, as she called them.

  “I guess you’re right.”

  “I thought so. You don’t see somebody plastered all over the magazines as much as I’ve seen you without them working their butts off.”

  It was my turn to smile. So Bridger had seen me before, but he wasn’t treating me any differently than any other girl. Hopefully a girl he liked.

  “I’ve got a question for you, if you don’t mind my asking.”

  “Not at all. Go for it.” This guy could ask me anything he wanted.

  “Where’d you get the name ‘Dynassy’? I’ve never heard that one before.”

  I rolled my eyes. “No one’s heard it before. Because my mother made it up.”

  “No kidding?”

  “No. She wanted to name me ‘Dynasty’ but she was afraid the kids at school would shorten it and nickname me ‘Nasty’ so she changed it to Dynassy. My mom’s a nut.”

  “I think it’s pretty,” he said with a smile then went back to focusing on the road.

  “Thanks.” I hoped he thought I was pretty, but he hadn’t said anything…

  When he pulled into my mother’s driveway, he stopped the car and came around to open the door for me. I extended a hand so he could help me out of the low car seat. He took me by both hands and pulled me up, and set me on my feet. Then we walked to the front door.

  When we got there, I shut my eyes and waited for the feel of his lips on mine.

  But instead, he said, “You are one gorgeous woman.”

  Usually when people told me I was beautiful I knew they meant on the surface, but there was something
about the way he said it, the tone in his voice, that made me open my eyes. I saw an earnestness there that I hadn’t seen before. Could it be that this guy really saw me, not just the superstar?

  “Thank you,” I croaked. “So are you.”

  He winked at me—the sexiest wink I’ve ever seen in my life—then he kissed me on the top of my forehead and walked back to his car.

  What? He was leaving? Without even kissing me?

  Disappointment coursed through my veins. And even though I knew I shouldn’t, I called out to him, “Bridger. You can come in if you like. You can stay.” The minute those words were out of my lips, I knew how desperate they sounded, and I felt humiliated that I’d been so forward.

  But I couldn’t help myself.

  He glanced over his shoulder and simply said, “I’ve got to go,” and got in his car.

  And with that he drove off, leaving me standing in the driveway, feeling like the biggest fool ever.

  5

  Bridger

  * * *

  The next day, when I woke up and went running, I couldn’t stop thinking about Dynassy Barnes.

  I hadn’t thought much about Dynassy Barnes after seeing her at the garage. Celebrities weren’t my thing. Their problems, their lives, seemed to exist in a different stratosphere from the rest of us. And I’d faced down more than a lifetime of real-world problems over the past four years; I couldn’t relate to people who lived in a tower so far above the rest of us.

  After I’d come back from Iraq, my body in pieces and having unwillingly left parts of myself behind on the sandy soil of a foreign land, I had needed more than surgeons, more than nurses, even more than my own mother’s help. I needed the camaraderie of being around others who were struggling with the same sorts of issues I was.

  Whether it was the loss of an arm, a leg, or in my case, physical function in the groin area, it was helpful somehow to be around other guys who’d lost part of what made them men, too.

  I was grateful to still have my legs, my sight, my arms—the things people first notice when they see you. But what I lost was something so fundamental to my identity as a man that for the first year, I was practically paralyzed with grief and depression.

  If it hadn’t been for my mother, I don’t know what I would have done. My fiancée was mildly helpful at first. But her support waned over time, and my fears of not being able to satisfy her became more and more pronounced. In some ways, I wish she had just let me down easy at the beginning, told me that she didn’t love me anymore, that she loved my best friend Dave. But she didn’t do that. I guess she was afraid that I would off myself if she added one more loss to the tally.

  Eventually she did break it off with me. But not until stringing me along for months after she’d already moved on in her heart.

  My mother, on the other hand, flew to Germany to be with me while I was in the hospital for ten surgeries overseas before I was finally shipped back to the USA to Walter Reed Memorial Hospital. She stayed there with me for months while I underwent operation after operation, one skin graft after another.

  The IED had blown up and everything from my lower abdomen to just below the knee was a bloody, mangled mess, including my pelvis. I lost some muscle in my stomach and thighs, and there was significant damage to my genitals.

  Fortunately, the structure of my penis was intact for the most part. Nerve damage was the doctors’ biggest concern, but they hoped I would eventually be able to function normally. Eight months ago, I’d finally been able to lose the catheter and go to the bathroom by myself. Such a simple thing, but something I learned not to take for granted.

  As for sexual functioning, that hasn’t happened.

  It’s a bizarre experience, because my brain is still as sexual as ever. Because of my business with Barvo, I am constantly being exposed to sexuality, but things that would normally have made me pop wood without a problem don’t do a thing for me physically. It’s weird, because even when I’m aroused in my brain, there’s no response from the little guy down there.

  It’s fucking devastating.

  But I guess it’s why I had the courage to ask a girl like Dynassy Barnes to dance. What the hell did I have to lose? Since I knew all I could do was ask her to dance, the interaction seemed simple.

  Except that halfway through our dance, I thought, hell, she’s probably wondering why she can’t feel my erection pressed against her. A girl like that probably has guys’ dicks popping up like kernels in a popcorn machine.

  But instead of being weird, dancing with Dynassy had been so different from the warped world I’d become used to over the past few years, and I loved every second of it.

  I hadn’t dated since my injury. I couldn’t bear to see the look of disappointment in the eyes of a woman when she realized I wouldn’t be able to give her what she was expecting. I knew some women would say they didn’t mind, but those types were either martyrs or the kind of women who would treat me as their special “pet project.” No way was I going to be with someone who saw me as weak, someone to be pitied.

  Nope. I’d resigned myself to being alone.

  But last night, when the music began to play and Dynassy was standing there, I just wanted to dance. There was no pressure to do more. Certainly I didn’t have to worry about the future with a girl who ran in such insanely different circle than the tiny one I’d created around myself. Oddly, it was how famous she was that made it feel safe to approach her. The ending to my flirtation with her was already written in permanent ink, so there was no need to worry about it.

  But, as we danced, as I held her, I found myself becoming more and more enchanted by her. I expected Dynassy to be snobbish, conceited. Instead, she was confident, but she was able to laugh at herself, a quality I’d always been drawn to in others.

  And I enjoyed doing something as simple as dancing. It was such a refreshing change from the down-and-dirty views I usually got from women on practically a daily basis.

  I wondered if that was what it was like for a gynecologist to go on a date with his wife. Looking at different pussies all week, then eating dinner with a woman who he’s connected with through her brain, her personality. Like when a woman says, “My eyes are up here.”

  Was I losing my mind? Of course it would be different with a doctor. He wasn’t watching all those pussies convulse as they climaxed.

  Either way, I enjoyed the respite from sex city and appreciated having an interaction with a beautiful woman that did not have to do with sex.

  Dynassy had probably thought I was crazy, leaving her like that. I mean, how many men would turn down an invitation from her?

  None, I could think of, which was why I didn’t feel so bad doing it. She might be disappointed, but she’d bounce back--probably took her all of about ten minutes. If she’d been thirsty enough, she’d be able to get a booty call in less than an hour. Even with LA traffic.

  I smiled to myself at the image of Dynassy being left hot enough after our encounter that she needed to call in someone to satisfy her. Almost made me wish I could give her one of my machines. I’d much prefer the image of that in my head to that of her being serviced by another guy.

  Fuck, I wished it was me.

  * * *

  That night I went to bed thinking about her. Those big brown eyes, that silky dark hair that I wanted to run through my fingers. Those pouty ruby-red lips I’d so wanted to kiss… My fantasies about her helped me drift off to sleep.

  I slept like a bear in hibernation. I snoozed through about seven alarms, my brain immediately coming up with excuses why I didn’t need to get up to go run, and why I could sleep later and later.

  I’d run yesterday…

  Then I began having the kind of dreams where you’re awake enough to control them, but you know the story began in full dream state. I was dreaming about Dynassy, and I greedily allowed myself the pleasure. After all, these half-waking dreams were all I was going to get, I’d might as well enjoy them to the fullest while my memory of her
was fresh.

  I recalled that model from the shoot a couple of weeks ago. The one I’d pretended for a moment was Dynassy the day we’d met. How luscious and full her body had been for that split-second she had looked like Dynassy. I pictured her, thought of what I’d like to do to her. Imagined myself approaching her in those medical stirrups, walking towards her while stroking my cock, staring at her intently, giving her a chance to anticipate me. I approached her mouth, and as soon as she licked her lips to let me know she wanted it, I let her suck on the tip.

  In my fantasy, the more I stroked myself, the harder I got and the bigger her eyes grew. “Oh Bridger, please,” she asked, and I let her swallow more of me.

  After I’d had enough of her mouth I pulled out, and she begged me to fuck her. Entering her slowly, I filled her completely, relishing every minute of it. I went slow, torturing her with the exquisite pleasure of bringing her to a climax. This time it was me and my cock and the girl I wanted more than any other, not one of our porn girls and a damn machine.

  Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong!

  Church bells began to go off. What the hell?

  Then I remembered the final alarm I’d set as a backup was church bells. I had to get up now or I’d be late for work.

  But all of a sudden, I realized that my hand was on my cock.

  And it was hard.

  I blinked several times, continuing to stroke it, scared if I stopped it would fall over limp like the flaccid son of a bitch I’d been working with for the past four years.

  But it didn’t.

  And I forgot all about work. I’d be late. If they didn’t like it, they could fire me.

  I had to keep this up.

  And I did. For almost half an hour.

  I wasn’t able to climax, and it scared the hell out of me that this could be a one-time thing. But…it had worked. My fucking penis had worked. There was hope for me after all.

  I didn’t need to get ahead of myself. Didn’t want to get my hopes up, so I qualified the achievement; maybe this would be a slow progression. Maybe it would take years. Maybe I’d still never be able to father children.