I Need A Bad Boy: A Collection of Bad Boy Romances

by Sophie Brooks

  CHAPTER 7

  VICKI SAT across from me, handling her dinner with unusual restraint. Our past and long-lasting acquaintance led me to expect her to treat everything – with the possible exception of soup – as finger food. She would have disposed of her crab cake with unbridled enthusiasm, picking it up in her long, manicured fingernails. Now she was cutting it up with a fork and a knife. I watched her handle the utensils with awkward determination, chasing down the last lump of crabmeat just so she could dip it in the green pesto sauce.

  "These crab cakes are the best effin’ crab cakes I've ever had, Eve." She had said effin’ instead of using her ubiquitous f-bomb. My curiosity was piqued.

  "Vicki. Why aren't you eating with your fingers like always?"

  She was silent for a while as she continued chasing the lump of crab across her plate.

  “We all had this client appreciation banquet. Did he do that when you were there?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. An annual shin-dig to encourage existing clients to give us referrals to their friends and colleagues.”

  She gave up in frustration, picking up the desired morsel with her long, red nails and popped it into her plump mouth.

  “I felt like such a redneck cow, y’know? I sat right across from him and… I dunno, he’s just so refined. It’s like, everything he does, every single motion, has a purpose. It’s perfect.”

  Her brown eyes acquired a dreamy expression as she leaned against the back of her bar stool.

  “What’s perfect?” I asked, trying not to show my irritation.

  “…He is…” She took a swig of her beer straight out of the bottle and flipped her shiny, vermillion hair over her shoulder, letting her spider tattoo peek from under her ear. “Every single thing he does is just so. And he looks perfect, too. His hair is just shoulder-length and smooth and shiny – and he smells like fresh air, didya know? He had to lean over me to take a look at my screen today, and his hair fell forward and brushed my cheek…”

  My irritation gave over to amusement as Vicki slumped in her stool, head thrown back in abandon, her eyes rolling back. My snicker gave me away – she sat up and pierced me with a defensive look.

  "Well for your information, he says I have a lot of potential. He says I'll get to interact with clients pretty soon, so I have to make sure I’m up to the task and take care of those ‘rough edges’ my grandma has been complaining about as long as I can remember."

  She hadn’t mentioned who "he" was in her diatribe, and there was no need. My best friend was crushing on my former boss, and if she said another "He says…", I was going to explode.

  My frustration level knew no bounds. Here we were, on a Friday night, having our customary drinks and a small dinner in order to unwind and bitch about life, but Vicki was wasting our girls' night out on singing praises to my former boss, Cold-Fish-Wilson. Meanwhile, I’d been sweating out the remainder of this week without a single contact from her former boss and sex-idol extraordinaire, Raf Rinaldi.

  "I'll catch up with you. When you least expect it."

  I sighed and sipped a bit of my pale ale, enjoying the way its heady hops filled my nose with a citrusy bouquet. I loved beer. I knew beer. It was familiar and refreshing and relaxing – and a lot more predictable than, say, a martini. In moderation, of course. A climber my size can’t have more than three or so a week without having to haul all those extra beers up the rock face.

  Vicki honed in on my change of mood, redirecting her focus onto her own former boss.

  "So what are you gonna do about him?" She asked before she maneuvered a fork full of French-fries into her plump mouth. "I mean, won't you try and find out if he's still interested?"

  "He's pissed about the safe." Oops, that slipped out all by itself.

  "What safe?"

  Now, the bad news is, the cat was out of the bag. The good news was, there were many cats in my bag and only one escaped.

  "He has a safe at his place and I snooped."

  "He left it open?" Vicki frowned.

  "No. I cracked it open! Of course he won't be leaving his safe open."

  "You did?" Vicki squealed, amazed. Her cinnamon eyes lit up with the excitement of adventure. "Super! When did you learn how to do that?"

  "I was born knowing," I said in a flat, nonchalant voice. She rolled her eyes and pulled on her beer again. Unlike me, she could drink as much as she wanted to, without any apparent ill effect on either her coordination or her figure.

  "So…what was in it?" Her eyes shone with eagerness – after all, Rinaldi was the asshole who fired her and she wanted some dirt.

  "I can't tell you that. Nothing bad, though. It's just, I snooped and I'm being punished."

  "You didn't take anything, did you?" The words spilled out of her mouth fast and it occurred to me that my friend probably knew me a lot better than I gave her credit for. I saw her frown again, reaching for her overpriced Czechvar lager.

  "Nothing except the black silk boxer shorts he put on me the night before," I grinned.

  "Oh, tell!"

  MY SECRET was too juicy to bear. After all, how often does one get as thoroughly embarrassed as I have? Resigned, I gestured for our second round and the story spilled out of me like beans out of a broken bag. Now, I edited the facts a bit as I went along, seeing no need to enlighten my best friend about my addiction to outright burglary. I told her just the good parts. She sat there transfixed, her expression incredulous. Her hair spilled down her in shoulders in rivulets, the way "he" liked it – as indicated by an offhand comment he probably didn’t even remember making - as she leaned back, wide eyed and motionless.

  "You used your mountain-climbing skills to break into his bedroom to deliver a report." It wasn't a question. Her eyes were wide and shiny as she hung on my every word.

  "Yeah."

  "Why?"

  "Let's not go there. Anyway…" I continued with my sordid tale of embarrassment and high adventure. By the end of it all, my best friend and drinking buddy sat across the round table, now leaning forward in her high stool with her elbows planted on its scarred, wooden surface, eyes ready to pop out of her head. I finished my story of waking up all alone, my laundry done and rope retrieved – and the last phone call to Rinaldi, including his incensed reaction to my lack of restraint and spying.

  “So that’s what happened,” I ended it in a measured tone, finishing my beer. She set her bottle down with a clank and burst out laughing, tears of mirth flowed down her high-boned cheeks.

  "Shit, Evelyn. I would've died."

  "I almost did – especially when I woke up wearing nothing but his underwear."

  Vicki finished her second beer. "My question stands, Eve. What next?"

  I'D GONE to see Mr. Wilson earlier that week and, true to his word, once he raked me over hot coals for "poaching" BW&B from him, he said he had a client for me. I've since met this new client, Mr. Novack, who had been trying to take his bakery even further and diversify into light lunch items. His latest novelty, the trending Parisian crepes, were slathered with Nutella and garnished with sliced strawberries. As soon as we shook hands, he served me one to taste-test and I thought they were positively addictive. He fed me several more samples to convince me of their virtue, and we proceeded to formulate an advertising strategy.

  Mr. Novack had been kind enough to send me home with a whole plateful of them. Now, after the extra beer with Vicki a few days before, and a plateful of crepes at his bakery, there was no way I was keeping this loaded calorie-bomb to myself, no matter how sinfully delicious it tasted. I needed to share them around – it was the only way, because throwing them out was out of the question. That would have been a sin. I called Rafael.

  "Yeah," he said, answering his phone.

  "You home?"

  "No. Stayin' late. There's a big push, we have some regulatory requirements we need to fulfill." His voice was an irritated growl.

  "Sorry about that. I'll call later."

  He hung up on me.

&nb
sp; Again.

  Now granted, he was in full-blown work-mode, but I still didn't like being ignored with such high-handed arrogance. Vicki wouldn't have done that, not even if she were snowed under with paperwork. Wilson? Depending. Wilson was good about returning calls, unlike Rafael. I had to get the handsome menace's attention again…somehow.

  HALF AN HOUR later I was in Rafael's apartment. It had become easy, actually, as long as I decided not to use the dramatic window entrance. Why hang off a building with a plateful of crepes when you can pick the locks?

  I locked after myself, put the crepes into his half-empty refrigerator, and put a big sign on the fridge itself:

  "Heat to room temperature before serving."

  I stood there, debating whether to sign it or not. If I signed it, I would sound needy. If I didn't, he might not even notice.

  Not wanting to sound needy, I stuck with the mystery of anonymity. Instead, I wandered into Rafael's bedroom and unlocked his window for next time. The room was meticulously tidy, and the bathroom still emanated a faint hint of his aftershave. I walked in and inhaled, keeping my memories of having prayed to the porcelain goddess there on the floor at bay. Yep, the air smelled almost like him. Not quite, though. It lacked that undertone of musk I found so compelling.

  Now I was at war with myself – I wasn't much into perfumes, and I've certainly never tried men’s aftershave. If you're a burglar, you need to keep a low profile and I've heard of a guy who was caught based on his powerful scent trail. I liked the stuff all right, in moderation, but I've never been brave enough to apply much scent to my body. Maybe just this one time, though…

  Disembodied, I watched my right hand reach out toward the mirror-covered cabinet above the sink and open the door. Slender fingers grasped a small, blue vial and spritzed just a bit at my hands and patted my cheeks, just as I've seen other men do it in television commercials. The scent hit my nostrils with unexpected force and I woke up to the consequences my actions.

  Damn.

  I had had plans for that night – there was this coin collector who kept his collection in an off-brand safe and he was going to be at a dinner party tonight – and now I reeked to high heaven. I couldn't go out smelling like that, and not even a shower would entirely fix it. The scent just had to wear off all by itself. The coin job had already been blown. Rafael was unavailable, and the only activity available left was honest work: I'd spend the night compiling advertisement campaign proposals.

  A wave of ennui washed over me. My life was just so…boring.

  I sighed, sorry for myself, when my eyes fell onto Rafael's perfectly made bed. I kicked my shoes off and dove onto the tight bed cover.

  So comfortable. Not too hard and not too soft, but just right.

  I fished a pillow from underneath the bedspread and mugged it for comfort, and to my utter delight and amazement, this particular pillow smelled exactly like the man of my dreams.

  Oh God.

  I buried my nose into it and inhaled, and there it was. The musky, warm, comforting smell of Raf with an edge of unidentifiable danger to it, plus my fresh application of his aftershave. My eyes rolled in my head as I wiggled my hips into his bedding, breathing deeply. That man smelled like pure heaven.

  I WOKE UP, alarmed that I'd actually fallen asleep. Two hours had passed. Two hours! I had to get out of there. I leapt off the bed and stumbled into his closet, realizing my navigational error only when his dark, soft suits met my eye… and my nose… and my hands. I heard a moan cut through the silence of Rafael’s apartment – it must have been me. The closet was orderly and there was a dirty laundry hamper on the floor, right by my feet. It was half-full and…

  Oh God.

  I was torn, my pride and self-esteem at war with the promise of the delights below. The promise of sensual stimulus won: I just loved the smell of Rafael's dirty laundry.

  It had the musk and the cologne, sure, and that mysterious edge of danger, but it also had clean workout sweat and the whole mess had had a chance to ripen for two or three days and its odor wafted up, right toward my quivering nostrils. Before I knew it the hamper was spilled on the floor before me, black silk shorts mingling with workout clothes, shirts and undershirts.

  I touched the garments with reverence, my fingers supple and soft just as my other parts warmed with unexpected heat. It was so tempting to purloin another pair of those sensuous, silk shorts, but they were expensive and besides, I already had a pair from last time – and that was not returnable, because I took it in to make the waist fit better. He'd need his dress shirt and it would be ridiculously big on me anyway…

  Dejected, I was piling the clothes back into their receptacle when my eyes fell upon an old, ratty t-shirt. It was light blue and looked torn and abused and the silhouette of Mt. Whitney was almost washed off its front. The thing was a wreck; he'd never miss it. I lifted it up. It reeked of Rafael. Before I knew it, I had it rolled up and stuffed inside the waistband of my jeans, the laundry was back in the closet, and I was out the door. He'd be home any minute. I only wanted to remind him of my existence – letting him walk in on me while I was huffing his laundry pile would have been a severe overkill.

  SATURDAY afternoon had come and gone, rolling into evening and I still hadn't heard from that infuriating, obstinate man. I didn't want to go out, didn't want to watch a movie or hang out online; I wanted Raf and nothing else would do.

  Pathetic.

  "Hey Evelyn," Vicki called me later that night. "I got the most unusual phone call."

  "Yeah?" I was parading around my small apartment in a pair of black, silk shorts and a ratty, light-blue t-shirt that was at least two sizes too large. Phone stuck to my ear, I continued straightening up those odds and ends that tend to accumulate over a period of several days.

  "Yeah. Rinaldi called. He wanted to ask some personal questions about you."

  "Oh yeah?" I perked up immediately. "Like what?"

  "I can't tell you that." She giggled. "Oh, nothing harmful, don't worry too much. It's just, if I told him about you, he'd tell me about Honore. Apparently they went to school together."

  My heart sank. "Vicki! Did you sell me out?"

  "No, you pathetic, silly goose, I'm giving you a heads-up. Why'd he ask about you if he’d lost interest, right?"

  We talked some more: me, trying to pull critical information out of Vicki, her, working hard not to let anything slip. She succeeded; I failed.

  RESIGNED to my fate of earning my living through honest work, I poured myself a tall glass of water with a slice of lemon and navigated it over to my laptop. The Novack proposal was beginning to look good; he wanted to target novelty seekers and the lunch crowd. For his crepes, he'd do best to advertise with the Francophiles in the area. Over the next two hours I compiled an exhaustive list of French teachers, as well as local schools and translation agencies and I was about to get started on the travel agencies, my lemon water on its second refill, when I picked up a suspicious noise from my front door.

  Somebody was trying to pick my lock.

  Oh God.

  Karma was out to get me in this life instead of the next. Payback was imminent. I tiptoed to the door, grabbed my old baseball bat off the coat rack and listened to the burglar's effort from the other side. I snickered – what a bumbler. Really, my locks were pretty average. I saw no need to draw attention to myself by indulging in high-tech security. A peek out my peephole didn't show anything, since whoever was trying to burgle me was either bent over, or kneeling on the floor. I was just about to call them on their incompetence and laugh in their face when I heard the tumblers align and fall in place, and the door swung open.

  I jumped back, the baseball bat at the ready on my shoulder.

  I crouched behind the opened door, waiting to see who it was so I could whack them a good one for their trouble.

  Tall, brown hair…

  "Rafael?" My voice squeaked as I stopped the bat in mid-swing and he turned, startled. His eyes widened at the sight of the
weapon.

  Then I saw him relax and push the bat down with his long arm.

  "Hey, Pearson. Should I also greet you with a baseball bat?"

  I cleared my throat. "As I recall, you greeted me with a gun and tied me to a chair."

  "I guess turn-about is fair play." He shrugged, sauntered over to the dining nook right off the kitchen and set a brown paper bag on the table.

  I shut the door behind him, turned the lock, and hung the baseball bat back in its place on the coat rack.

  "Why… why didn't you call first?" Being fair-minded, I didn't ask him why he didn't knock. He had never heard me knock, so I figured it would have been hypocritical of me to expect that level of courtesy.

  "Why should I call?" He asked. "You never do."

  "Actually I always call before I break in to make sure nobody's there. Then I knock for good measure. That one time you were asleep. Your phone must have been turned off."

  His eyes glanced at the laptop on the coffee table. "You busy?"

  "Yeah. Well… sort of. I can finish later."

  He moved behind me while I sat down to save my document, and held my hands in place as he peered at the screen.

  "Hey, that's private client information!" If there’s anything I absolutely hate, it’s people peeking at my screen over my shoulder.

  "Novack's Bakery. I see he's marketing crepes." He pushed until I toppled onto the sofa cushion, face down. I heard the laptop close. The warm, delicious smell of Rafael enveloped me as he pressed himself into my back, my arms pinned in his generous embrace.

  "I wonder if he delivers," he purred. "I wonder if he leaves the samples of his newest product line in people's refrigerators."

  I felt his nose burrow through the long, loose strands of my hair, his moist exhalation tickling my ear. His voice, smooth and seductive, rumbled a low note right next to me and I shivered, feeling the inner warmth in my lower back, resisting a sudden urge to arch into him.