by Amelia Wilde
Bad Boy Blues
Get Wilde #3
Amelia Wilde
Contents
Bad Boy Blues
Mailing List
Hello, hot stuff!
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
More from Yours Truly
Books by Amelia Wilde
Bad Boy Blues
I’m supposed to be over Jackson Cole. After all, I dumped him. And it wasn’t because he couldn’t handle me in the bedroom. Oh, he could handle me. I thought I wanted someone more…refined. Someone on the up-and-up.
But when he shows up at the biggest party of the year, the look in his eyes has me begging for more.
I want to be his bad girl. I want him to teach me a lesson.
Just once more.
That’s it.
After that, we’re done…
Right?
Originally Published as Always His Bad Girl in Wicked Ways: A Begging for Bad Boys Collection, a time-limited multi-author bundle.
Mailing List
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Hello, hot stuff!
Welcome to my series of sweet, dirty short stories and novellas! These are bite-sized love stories for when you need a taste of that happily-ever-after vibe. Take a moment for yourself…and, as always, enjoy!
1
Alyssa
A shiver of anticipation runs down my spine as I approach the mansion, my dress draped just so over my breasts with the help of some strategically placed double-sided tape, the thin strap of my purse light across my bare shoulder. Whoever said dressing like Marilyn Monroe is an easy Halloween choice was a complete simpleton. I’ve gone with the classic white dress—borrowed from the theater department’s costume closet—but this number is cut significantly lower in front.
Which makes it the ideal outfit to show off my assets.
The closer I get to the mansion, the clearer it becomes that this is not the sorority party I thought it might be. There isn’t a horde of frat brothers standing outside the front entrance, waiting to pick and choose their company for the evening.
My friend Jeannine, who also got an invite, puts her arm through mine and squeals. “Do you know who the Professor is?”
“The Professor?”
“He’s the one who’s hosting this party,” she gushes, peeking out at me from underneath the fake eyelashes she’s wearing as part of a frighteningly accurate Kim Kardashian costume.
Damn. I must not have been paying attention when I got the invite—what did it look like?—because I assumed this was another party thrown by the Alphas.
“Right.” The ditz act has never been my thing, but I legitimately thought this was going to be another affair with all my sisters from Delta.
Guess not.
Now my heart starts to pound against my rib cage. I was so meticulous with this costume choice because I knew it would be judged—silently and harshly—by the rest of my sisters. I’m on the verge of being voted the Harvest Queen, as long as I play everything by the book, and every move I make will be scrutinized from now until the crowning ceremony.
Except tonight. It’s like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders, which is…strange. I love being in a sorority. I do. I really do. The way I’ve changed my life is definitely for the better.
We approach the massive doors of the mansion, Jeannine giggling behind her hand, and I reach up for the massive brass knocker and let it drop.
The door swings open to reveal a party like I’ve never seen. And I’ve been in a sorority for going on two years. I’ve seen a lot of parties.
The person who opened the door turns out to be a uniformed waiter, although part of his job tonight seems to be greeting the guests. If it had been cold enough to wear a coat—which it isn’t, not in Baton Rouge—I have no doubt in my mind that he’d have taken our jackets over his arm and tucked them away in some room designated just for that purpose.
The decor makes me instantly glad that I confined my tattoos to a piece that spirals along the line of my hip—totally hidden by the costume. From the entrance hall, I can see straight into a massive ballroom, and this place is classy with a capital C—the waiters in suits moving through the crowd with trays of appetizers and champagne flutes, more of them staffing an apparently open bar, and standing tables along one half of the room.
The other half is dominated by a dance floor, presided over by a DJ who has gone the traditional route and dressed as Dracula, complete with a ridiculous accent.
“This next song will make you vant to suck—on another glass of champagne,” he says into the mic, then transitions from Ke$ha to an even-more-throbbing remix of that Mike Posner song about Ibiza.
“Drinks!” Jeannine chirps, and just then a waiter glides by with a tray of full champagne glasses. He lowers his hand so that we can both grab one, and I take a sip. Shit, it’s good. This is light-years better than anything I’ve had at…well, literally any frat party. This Professor, whoever he is, is pulling out all the stops. I’m not sure why, but I’m not sure that I care.
Because with every moment that passes, I can feel myself shedding the pressures of taking over the reins of a key sorority position.
I haven’t always been a good girl.
In fact, for most of my high school career and the first semester of college, I prided myself on being a bad girl—edgy, foulmouthed, and full-throttle.
That all changed when I became a Delta.
And sometimes—you’re not supposed to admit that life before the sorority was anything other than a slog—but sometimes I miss the hell out of that carefree, middle-fingers-up-in-the-air lifestyle that used to be mine, all mine.
Along with…
No. I can’t think about him now, otherwise all the fun will go out of the air like a popped balloon. That’s the last thing I want on this, a darkly glittering night, in this crowd stuffed with hot men—a few frat boys, but many I’ve never seen before—and women dressed to the nines, themed costumes that fit the vibe perfectly. This party is on another level.
I drink the rest of the champagne down in one gulp and throw caution to the wind. I don’t want to get too crazy, but I’m getting the sense that what happens in this house stays in this house…and something wild in me wants to take advantage of every moment.
I take Jeannine’s empty glass out of her hand and, like magic, a waiter appears next to me, holding out a tray for the glasses. The moment they’re level on its surface, he whisks it away, and I turn back to Jeannine, my face already pink with excitement.
“You know what we have to do,” I say, trying to keep my expression serious.
“What?” She cocks her head to the side, eyes wide and shining.
“Dance!”
Jeannine grabs my hand, and we plunge into the dance floor, all our cares outside with the fall weather.
2
Jackson
I’m not going to stay at this party for longer than five minut
es. Guaranteed.
I’m mostly here because my buddy Chad got an invite, then harassed me to look in my campus mailbox until I did. Lo and behold, there it was—an invitation to a party.
“This has to be a mistake,” I said, holding the weighty card in my hands. “Why would any professor want to invite me to a party?” It didn’t look like your regular college sausage fest, either. The thing was printed with deep black ink and gold highlights. Expensive. Not one of the flyers you see posted six deep on all the message boards.
“Doubt it,” Chad said, tucking his own invitation into his back pocket. “I’ve heard about this guy. Rich as fuck, and more than a little weird. You have to go.”
“To a Halloween party?”
I’m not the kind of guy who likes to play dress-up. The fact that I’m even in college is a goddamn miracle, considering that I never cared much about school—not up until the very end, when my girlfriend…
Enough about her. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that my grades were decent, even if my attitude has always been on the skeptical, take-no-prisoners side. I do what I want. Right now, I want to be in college, so I am.
But go to this party?
I don’t know.
Chad is dressed as James Bond in the one suit he has. Earlier this afternoon I went to the nearest Goodwill and picked out some clothes. Tweed pants, suspenders…I laughed at myself in the mirror, but paired with a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to show off my tattoos—which are fucking works of art—it’ll be good enough for a drive-by at this so called “exclusive event.” I found the ancient newsboy cap on the way to the register and threw it on the pile. It’s not a deerstalker, like Mr. Holmes would have worn, but it’ll be close enough.
Music thrums from inside the mansion as we approach in the dark, and my heart rate picks up. I don’t go to parties like this often. I’d rather do my own thing in the dive bars around LSU’s campus, where the women are into my tattoos and one-night stands are easy to find.
The massive doorway is closed, and there’s a giant brass knocker front and center. Chad shrugs at me, then reaches up for it and lets it drop. Instantly, the door swings open, a waiter in an honest-to-God suit stepping back to let us in.
“Well, shit,” I say with an impish grin, and then I get a load of the inside of the house.
We’re walking into a legit entrance hall, not stepping directly into some guy’s living room, and the place is loaded with fancy touches. This isn’t some McMansion with no personality—that’s obvious from a glance.
But what really catches my attention is the ballroom. It’s huge, and you can see right into it from the front doors. Half of it is littered with standing tables, and the other half is a packed dance floor, full of beautiful people.
I can’t help but smirk. Why the hell was I invited to this nonsense? There’s nobody in sight that I know, aside from Chad, and clearly everyone has taken the classy invitation as the ultimate hint and done themselves up as much as they can. How many of the women are just vapid sorority girls? Not my thing. I’ll take a girl who wants to get down and dirty over one of those vanilla clones of each other any day.
There is, however, an open bar, and the waiters circulating have a variety of food and what’s probably cheap champagne on trays. I grab a glass off one of the trays as the guy passes, heading toward the crowd with a purpose, and take a swig.
“Damn.” I stare down into the glass. “I was wrong.”
“Wrong about what?”
“This isn’t cheap swill. It’s good.”
“Told you this would be worth it.”
I hand the rest of the glass to Chad, who drains it, and then cock my head toward the bar. “Worth it? I don’t know about that. Let’s get a drink and get the hell out of here.”
“No way, man.” Chad swipes some cream puffs off another passing tray and pops one on his mouth. “Are you seeing this crowd? The women here are something else.”
I take another look, though it’s hard to see in the strobe lights, and even harder to focus over the blasting dance music, chosen for us by a DJ who’s dressed as—and I’m not shitting you—Dracula. He says something totally unintelligible in a fake Transylvanian accent into the mic, and then the song shifts into something else. But Chad is right. Most of these girls aren’t the sorority type. A few, but not all, which means this crowd is diverse in a way that I really hadn’t expected.
“Do whatever you want, bud.” I clap my hand on Chad’s shoulder and take one of the cream puffs out of his hand. It practically melts in my mouth. The top-forty bullshit spewing from the speakers is making me insane, and we’ve been here less than five minutes. I’m pretty sure I can get my fill of this place in ten. But if I were here by myself, I’d love to roam around and discover all its dirty little secrets. A mansion like this? A professor that would host this kind of party? They’ve both got to have a lot to hide.
When I turn back to tell Chad that, he’s already making a beeline for the open bar. The man has priorities. I have to respect that.
I trail after him, watching the faces of the people on the dance floor.
That’s when I see her, and my heart stops.
Alyssa.
3
Alyssa
I’m pleasantly buzzed and more than ready for another round of drinks when Jackson Cole materializes on the edge of the dance floor like the world’s sexiest ghost. His blue eyes look almost black in the white strobe lights. I’m in mid-shimmy when I see him, and my first instinct is to drop it low, and so I do, Jeannine squealing and turning around to do the same.
Holy. Shit. Jackson. Cole. He’s here, right now, at this party, with me.
I don’t want to give him any indication that I’ve seen him, but it’s probably too late for that. Stalling for time, my heart in my throat, I turn my back toward him, a circle of other girls coming into being as Jeannine and I move.
He is so sexy. He is so sexy.
I yank Jeannine close to me and shout into her ear to make myself heard over the music. “Is that Jackson Cole? Behind us?”
She turns her head in an exaggerated motion, and I could just die from how obvious she’s being, but then she turns back to me and nods, her eyes wide. “It’s totally him.” Jeannine is the one person I’ve ever told about dating Jackson Cole in high school. A lot of my sisters know that I was with the campus bad boy for the first semester, but they all applauded me when I dumped him and became a Delta instead. “Delta women do have fun,” my big sister told me on reveal night. “But we like our men to be clean cut and decent.”
It’s damn hypocritical, but I’d never say that out loud, especially not now that I’ve been in the sisterhood for two years. Fraternity brothers might have clean-cut images, but they can be even worse on the inside than the tattooed bad boys I crave.
Well…one bad boy in particular.
And he’s standing at the edge of the dance floor right now, looking at me.
One glimpse of his costume was all I needed to know that I want to rip it right off his body and go at him. I know what’ll be underneath that button down—tattoos that are a fucking work of art and abs to match. Ever since I’ve known him, Jackson Cole has been fit as hell and willing to work for it, and if his lean body and muscular arms are any indication, not much has changed in the last two years.
My mouth waters just thinking of licking the side of his face, scruffy with stubble—not a full beard, just rough enough to let you know he’s there, just how I like it. And my pussy clenches when, hard on the heels of that fantasy, comes the memory of how dominating he was, even fresh out of high school, and how much I loved being under his control. I was his dirty girl, and I loved every moment of it.
I keep dancing, furiously, but my chest is turning over.
If I talk to Jackson right now, there’s a good chance that I won’t be able to resist jumping him. And I’m…well, I’m not taken yet, but I will be. The Harvest Queen always, without exception, dates the Harve
st King, beginning at the festivities and sometimes continuing on straight to marriage. It’s no fucking joke. Former Harvest King/Queen pairs from Alpha and Delta are busy posting baby announcements on Facebook today. Word around the house is that Tyler Ashworth is going to be the Harvest King.
There’s nothing wrong with Tyler Ashworth, it’s just that my stomach clenches when I think about having to be with him for anything longer than an evening event. He’s handsome, sure, with dark eyes and dark hair and a nice body, but there’s something indescribably boring about him, at the same time that he’s just a little slimy, a little fake.
I’m not interested.
But I don’t have much of a choice.
“Fuck that,” I say out loud, and Jeannine dances back over.
“What did you say?” she shouts.
“Nothing.”
The truth is that I want to talk to Jackson Cole. I at least want to tell him that I’m sorry for dumping his ass like a total bitch back in freshman year. Because the more time that goes by, the sorrier I am…and I can’t admit it to anyone.
Except him. Except tonight.
Tonight is my one chance before all the Harvest Queen shit is scheduled to begin, and it’s not like our paths cross much on campus, so I’m going to have to seize the moment.
I look down at my dress and make sure my boobs aren’t completely hanging out. Thanks, double-sided tape?