Bad Boy

by Cassie-Ann L. Miller

  I groan as I tug open the fridge to grab the milk and coffee cream. “Reese, no! No no no! The last thing I need is yet another reminder that I’m turning thirty.”

  “Vivian!” My sister throws back her head in a dramatic show of irritation. “It’s only thirty. Damn! You act like you’re washed up and worn out and saggy. You’re still hot as hell. I assure you.”

  “Can we not talk about this?”

  “Sorry, but we do have to talk about it. Because I hate when you get in this mode. Gosh, why are you so hard on yourself?"

  I sigh. I want to tell her to back off but the truth is too overwhelming, too close to the surface to conceal this time.

  "I just feel like I'm failing." I confess quietly.

  “Come on, Viv.” She knows exactly what I’m trying to say without actually having to say it.

  "Go ahead. Call me frigid, prudish, uptight. Go ahead…It’s just that, I believe that things should happen in a certain order and by a certain time, y’know? Frozen chicken should be left to defrost at room temperature for at least eighteen hours. And the garbage cans should be put out on the curb no later than 7:45 on Monday nights. And a woman should be married by twenty-seven and enjoy at least eighteen months of newly wed bliss before getting down to the task of reproduction, a process which should commence ideally during the autumnal months to ensure that childbirth occurs prior to the summer inferno so as to avoid heat stroke, excessive dehydration and general discomfort.” I pause, out of breath. “…And I'm just so very far off of that timeline."

  She gives me a challenging stare. "And who set that timeline?"

  "Reese. Please don't."

  “Don’t what?”

  “You’re patronizing me.”

  "I’m so not patro—” Her eyes narrow suddenly. “This is about mom. Isn't it?"

  My stomach clenches. The ugly truth. My fear of falling into the crippling grips of multiple sclerosis—particularly before I have a family of my own—is the root of all the major anxiety in my life. This topic is the last thing I want to broach right now. "I'm not talking about this anymore." I turn away from her, pouring milk into the metal carafe.

  "Vivian, you can't let your fear that you might get sick like mom ruin your life. It's not fair to you."

  There are tears in my eyes already. My voice sounds weak and helpless. "She was thirty when she started showing symptoms, Reese. But by that time, she had a husband and three children and so much beauty in her life. She still had a list of reasons to smile. I don’t have any of those things and it scares me."

  "Well, you don’t have any of the symptoms. That’s what you should be focusing on." Her voice goes soft as she chokes on emotion. "...Stop being cruel to yourself, Viv. You know that mom would say the same thing."

  “You don’t get it. I don’t expect you to. You’re five years younger than I am, you’re already engaged and you have a beautiful little boy at home. I don’t want to be all rotten apples but you’ve basically got everything on the list of items that I’ve been dreaming of my whole life.”

  She slams a fist on the counter. “So stop complaining and actually go out there and start ticking some of those items off your list. When was the last time you went on a date?” Her eyes narrow with mischief. “Forget that—when was the last time you had sex?”

  The words pop out of my mouth before I can stop them. “Last night.”

  Reese’s eyes become alarmingly wide. “Last night? With who?”

  I love my sister to death but we have a certain kind of relationship. There are things we just don’t share with each other. Growing up, I always considered myself one of her role models. It’s not a responsibility anyone explicitly thrust upon me. It’s just something I took on myself. And the number one rule of being a role model is ‘don’t let your mentee discover that you’ve suddenly and without warning morphed into a harlot.’

  Anyway, right now, that rule goes out the window because I’m so perfectly confused. I really need someone to talk to about this and who better to come clean to than my younger sister?

  But this means that I’ll have to start at the top and walk her through all of it, right from the beginning because she is completely in the dark. Even the other day when she contacted the clinic to find out why she wasn’t called to pick me up after my surgery, she was told that a tall guy with dark hair and tattoos took me home. She thinks it was Charlie! She literally has no idea that I’ve been spending time with Clinton.

  Time to woman up, Vivian!

  I suck in a breath. “I…uh, had sex with Clinton.”

  Okay, now Reese looks like she’s about to fall flat on her bum in shock. “Clinton?! Clinton-the-barber-next-door, Clinton?”

  Wincing, I scratch the side of my face and nod.

  She states the obvious. “But you hate Clinton.”

  “I know, I know.” I say impatiently. Except, I don’t hate him anymore. I actually like him. A lot.

  I have intense positive feelings about his penis, too.

  She stands there in shocked silence for a while, trying to absorb all this new information. Then she bursts out laughing manically. "You slimy little eel!"

  “Don’t make me feel worse about this…”

  “Sneaky, sneaky hussy!”

  “Reese!”

  Clearly on a mission to fulfill her daily entertainment quota at my expense, she disregards my plea. “Was it like you imagined? Rough and pressed up against a wall?”

  I sigh as my thighs clench impulsively. “It was rough…but not quite against a wall. It was actually on the front counter.” This is hard for me to ‘fess up to but I feel that, as part owner of the cupcake shop, my sister has a right to know.

  "On the front counter of..." Reese hooks a thumb over her shoulder, gesturing toward the front of the shop, and her voice trails off. Shock smears her face like carnival face paint. She stares at me in silent disbelief for a second and then she bursts out laughing hysterically again. “Vivian, that is by far the most scandalous thing you’ve ever done.”

  “Um, not quite…” Laughter is bubbling in my chest, too.

  She clutches her hand over her heart. “I’m not sure I can take it but I want to know anyway.”

  “I had sex with him in the storage closet at the back of his shop the next day when I went over there to tell him that I’d never have sex with him again.”

  Reese slaps her thigh and rocks back and forth as she laughs. “You’re killing me, Vivian.”

  I lean toward her, my voice low with worry and shame. “I’ve become a fiend, Reese. I don’t know how to stop myself. I had sex with him on a creaky sofa bed in his damp basement apartment last night—all night—and I got on my knees and gave him a blow job like I was trying to rescue a popsicle from a summer heat wave.”

  “Did he return the favor?” she asks, pushing tears of amusement from her face.

  I scowl. “Of course not. I wouldn’t let his face get anywhere near the property downstairs. Did you not hear me say I have a gray pube?”

  My sister folds her arms over her chest and glares at me, disappointedly. “Wait—you’re letting a gray pube come between you and your orgasms? Are you serious?”

  I angle my head to the side and mull it over. “Well when you put it like that, it just sounds silly.”

  “Because it is.”

  “Well, maybe to you. But…”

  “Viv, a single white hair does not make you unlovable or unattractive. The pubes don’t make the woman. Damn girl—you should be getting all the tongue jobs and giving all the blow jobs you can handle.”

  Right then, Sadie bursts into the room. “Did I hear someone say blow job?!”

  My cheeks blaze with mortification. How much of that did she hear? “Private conversation in progress, Sadie.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Anyway, you ladies are gonna wanna come check this out. The front awning just fell of the hinges, now it’s swinging like a ding-dong in the wind.”

  “Are you kidding me?
” I grumble. Reese and I both hurry out of the kitchen and down the hall toward the front door.

  As we’re passing by the cash register, Reese throws a disgusted look at the counter. I know exactly what she’s thinking. I try not to laugh as I whisper, “Do you forgive me for defacing our place of business with sex acts and seminal fluids?"

  She looks like she may throw up. "Really glad you got laid but let's not talk about the seminal fluids, okay hun?"

  Chapter 20

  Clinton

  As I roll into the parking lot, I see Vivian, Reese and Sadie huddled up on the sidewalk outside of the bakery’s front door. The cupcake shop’s awning is hanging on by one hinge, swaying back and forth in the brisk autumn wind. At the sound of my motorcycle, Vivian spins around gracefully and her cheeks go pink. The force of her big, black eyes on me is like a punch to the chest. I’m still not used to how pretty she is, no thanks to her unexciting choice in clothing.

  I barely take my eyes off of her as I roll to a stop and dismount my bike. Pulling my helmet off of my head, I tuck it under my arm and approach them.

  “Morning, ladies.” My gaze slips down her body and memories of last night fill my mind. The thought of her on her knees, taking my cock between those pink lips as I pulled on her thick hair. The memory of my cum rolling down between her luscious breasts. My cock turns solid, throbbing for more of her. And from the lust in her eyes as she watches me, I can tell that she wants more, too.

  “Hey Clinton,” Reese says. Her gaze moves knowingly between her sister and me. He lips slant with a wry smile. “I’m gonna finish getting set up for the day.” She grabs Sadie’s arm and takes slow steps backward toward the bakery’s door. The two giggling women disappear inside.

  Vivian runs her tongue nervously over her lips. “Hello again.”

  “Hello again.” I step up next to her and fold my arms over my chest as I look up at the wrecked awning. “What happened here?” Her eyes turn that way, too.

  She heaves a sigh. “Looks like the wind picked it up and knocked it around last night,” she says.

  “Looks like it.” My attention moves over her profile. The thick, glossy hair, the slope of her nose, the pout of her lips.

  “Of course this happens on the day when my brother and brother-in-law are out of town.” She hooks the fingers of one hand around the back of her neck. Her other hand is banded around her belly. “I’ve gotta go call someone to come fix it before a passerby reports it to the police and I end up with even more trouble on my hands.” She gives me a little smile and turns toward the bakery’s door.

  Fuck, I don’t want her to go. I want to spend more time with her. I’ve got a craving to have her close. “I can fix it,” I volunteer, hoping I don’t sound as desperate as I feel.

  With a hitched brow, she glances at me. “You can fix it?”

  I chuckle low. “Of course I can fix it.”

  “You’re not a carpenter,” she points out challengingly.

  Grunting roughly at the affront to my masculinity, I pin her with a stare. “I can fix it, Vivian.” I pull my wallet from my back pocket and flip it open. “Would you like to verify my man card?”

  Slapping my wrist away, she laughs. Such a pretty laugh. “I don’t need to verify your man card.” Her eyes move into the barbershop where Cruz is already hard at work on a buzz cut while the other customers watch sports highlights and talk trash. “You already have three people waiting in the waiting area.”

  I shrug a shoulder. “Well, they’ll wait. That’s what the waiting area is for.”

  As her giggles die down, her eyes lock with mine in a long, earnest stare. “Fine. If you can fix the awning, I’d appreciate that.”

  “Sure. Just give me a minute to grab some tools.”

  With a wide grin on my face, I leave her on the sidewalk and rush into the barbershop to grab the rusty, old toolbox in the storage closet. When I snatch up the ladder, my cock twitches as memories flood back. I see the way her eyes light up too as I lean the ladder against the side of the building. She’s definitely thinking what I’m thinking.

  Vivian stands on the sidewalk, handing me tools as I screw and hammer the awning back into place. Within half an hour, the thing is all tacked up and good to go. And the look on her face as I climb down the ladder—the fluttery eyelashes, the pink cheeks, the dreamy grin like I’m her very own personal hero—that’s what makes it worth it.

  “Thank you,” she says in a voice that’s low and sultry. She steps up close to me, so close our bodies are almost touching.

  My eyes focus on her lips. Her pretty, sexy mouth. “You’re welcome.” I’m aching all over to taste her. Last night when I tried to eat her pussy, she stopped me with vehement insistence. She probably had a bad experience with that. Probably a careless ex-boyfriend who didn’t know what he was doing when he had that pussy in his face. Sloppy motherfuckers! They ruin it for the rest of us. Anyway, I’m going to get her sitting on my face. In time.

  I’ll have all of her. Every inch. In every position. She may not realize it yet, but I have every intention of making her mine.

  “Hey…” she says hesitantly with her eyes glittering up at me as she twists her hands in front of her. “It’s my birthday on Saturday…”

  I cock a brow. “Okay, then. I’ll check my schedule. I’m sure I can pencil you in for some birthday sex if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  Giggling, she slaps me on the chest. “That’s not what I’m getting at.” She chews on her bottom lip, looking nervous. “My sister insists on taking me out to dinner with ‘friends’.” She scowls as she draws quotes around the word. “Her friends…Sounds like you’ve got a lot on your schedule. Too bad because I’d love to invite you along.” Her foot pivots left to right as she grinds the toe of her shoe into the pavement.

  “You asking me on a date, Sunflower?” Her sudden shyness is amusing. And cute.

  “Can you not make this weird please?” She’s getting redder by the second. For a traditional woman like Vivian, asking a man on a date is probably a major paradigm shift. Look at you, stepping outside of your comfort zone, Ms. Hartley. I may be an asshole, but I won’t let her off the hook so easy. Watching her squirm is quickly becoming one of my favorite things in the world.

  I inch closer. “I’ll be your date on one condition?”

  “What?” Her voice is all breathy, full of lust.

  “I get a kiss. Now.”

  She gasps softly, her eyes wide with disbelief. She glances around the street for any spectators. She stumbles a step back when her gaze hooks on the window of her cupcake shop. Her sister and Sadie are behind the counter, doing a horrible job of pretending to mind their business. Vivian fumbles with her words. “I think…I think…”

  But I don’t give a fuck who’s watching. I cup her chin in my hand and brush my lips over hers. She groans from deep down. That only stokes the fire and greed in me. Because Vivian needs a man who will take control, someone who will make her feel safe and wanted in a world where she feels so insecure. So I kiss her. I purse my lips against hers and kiss her like she’s the most beautiful woman who ever walked this earth. She is. And I don’t want her doubting it anymore.

  When I tunnel both of my hands into her perfectly crimped hair and move my lips across her cheek and down her jaw, she doesn’t fight me off. Instead, she wraps her arms around my waist and presses her body to mine. She feels so good. The tip of my tongue darts out, sliding along her sweet, long neck. If I don’t stop myself, I’ll eat her alive.

  Pulling back takes all the strength I can muster. I do it reluctantly. My pulse roars and my breathing is heavy as I lean my forehead on hers. “What time do I pick you up on Saturday night?”

  “Seven.” The wispiness in her voice makes my cock twitch.

  “Good.” I grab the ladder and tools before walking toward the door of my barbershop. “And Vivian?”

  Her expression is still hazy as she watches me. “Yes?”

  “That birth
day sex I know you want? It’ll be epic.” With a smirk etched on my mouth, I let the door swing closed behind me.

  Chapter 21

  Vivian

  I’m already waiting nervously by the door when I hear the guttural ruckus of Clinton’s motorcycle tearing down my street. He came on his motorcycle? The muscles between my thighs warm up at the thought of being on that beastly machine, my arms clinging to his waist as he cruises down the back roads at high speed. A girl can dream, right?

  Sighing blissfully, I grab my car keys from the table. I have no intention of ever giving life to that motorcycle fantasy. I’m not the kind of girl who does things like that. Especially not on a night like tonight when I’m wearing my favorite black flared vintage dress with its sweetheart neckline and its full skirt. The ride itself would kill me. I’d be crotch-to-saddle on a vibrating surface, hanging on for dear life, while inhaling lungsful of Clinton’s scent. I don’t think I’d survive that much stimulation all at once.