Bad for Her

by Christi Barth

  His lips curled up at the corners. One eyebrow arched. Smugness rolled off him like fog off the ocean. As did interest. But Rafe played it cool. Played along. “About what?”

  “I’ll be mulling my review of tonight. While the Maguires are getting their drink on at the Gorse tomorrow night, I’ve got my very sacred biweekly girls’ night. I need to figure out what kind of a grade to give you.”

  “I’ll bet you’re a grade obsessed overachiever.”

  She was noticing that he liked to classify things. “Rafe, I was in colleges and med school for about a billion years. You don’t get through without worrying about grades.”

  “I never did. Found a way to work around boring things like tests and studying.” He stepped closer. Put one hand up on the column above her head, giving the impression she was boxed in. Not that Mollie wanted to go anywhere right now. “For example, how do you feel about giving extra credit for life skills?”

  A shiver of excitement danced along her nerves like a hot breeze. No, Mollie needed to self-diagnose properly. It was pure lust. “I’m open to the possibility.”

  Rafe put his thumb and forefinger on her chin, tilting her head a bare inch up. Her eyelids shut, and her lips parted in anticipation. Every sense revved hot—Mollie felt the sharp corner of the column against her shoulder blade. Heard the crickets’ constant chirping layered below the hollow hoots of an owl. Smelled the fresh layer of cedar chips Gran had laid out in the garden this week.

  But no kiss. Mollie’s eyes popped back open. Yep, Rafe was right there, face shrouded in darkness, all hard planes and shadows. Aka soooo darn tingle-inducing. “Did you get lost on the way to my lips?”

  “Sometimes it’s about the journey, not the destination.” The hand holding her chin moved to push a strand of hair behind her ear. But he did it in super slo-mo. The rough drag of his calloused skin up her cheek, across her cheekbone, brought goose bumps to the surface. When his fingertip barely grazed over the top of her ear, another set of goose bumps formed, this time inside her body.

  Mollie knew it wasn’t medically possible. She also knew what she felt. What Rafe made her feel. A sigh slipped between her lips.

  Then Rafe squeezed her hip. It was a firm squeeze that wrapped his big hand around to the top of her butt. One that made her realize just how large in spread and length his fingers really were. He began an excruciatingly slow glide up her rib cage. Halfway, he flipped his hand over. So just the back of his knuckles glanced along the side of her breast.

  It was enough.

  It was more than enough. Mollie’s eyes fluttered shut again in sheer pleasure. Rafe could take all the time he wanted if it was going to feel this bone-meltingly good. She reached out and got a handful of his shirt. Not so much because she needed to anchor herself (although she did, truth be told), but because she needed to touch him, too. To feel the breadth of his body beneath her fingers.

  So Mollie stretched her fingers and stroked past his scapula, over as much of that ridged, taut-as-rebar trapezius as she could get to. Rafe’s muscles were spectacular. As a physician, it was a fact. As a woman, he was a fantasy come true.

  Another gentle pull on her ponytail tipped her head to the side. Finally, Rafe bent his neck to bring his head down to the crook right where her carotid pulse throbbed hard just beneath her skin. Lips and tongue danced in a triple step over her throat. Mollie dug her fingers into his back.

  A loud squeak of the front door barely registered before Jesse’s voice did. “Hey. Quit with the vampire action on my cousin.”

  If the column hadn’t been behind her, Mollie probably would’ve stumbled backward in surprise. Not that he’d caught her making out. Surprise that Jesse was actually trying to watch out for her.

  Rafe straightened the neckline of her dress before stepping back, hands up. “Just saying good night. No actual vein puncturing occurred.”

  Mollie giggled.

  “Good.” Jesse banged out the screen door, hands fisted on his hips in what he probably saw as an attempt to look . . . scarier? Bigger? More menacing? She loved him for the attempt. “I’m Jesse Vickers. Mollie’s cousin.”

  “Rafe Maguire.” He strode forward, hand extended, and gave Jesse a couple of hard pumps. Rafe played it straight, as respectful as if Jesse were fully grown. Guess he did know how to deal with teenagers. “I heard a lot about you tonight.”

  Just like that, Jesse’s whole attempt to look like an adult faded away. His shoulders hunched, his head drooped, and his expression turned into his usual why is the world against me sullenness. “Geez, no. What did you tell him, Moll? Can’t there be one person in this whole town who doesn’t know I got kicked out of school?”

  “You just shared that little nugget all by yourself, Mr. Suave.” Mollie poked him in the stomach.

  Mollie sure dodged that bullet. Impressive how she backfired the blame onto Jesse without revealing that she’d spilled his secret earlier. Better for the kid to take responsibility for it himself.

  Rafe spread his hands, palms up, at waist level. “She said you’re new here, just like me. That you’d maybe have some time to do me a favor.”

  “What kind of a favor?” Skepticism and the usual teenage disinterest made Jesse’s tone blander than hospital cafeteria custard.

  “I’m the mechanic over at Wick’s Garage. We need some part-time help. No experience required. I’ll teach you everything you need to know. If you could come over after school a couple of days a week, and a weekend here and there, I’d appreciate it. The owner had a heart attack, and we’re backed up with work.”

  Ohhhh, Rafe was good. Smooth. Mollie had to hand it to him.

  “Would I get paid?”

  “Not enough to put away for a car of your own. Probably enough to go nuts on iTunes once a week and get a new Xbox game every so often.”

  Jesse straightened. Leaned his whole body toward Mollie. “Would I get to keep the money?”

  Aha. He was putting the pieces together. “Ultimately, yes. But only after you hand over all the money Gran and I fronted to pay back the shopkeepers you stole from.”

  “I knew it. This is a punishment, isn’t it? Like being grounded, but with hard work?”

  Before Mollie could try and reason/negotiate/finagle/plead with him to see the upside to a job, Rafe stepped in. Literally. He took the three steps to the top of the porch to tower over Jesse. Then he crossed his arms over his wide chest.

  “It’s not a punishment. It’s a second chance. A chance to show your family that you can be trusted. That you’re responsible. I’ve had a few of these myself. When someone gives you a second chance? That’s a freaking gift. It’ll be the first step to showing your maturity if you’re smart enough to take it.”

  Jesse looked back and forth between them a couple of times. Mollie held her breath. The job offer was all Rafe’s—his idea and his burden to bear. She wouldn’t interfere. Finally, Jesse jammed his hands into his jeans pockets. “Okay.”

  “Okay, what?” Even in the dim porch light, it was easy to tell that Rafe was staring him down. Waiting for more. And that he wouldn’t accept anything less than the proper answer.

  After taking a big sigh, her cousin took his hands right back out. He extended one to Rafe. “Okay, I’ll be happy to take the job. And thank you for giving me the opportunity.” They shook on it.

  “What else?” Rafe prompted.

  Jesse turned to Mollie. “Thanks for letting me do this. I guess, in the long run, it’ll be better than just being grounded.” He surprised her with a fast side hug, then went inside.

  “Well done.”

  “Don’t jinx it. We had one conversation. In front of a family member he loves and respects. When he walks into the garage on Monday, there’s no telling how things will go.”

  “Keep your expectations low,” she warned.

  “This, from the glass-half-full woman?”

  “I try to see the good in everyone. That doesn’t mean that I turn a blind eye to the bad parts.�
��

  “Speaking of eyes, I’d bet you another dinner at the Gorse that your cousin has his eyes glued to whatever crack you’ve got in your blinds.” He went back down the steps.

  Rafe was undoubtedly right. That meant their night had to be at an end. Mollie looked at her watch. She’d planned to wrap it up at a decent hour anyway, since she had to be at the hospital early. “You got me home before I turned into a pumpkin,” she joked.

  “Fat chance.” Rafe snagged her by the waist and lifted her against his chest with just the one arm. “You’re definitely the kind and beautiful princess in this story.” He kissed her, hard and fast, and then set her back down. “G’night, Doc.”

  That compliment caught her totally off guard.

  Mollie stared as he walked off into the darkness. Their can-we-be-friends test dinner had gone . . . well.

  So well, that it rivaled a lot of actual dates that she’d had. Which concerned her more than a little. But that was a worry for another night, when her lips weren’t still tender and warm from his.

  Add a very fun dinner to the stellar kissing and masterful handling of her cousin, and Rafe Maguire had just earned himself an A+ for the night.

  She couldn’t wait to see what his next move would be.

  Chapter 5

  Coquille Point, 11:45 p.m.

  Mood on the beach—still horny as hell

  Rafe knew three ways to deal with stress. Screw it off, drink it off, or run it off.

  Options one and two were out.

  His erection had never fully subsided since Mollie slammed out of her front door earlier that night. If he could screw her, if he was inside her right now, everything would be fine. Instead, he felt like his skin was three sizes too small. His dick felt four sizes too big. All of his stress came from the fact that they weren’t naked and sweaty together.

  Because he wanted this woman with an intensity Rafe couldn’t explain.

  Couldn’t ignore, either.

  If he drank at the Gorse, Flynn would shoot him the same mocking looks he’d thrown all during their dinner. If he drank at home, Kellan would tease the living shit out of him for having blue balls so bad they’d sent him straight into a bottle. Then he’d be forced to beat up the little shit, and that’d make for more stress.

  So he’d thrown on sweats and a hoodie and hit the beach. Which was weird at night. Spooky. Having that unease hang over him didn’t fit Rafe one damn bit. He used to run the streets of Chicago at three in the morning. He knew the slap of rubber against concrete. The stale tang of spilled beer on the sidewalk. The way shadows flickered at the edge of an alley if someone was dumb enough to try and jump him. The squeal of tires and skitter of rats and harsh stench of whatever the homeless and meth heads burned in trash cans to stay warm. There was a comfort to his world. Rafe was never on edge while running. He owned those streets, and they calmed him.

  Now? To himself—and nobody else, ever—he’d admit the truth.

  The beach at night freaked him the fuck out. Rafe was a city guy, through and through. He didn’t know the outdoors. Didn’t know how to reason with it or coerce it and he damn well didn’t trust it.

  He ran at the water’s edge where the sand was packed flat. It crunched underfoot, almost like snow. The surf hissed as it advanced and retreated with every three steps. Fog—mist?—hung at kneecap level, swirling around him like short ghost farts. And the whole damn ocean was to his left. Dark. Loud. Unknowable. Anything could lurch out of it and swallow him whole. Or worse, gnaw on him for a while as he drowned.

  Yeah, it was time to pick up the pace. He wouldn’t quit. Wouldn’t let the great outdoors send him running indoors screaming like a girl. And he sure as hell wouldn’t text Delaney and offer her five hundred dollars to move them to a city. A real city. A city where the only noise came from traffic and drunks.

  But he would run faster. Give up on trying to de-stress and just run his normal three miles and call it a win. All this new-to-him nature stuff would take some getting used to. Like how running on sand made his calves burn with the added effort. Which just pissed Rafe off more. Nature wouldn’t beat him. It could try to beat him down, but it wouldn’t win. Nobody beat Rafe Maguire.

  “Hey, stranger.”

  Rafe did not scream. Another win for the night. He did, however, slam on the brakes and drop into a fighting crouch, weight forward and ready to whale on the dark shadow materializing around a giant-ass rock formation. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Does it matter? Seeing as how you don’t know anyone in town? I could tell you I’m General David Petraeus and you’d have to believe me.”

  Rafe unclenched his fists, let them fall to his sides. The man in the ball cap and fatigues moved stiffly, favoring one side. Plus, he looked to be over sixty. Overall, way easier to handle than potential ocean monsters on the attack.

  “Being new in town doesn’t make me an idiot. Petraeus? He was the one in that sex scandal who had to resign from leading the CIA. You’re not him.”

  It wasn’t that Rafe watched the news all that often. But when the FBI took credit for bringing down the director of their crosstown rival, agents talked about it. FBI agents, marshals, cops all talked about it, even a handful of years later. And Rafe had spent a god-awful amount of time in planes and cars and boring-ass rooms with all of the above for the past six months.

  The man limped closer. Lifted the brim of his cap to give Rafe an assessing look. “You just might be worth my time to get to know.”

  Skulking beachcomber weirdo.

  At least, that’s what Rafe wanted to say. But Delaney’s dire threats circled in his head. Fit in. Make friends. Play nice.

  Or get yanked. Because apparently his and Flynn’s testimony against McGinty was only worth so much money, time, and effort to the government. They were almost at that limit. There was no way in hell he’d let her just yank Kellan out of the program. The Maguires were a package deal—exactly as he’d said to her from day one. Staying with his brothers, well, and staying alive, was all that mattered.

  They’d lose the legit credentials, lose the sweet monthly check, lose the house, lose the jobs. And without the protection of the feds, it wasn’t too much of a stretch to assume he and his brothers would lose their lives soon after.

  Trying to appear friendly, Rafe pocketed his hands in his hoodie. “Don’t make a snap judgment based on my general trivia knowledge. But if you need a real reason to get to know me, I do mix one hell of a Horse’s Neck with a Kick.”

  The nameless guy grimaced. “Is that a drink? Or a boxing combination?”

  “It’ll knock you out either way. But it’s a drink. Old school.”

  The kind of old-school cocktail you got served in Chicago’s legendary steakhouses. The kind your boss mixed you when he made you his second in command, in front of all his lieutenants. The boss who’d stepped in, acted like a father when your own was killed.

  It was the one drink that always sprang immediately to mind . . . but Rafe wouldn’t touch again with a ten-foot pole. Now it’d taste of nothing but betrayal.

  Mad that he’d brought it up, that he’d let it slip back into his consciousness, Rafe hurried through the explanation. “It’s got bourbon, bitters, ginger ale. Then you spiral the entire rind of a lemon into the glass and hang it over the rim.”

  “That’ll put hair on your chest.”

  With a shrug, Rafe said, “You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.”

  The old guy barked out a half laugh that turned into more of a wheeze. Then, a cough wracked his thin frame. Finally, he got out, “Damned fog. Keeps my lungs wet. The beach is no good for me.”

  Rafe knew the feeling. He doubted he’d be comfortable with the beach anytime soon. Of course, Rafe also knew that he’d be out here every damn night, trying to conquer it. Damned if he’d live with any shred of weakness. Weakness equaled danger. “Then why are you out here?”

  “I’m patrolling.”

  “For what?” Rafe shook his head. �
��No. Back up. Who are you?”

  He’d need the man’s name for when he described the old coot to Flynn and Kellan.

  He drew himself up ramrod straight. Tossed off a salute crisper than a potato chip. “Colonel Mick O’Keefe, USMC retired.”

  “Retired how long?”

  “Too long,” he snapped out. Then hacked a couple of more times, clutching at his chest.

  That big rock thing would protect the colonel from the brunt of the damp wind. Rafe slowly eased toward it, hoping he’d follow. “Don’t bite my head off. You’re the one who ambushed me in the pitch dark. I’m being polite as hell over here.”

  “That’s an effort for you, is it?”

  Rafe leaned back against what had to be seven feet of mounded granite. Crossed his arms and sighed. “You have no idea.”

  Laughing again—but not coughing this time—the older man joined him on the leeward side. “Don’t feel like you need to spit polish your manners on my account.”

  “Good to know, Colonel.”

  After a brief hesitation, he extended a hand. “It’s Mick.”

  “Nice to meet you.” Rafe wasn’t annoyed anymore. Just pissed that he almost defended himself right into getting drop-kicked from the program. He didn’t want it to happen again. And if he wouldn’t cede this beach to whatever sea monsters lurked, he sure as hell wasn’t ceding it to some gimpy old-timer. So he’d just issue a warning. Pull the punch, as it were. “Next time, don’t sneak up on me, Mick. It’s a good way to get yourself clocked in the eye.”

  With a shoulder bump, he settled onto the rock next to Rafe. “I would’ve accepted that challenge ten years ago.”

  “Ten years wouldn’t have mattered. You still would’ve walked away with a shiner.”

  “Cocky bastard, aren’t you?”

  “No. Not one damn bit.” Because cockiness could get you killed faster than drinking bleach. Or a one-way ticket to jail. Rafe honestly wasn’t sure which would be worse. He did know that he got up every morning and did everything in his power to avoid both possibilities. “Just dead certain of my abilities.”