Badass in My Bed (Badass #1)

by Rae Lynn Blaise

“Hey, Cello Girl.” Dylan smiles, freshly shaved and changed and smoldering on my threshold.

  “Dylan. What are you doing here?” I’m surprised I don’t stutter. My heart’s certainly tripping.

  He leans against the doorjamb. “I know you probably have a million things to do before you leave town in a couple of days so I thought I’d come by and ask if you’d spend the day with me instead.”

  “You’re leading with the fact you’re inconveniencing me? That’s not the best strategy to sell yourself.” Doesn’t matter. I’m already sold, and the truth is in the smile I give him.

  He holds up a small white paper back and two takeout cups. “I also brought breakfast.”

  My stomach rumbles at the rich aroma of coffee, and I take a cup and motion for him to come in. “Hard to say no to that.” It’s impossible to say no to him period.

  From the cocky way he strides past me, I’m pretty sure he knows it. Damn, cocky looks just like sex the way he wears it.

  “I didn’t take you for a Lana fan.”

  Alannafan? “A what?” Admittedly, I was focusing more on his ass in those jeans than what he was saying.

  “That song.” He follows me into the living room.

  I point at a blue plastic tub he can sit on and take my seat again a few feet away, shutting my phone—and the music—off. “Oh. It’s something Alex sent me to listen to, but yes, I really like it.”

  He sets his cup down and digs into the bag. “Let me guess. You’ve never heard of that artist before.”

  “Well, I can’t think of other songs of hers, but her voice sounded a little familiar.”

  He shakes his head at my defensive answer and hands me a pastry. “Are you this out of touch with all of pop culture, or just the music?”

  It’s not a put-down—it’s curiosity so it’s easier to answer. It’s very easy, actually, because he’s interested in me and that… well, that’s nice. “It’s not that I mean to shut it out. I like to think of myself as an attentive person.” Glazed icing crumbles on my lips as I take a bite of the fruit-stuffed goodness.

  “You just get busy?” His eyes are on my mouth and the space between my legs feels suddenly warmer.

  I fight to focus on the conversation. “And I love playing…” I nod at my cello. “But that’s hours a day of practice, maintaining the instrument, learning the music, perfecting bowing, listening to different peoples’ interpretations of those songs I’m supposed to learn. When I’m done with that, I like it to be quiet. I don’t care about the latest reality television show or who’s marrying who in the tabloids. Entertainment becomes noise instead of information. I’d rather go out with my friends and talk about their lives than go see a movie or talk about celebrities we’ve never met and never will meet. I have goals, but they require work. I don’t expect things to fall onto my lap.” I lower my eyes hastily. Could I sound more boring and lame? Probably not.

  “You’re so different from most women I come across. In a good way,” he clarifies hastily.

  My gaze meets his, and I’m moved by the sincerity I find there. I feel myself blush. “Thanks. I don’t want much, but the things I want, I need.”

  “We’re more alike than I thought.”

  My cheeks heat further as I smile and finish my pastry.

  He balls his napkin and puts it back into the empty bag. “Confession time.”

  A mild panic flashes through me as I imagine all the horrible things he could confess. Oh, God…My gaze flicks to his left hand, searching for a ring or a tan line where a ring would be.

  He notices my stare and laughs. “I’m not married. And I don’t have a girlfriend, if you’re wondering. But I’m also not from Chicago.”

  “Oh. Well, neither am I.” I shouldn’t feel so happy that he’s single. It really doesn’t matter considering where I am in my life.

  “No, I mean I don’t live here. I’m only in town for another day or so, myself.”

  I brush crumbs from my fingertips, a distraction from how disappointed that statement makes me. Not that he doesn’t live here, but that he’s only here for another day and that I’m moving. It’s an emphasis that we’re just ships passing in the night. Though, right now it’s daytime…

  I cock my head at him. “What brings you to Chicago?”

  “Just visiting.” He tilts his head, mirroring mine. “And I need a tour guide.”

  He’s asking me to show him around. And I can’t. It’s not on my agenda. It’s not something I’d be good at. And, most importantly, it’s a bad, bad idea.

  But saying no to him… “Do you have family here who can take you?”

  “Nope. ”

  I toy with the bottom of my cup. “And you can’t ask any of your friends?”

  “To be honest, the people I know here would be into going to loud bars and things I’ve already seen.” He pauses. “Besides, I want you.”

  I feel like I’ve fallen down a flight of stairs the way my pulse speeds up and my head gets all dizzy. “I’m not the best to show you this city. I’ve barely seen much of it, myself.” I’m not even sure how I got those words out when all I’m thinking is he wants me!

  Dylan grins. “All the more reason to see a few places before you move, right?”

  He’s not wrong; it’s not the first time I’ve regretted not seeing more while I was here. But it doesn’t influence my answer. My answer was pretty much decided the minute he walked in the door, as bad as it is, as wrong as it feels. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

  His smile is lightning fast and twice as hot. “I don’t want to see my normal things either, nothing loud and crowded.”

  “That’s a deal.” I grimace exaggeratedly.

  “See? You’re perfect for this adventure.”

  “Maybe. But I don’t exactly know where that ‘perfect place’ you’re looking for is in Chicago. We’ll have to research. I could sneak you onto campus?” I’m so excited. It’s another day in alternate Rachel’s shoes, and the thought is exhilarating.

  “Let’s stay away from the usual stomping grounds.”

  “Hang on.” I text Alex. Where should I take a tourist for something they won’t forget? Something cool and different?

  Alex immediately texts me back a single word that makes me smile.

  Tilt.

  I call for a cab, and Dylan and I make our way downstairs to wait for it in the sunshine.

  Tilt’s the perfect choice and definitely not something I’d ever do by myself, but it’s the showstopper, so I tell the cab driver to take us to Millennium Park first—somewhere, I learn, neither Dylan nor I have been.

  “Isn’t that a little touristy?” Dylan slides on a pair of silver Aviator shades that hide too much of his face, reflecting too much of mine back at me.

  I hate not being able to see peoples’ eyes when I’m talking to them. Correction—I hate not seeing Dylan’s eyes. “Maybe a bit, but it’s somewhere I’ve always meant to go. I’ve heard good things about—”

  “—the Pavilion.”

  I frown at his interruption. “I was going to say the Boeing Galleries. I thought you hadn’t been there?”

  “I haven’t, but everyone’s heard of the Pavilion and its architecture.”

  I hadn’t known it was so renowned, but at least he doesn’t seem bored. “Alex told me about these statues at the galleries that looked like milk crates once. It sounds sufficiently bizarre enough to investigate.” She has been known to tease me about odd things like that, knowing I’ll never see them and wanting to get a reaction.

  He slides a hand across my thigh, stopping my breath, on the way to seizing my hand. “You are delightfully expressive.”

  A warmth crawls up my chest, and I hope the blush doesn’t look as obvious as it feels. “What can I say? I’m an open book.” That’s a lie, though, since there are things about me I can’t tell him. Things I won’t tell him.

  He smiles and turns to watch the city go by outside his window. I do the same, casually checking him out in the weak r
eflection of my window until we get there.

  A few people mill about the entrance, and we pay and make our way through the central promenade, stopping for a couple of sodas. Dylan’s thin zip-up hoodie covers most of his tattoos, but he still gets a few looks from people. Maybe he’s hiding behind the shades, rather than shutting people out. I’d hate to be stared at the way he is. Is it because of his ink? Or because he’s so damn attractive?

  Spontaneously, I take his hand, feeling a little protective of him and a little bit of kinship. Whatever it is about him that causes the stares, the judging, it’s not something he seems comfortable with. I get that. It’s the way I feel when my father parades me around at his charity benefits, as if I’m the reason to donate or support a cause.

  He looks down at our hands—even with the shades, the surprise is visible on his features. His lips quirk in a little smile, and he gives my hand a little squeeze, sending a spark through the innocent gesture.

  He’s definitely not out of my system, even after the incredible night we spent together.

  “You’re into architecture?” I ask, remembering his comment in the cab.

  “Not really, though I do appreciate good acoustics.”

  Something the pavilion is famous for, according to my brochure. “Do you go to a lot of concerts?”

  He takes a long sip of soda. “Yes. You?”

  “Not as many as I’d like.” I imagine they’re not at all the kind of concerts Dylan goes too.

  “Maybe you’ll have more time now that you’ve gotten your degree.”

  “Things are going to change, but I can’t see myself drowning in free time. Only new obligations in a new city.” Only this time, I’ll know ever fewer people.

  He swings my hand a little. “Yeah, I suppose getting to the top is only half the battle. Maintaining it is just as time consuming.”

  He glances at the plaza, a small frown appearing at the size of the crowd milling about. I’m not a fan of noisy throngs either, so I don’t try to entice him toward the Cloud Gate.

  I take my hand back, fiddling with my straw as a pretense, but mostly because I need autonomy for my next confession. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it.”

  “The time?”

  I keep my gaze on the ground in front of me. “Yeah. I’m getting something I’ve always wanted, but it sort of feels like maybe I had to give up a lot of myself to get it.”

  “A trade off.” He says it in a way that tells me he gets it. I wonder if he has something similar he can relate too or if he just is that good at making a person feel understood.

  I’m not brave enough to ask. “Yes. A trade off. I know the grass is always greener on the other side, but sometimes I wonder who I’d be if I didn’t want this so badly. Didn’t give up so many hours of my life to the dedication it takes.”

  We amble along a few more paces before he bumps his shoulder into mine. “Let’s play pretend. Let’s say you never wanted to be a musician. What would you have done?”

  “I don’t even know.”

  “You suck at this game.”

  I snort. “Okay. I like to think I’d still be doing something in the arts, but I think the exact same thing would have happened if I’d chosen any other career in the arts. So, I guess in that vein, I’d be a florist and own my own shop.”

  “Is that a metaphor? Stopping to smell the roses?” He studies me. “I could see you surrounded by flowers, arranging bouquets.”

  “Can you?” I love the way he looks at me, the way he takes everything in behind his shades. I feel it even though I can’t see it. “It would be so relaxing. How could you ever get tired of being surrounded by flowers all day? And they make people happy.”

  “You wouldn’t want to be someone famous or a doctor?”

  “Nope. I care about the music, not the glory. As for the medical profession, I can’t stand needles. See this?” I tilt my head so he can see the tiny scar on my earlobe. “Seventh grade. Brooke Cunningham’s birthday party sleepover. The other girls thought it would be cool to pierce our own ears, and I went along with it. Peer pressure. I fainted after they did one ear, and it ended up getting infected.”

  He laughs. “Obviously I’m fine with needles.”

  “Did the tattoos hurt? Machismo aside?”

  He rubs his chest through his sweater, seemingly subconsciously. “Honestly, not really. It hurts more where the skin is thin, but it kind of just feels like scratching.”

  I have a sudden wild desire to push my hands under his clothes and trace along his ink. Dig into him with my nails. To tattoo him with my touch.

  Embarrassed by the thoughts, even though he doesn’t know them, I force myself back into the game. “What would you be, if you could do anything?”

  “I’d be a doctor. Someone who makes a difference.”

  I wish I could tell him he already makes a difference. He’s made a difference to me, anyway. But that sounds trite and overly mushy. So I stay silent and just nod.

  The south gallery path is bordered with planters a couple of feet high, separating the cement from small hills covered with shrubs and trees, making it feel more private than the busier spot by the plaza entrance.

  Then I realize that I know nothing about his current career choice. “What do you do now?”

  “Nothing that makes a difference.” He’s dismissive, but I’m too curious. I’m about to push him when he points at the red and gold statue. “This is why I don’t understand art. Subjectivity doesn’t even come into it. It’s just weird.”

  We walk past a few big, smooth lumps painted with different patterns. “I can’t disagree, but I think modern art’s supposed to be a metaphor.”

  “For what?”

  “For whatever you want it to be? I’ve always thought of it as Rorschach’s in a way. Only the artist knows what they’re really meant to be about, but unless they tell us, we see what we want to see. They’re a reflection of ourselves. A way of connecting our subconscious and conscious minds.”

  “Like horoscopes.”

  Surprised, I turn to him. “You don’t believe in those either?”

  He shakes his head. “They’re too broad. Anyone could connect with the vague generalizations.”

  “That’s true. I hate astrology. I don’t like the idea of things being pre-ordained.”

  “You don’t believe in fate?”

  I shrug, hanging back until a couple with a stroller passes us. “The idea that no matter what we do, how hard we work, that everything will end up a certain way we have no control over? I hate that idea. It takes the point out of everything.”

  “You don’t think God answers prayers?”

  I chew my straw, mulling it over. “It seems like a contradiction. If things are as God wants them to be, then prayer seems silly. If God knows your heart, he should know when something’s too much for you to bear and step in when you need it, no asking required, but I’d like that over the whole ‘everything’s already set in stone’ thing.”

  “I like to think of it more like a journey with only the destination mapped out, not the route you take. We’re going to get from A to B to C, but are we going to fly? Walk? Crawl over broken glass making every bad choice along the way? I like having the freedom to get where I need to be on my own terms.”

  “That’s an interesting take. I like it.”

  “Thanks.”

  I continue mulling over what he’s said. “Maybe there’s something to be said for the destinations being more set than the details. Sometimes it certainly feels like my choices are being made for me, pulling me along like it or not. Unexpected roadblocks.”

  “Maybe they’re not roadblocks. They’re detours.” He gently spins me around.

  I swallow. “Like you and me?”

  A flock of tourists press close, noisily intruding on the moment.

  With surprising strength, Dylan hauls me up the side of one of the planters and pulls me behind a tree away from the walkway.

  “What are you doi
ng?” I pick a twig out of my hair, surprised more than off-put.

  “I just don’t want to share you.”

  My heart thuds, and I’m suddenly awkward and shy. “That’s silly. No one’s trying to steal me away. And if they do, maybe it was meant to be.” My joking fades at the look in his eyes.

  “They’d better not. I can’t stop thinking about last night, Rachel.” His voice sends heat slamming through my bones, melting me from the inside out. “I pulled you off the path to do this.”

  He presses me against the trunk of the tree and crushes his lips to mine with an urgency that makes me want to laugh in relief because he feels it too, the insane electricity that’s been charging the air between us all day. Our tongues tangle, fingers thread together, squeezing tight, mirroring my nipples’ reaction to his chest pressed against mine.

  Breathless, I break the kiss because if I don’t, I might pass out here in the shade. Immeditately, I miss the warmth of his mouth against mine.

  Dylan pulls me into a hug, surprisingly sweet after what just happened. “Come on. Let’s keep walking and see more of the weird art.”

  “I have a better idea.”

  It’s a half an hour walk, but I feel like I float the entire way there, strolling along in companionable silence with him, laughing and pointing out things that are meaningless after the fact but seem funny at the time. None of it sticks with me, except for the company and the curve of his smile, the lines of his jaw.

  The elevator is fast enough to make us laugh with the rush it gives, sending our internal organs swooping toward the floor. Over ninety floors up, shadows leave slashes of darkness that swallow strips of the pale floor. A thin haze separates the light blue sky from the city below, but the sun blazes brilliantly through the oddly shaped windows that go from floor to ceiling and then some.

  There’s no one else inside except for the operator. I hold my hands out dramatically. “Welcome to Tilt. Heard of it?”

  Dylan smirks and removes his sunglasses. “It sounds like a bad club name. Drink enough tequila and the floor—”

  “—tilts. Clever.”

  “I like how we have the place to ourselves.”

  The heat in his teal gaze gives me way too many ideas, so I take a few steps toward the window, reading from my phone as he follows. “Safely holding up to eight visitors at a time, Tilt offers unique views from one thousand feet up. It will change the way you see Chicago. Forever.”