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

by Sophie Brooks

  Drinks topped off, he leaned back and ran his hand over his face and through his hair.

  “Okay, Eve. Spill it.”

  I needed to let them know what we had found, but I was still synthesizing the information I’d gotten from Vicki less than half an hour ago.

  “Let me start at the beginning so we all have the same information. Blaine, when Raf and I were going through Celia’s old things, we found her climbing gear. It was the same gear she had used when she was with you last.”

  I saw Raf observe Blaine with rapt attention. His former colleague and now his doorman looked pained at the reference, but nodded.

  “Don’t go any further,” he said. “You discovered that the rope was too thin.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  There were few beats of silence and Blaine slammed his fist into the table, making the old china and our wineglasses jump.

  “Fuck! Just, fuck it all. If only I hadn’t had a stick up my ass over assisted climbing, I’d have bothered to educate myself on whatever new gear was coming out. And had I bothered to learn what other people were using while up there, I’d have known that she’d given me the updated, better GriGri and kept the old one for herself. And had we switched those, she’d have been okay.”

  Blaine’s shoulders were tense and his powerful, rock-climber’s fingers threatened to snap the stem of his wine glass in two.

  “Blaine.” I attempted to take the glass away from him. His wild, dark eyes looked at me and through me and he stood up, reached the top plate from the stack with his long arm, and sent it soaring through the air. It shattered against my front door with a bright, cheerful sound. Its porcelain pieces clattered onto the tile below, adding to the pile of stoneware shards, green beans and a cold chicken leg.

  We sat and waited for Blaine’s breathing to even out.

  He sat and looked Raf in the eye. “I will never forgive myself. And I don’t expect you to forgive me, either.”

  Raf twirled his glass between his fingers; then he took a diminutive sip and nodded.

  “Go on.”

  “That stupid rope. I never use those color-coded ropes. When I do use ropes, which is almost never, I use camo ropes so they don’t stand out like a sore thumb. So it didn’t occur to me it felt a little thin.”

  “Where did that rope come from, Blaine?”

  “Ah…” He took a gulp of wine and eyed the stack of six antique, chipped plates the late Celia would have loved to use.

  “My former boss, Toussey, he used to climb. He was getting rid of the gear he no longer needed. Cleaning house, he said.” The words flew spitting from the wide, narrow lips.

  “And Toussey didn’t like whistle-blowers, did he?” I said, my voice breaking the silence.

  “No. No, he did not.”

  “I remember Toussey,” Rafael said. “A stuck-up jackass. He’d talk a good talk but his actions… he did some bad shit to people. I wonder where he’s now?”

  Rafael’s eyes gleamed with the need to lock onto a new target for his needed revenge. Blaine merely shrugged. “Who cares? Karma’s a bitch. It will all catch up with him eventually.”

  I stood, letting my chair scrape and make a loud noise against the beat-up linoleum floor of my kitchen area.

  “It already has. Toussey, the former Vice President of Operations of Provoid Brothers, now lives in a nursing home. He’s blind. He also seems to have lost some of his mental capacity – apparently he liked drinking all kinds of exotic things.” My eyes slid toward Blaine. “It seems that he drank some moonshine and it was a bad batch. It almost killed him.”

  BLAINE’S EYES were drawn to mine like a compass needle to the North Pole. I betrayed nothing.

  “Drinking that stuff is risky,” I said in an off-handed manner. “Anyway, he tried to kill your sister and frame Blaine for it. Had we had solid and untainted evidence, we could have taken it to the police, but we don’t. Whatever has happened, happened. Toussey paid a heavy price for his greed.”

  I reached for the last of the wine and divided it equally among our three glasses. Then I raised mine.

  “I’d like to propose a toast, guys. It’s a toast to life, to love, and to moving on.”

  We didn’t touch glasses this time; we only drank.

  “And I’d like to say one more thing.” Raf cleared his throat, his blazing, blue eyes burning holes into Blaine.

  “I’d never known. We may never have the details, but… shit happens. Celia was deep into a dangerous sport. She knew this could happen; hell she wrote about things like this happening to other climbers. I… I do not fault you…” He closed his eyes and thought for a while, making sure he said what he truly meant. “I no longer fault you for murdering her, ‘cause you didn’t. I fault you for lying to her just to get laid. If she knew you were as good as you think you are, she’d have never used that type of gear and this situation might have never even happened. And where would the two of you be now? Hawaii?”

  “Alaska,” Blaine said. “She became obsessed with Alaska. Totally fell in love with it. She even bought a claim up there – what, you didn’t know? Yeah, a cabin with no electricity but less than two hours away from the nearest village by snow machine. There’s a creek; there used to be gold in those parts. Mostly, the hunting’s good and she… ah, never mind. It’s all over now.”

  A dark shadow passed over his high brow. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like any of it.

  “I’d like to read more of your poetry, Blaine,” I blurted out, unwilling to have him hide from what was, what is and from what will be. “I’d like you to write again – new stories, new material. I’d like to see your work published.”

  Like Celia had encouraged you to publish…

  He looked away. “I better get goin’.” That thick accent crept into his speech again, a cover-up for his exceptional talent, a camouflage which had allowed the rest of us to pretend that he was an ordinary corporate suit, a common doorman, a beginner climber of limited talent and imagination.

  “Okay,” I said, getting up to walk him to the door. “Make sure to stop by again. Here, or at Rafael’s.”

  A large hand fell on my shoulder and Rafael’s heat warmed my back.

  “Yeah. Do come up, Blaine. Seriously. You an’ I…Celia would have wanted us to drink together as friends.”

  The tall poet straightened, now that his shoelaces were tied. He turned to us and let his hand fall on Rafael’s shoulder, his strong, climber’s fingers giving him a tight squeeze.

  “Thanks, Rafael.”

  Then he turned to me and stroked my hair. “Keep ‘im outta trouble, will ya?” His thin, wide lips canted in a crooked grin and then he was gone. Only the broken plates and the cold chicken leg remained, shoved to the side by the door, the green beans forced to lie in parallel as a salute to his passing.

  MY STARK, black and white room felt cold that night even with Rafael spooning me from behind. His heat wasn’t enough; cold Arctic wind ripped through my soul every time I thought of the haunted look in Blaine’s eyes.

  I turned around to face him and slipped my arm over his torso, my leg between his legs, and pulled in tight to maximize contact.

  Rafael’s quiet voice broke the uneasy silence.

  “He’s innocent.”

  Innocent of murder, yes. But of other things?

  I nodded and let him pull me in even tighter; a shiver passed through my body and large, warm hands moved to chase it away. Of course Blaine Kirby was innocent of murdering Celia. He must have felt a terrible, desperate panic to feel Celia’s life slip between his fingers along with that too-thin rope, unable to arrest her fall. Perhaps his focus on philosophical purity as a free-climber didn’t give him many chances to practice using other types of equipment; maybe the heat of the moment brought confusion, or perhaps he just plain screwed up. The result was still the same: the woman he loved, the one he had wanted to entice to marry him, fell to her death and it happened on his watch.

  I thought back to tho
se times when I had let Rafael down one way or another: embarrassing him, endangering his probation status with my reckless disregard for law and society. My stomach gave a sick twist and my eyes watered – suppose I’d killed Rafael by accident. Darkness descended upon me as I buried my face into the smooth, muscled chest.

  “Evelyn… shhh.” Rafael’s hand wandered from my back up to my hair and he stroked it as though willing my tears away. “Wanna talk about it?”

  I shook my head and sniffled, squeezing him even tighter.

  Blaine’s world was dark with loss and guilt.

  Guilt over Celia’s death.

  Guilt over Toussey’s blindness.

  He’d probably intended to kill him with that bad batch of moonshine. Taylor’s friend had analyzed Blaine’s brewing records, and it was apparent that Blaine Kirby knew how to eliminate methanol from his brew well enough. Yet, his record indicated experiments in which he had perfected his control over the precise amount of methanol in his final product. That bad batch had been no accident.

  I felt that guilt second-hand, maybe because I was unable to feel bad about it. Knowing Rafael and his recent conversion to the way of the law, he would have felt that guilt as well – perhaps because he could have seen himself take justice into his own hands, just like Blaine had.

  At that moment, I resolved to protect him from that feeling; I’d shoulder all that guilt and pain. Rafael would never know – not unless there was an imminent and unavoidable need. He would think his sister’s murderer came to his well-earned end by sheer coincidence.

  Rafael handed me a tissue and I sat up and blew my nose.

  “Thanks.” I snuggled back down, letting him spoon me the way he knew I liked best.

  DIM REFLECTIONS of nighttime traffic travelled all the way to my sixth story windows, gently teasing my sheer curtains and barely making their way inside. The white walls amplified what little light illuminated the eyes gazing at me in the dark. Soft lips descended onto mine in a tender gesture of affection.

  “Why can’t you sleep, Eve…” He asked, the question mark trailing off. I tried to answer, but he silenced me with another kiss.

  “Hush. Let me take care of you.” Long fingers soothed my sides; a gasp escaped me as I felt his rough, dry fingertips slip under my short pajama pants.

  “Have you been climbing?” I exhaled, incredulous. His movement paused – then resuming its teasing movement.

  “Yeah. Gotta keep up with you out there.”

  I reached to stroke my hand up his neck and into his wild hair. He captured my wrist and pressed it against the pillow by my head.

  “Shh. My turn.”

  Hot lips traced a slow, sensuous path down my throat. Rafael stopped to spend time at his favorite places, like a pilgrim along a path. Every time he elicited a reaction, I felt his grin against my skin. Every time I tried to reciprocate, he’d press me down and hush at me, chiding me for being unable to just lie and receive.

  My pajama pants were off and a hot, wet tongue circled around my hip point. I let my hands plunge into his hair and this time, my action was unopposed. He moved even lower, making me sigh and gasp, and, eventually, he made me scream his name.

  Like a cat, well sated by a bowl of cream, he curled around me as he gave me one last kiss. I inhaled, breathing in his scent that mingled with mine, barely able to keep my eyes open.

  “Thank you, Rafael. I didn’t even know I needed that.”

  “My pleasure,” he drawled. “I’ll take a rain check. Go to sleep, Eve.”

  Who was I to argue? Pulled in tight, I melted into his embrace and closed my eyes. My last words were a sated whisper.

  “I love you, Rafael.”

  CHAPTER 21

  AUTUMN HAD passed into winter and winter had passed into spring. The weather turned downright hot, leaving me distractible. I yearned for the fresh, green leaves on the trees in the city park right outside. I wanted to just kick back and lie down on the edge of the water fountain, willfully endangering my stiff Tahari suit and pantyhose and watch the white clouds pass overhead as they soared in the sky – its vibrant blue reminding me of the color of Rafael’s eyes.

  Except, I couldn’t.

  “What? What the hell’s so urgent right now?” I snapped at Rick Blanchard, dreading another interruption. I’d been rewriting this particular paragraph for two days; I’d even taken to hiding out in Rafael’s conference room on the theory that my boyfriend’s dull office would present fewer distractions than my apartment… or Rafael’s apartment… or the library… or even Starbucks.

  “Raf needs to see you right now.”

  I glanced at him with irritation. “I’ll never get this done, Rick, and your buddy Louis will rake me over hot coals if I’m late again.”

  “It’s personal. Everyone’s there.”

  Great. Another stupid birthday party.

  My hair felt long and steamy put up in its French braid, trapping too much heat. I entered Rafael’s office without knocking, as I always did. There he was, collar unbuttoned and tie loose, white sleeves rolled up his well-muscled arms in deference to spring fever. Yet the wild smirk was absent, yielding to an impassive, focused expression.

  Louis Schiffer and Rick Blanchard stood by the wall, and their eyes were trained on Rafael’s unexpected guest. She sat in the client chair, short and round and unassuming in her Carrharts pants and a short sleeve shirt.

  “Eve, this is Lucy Baranoff from Alaska. She lives in a small village on a creek right under Mt. Saint Elias… she was Celia’s friend.”

  I approached her as she stood, and extended my hand in greeting.

  “Uh… nice to meet you,” I said. She didn’t shake my hand, and her dark, slanted eyes didn’t rise above my chin. She nodded.

  “Good to meet you,” she said in a soft, almost inaudible voice full of alien gutturals.

  That’s when it hit me. The guide. Celia’s guide she wrote about in her letter – wasn’t she Tlingit? So English was one of at least two languages she spoke; thus the light accent.

  She sat back down and I backed away, taking the seat next to her.

  “Go on,” Raf prodded her.

  “Anyhow, as I said,” she continued her narrative, her black and shiny hair framing a tan face with high cheekbones and full of sun-wrinkles. “Blaine Kirby was up our way last fall. He lived at his claim and it was getting too late in the year to work it; he wanted to go hunting, he said. He had to put some meat in the cache for the winter. And there was wood to split – lots of work to do before winter set in. We all watched him, wondering what he’d do with Celia gone. They had planned to do all this together, to live through their first Alaskan winter up there.”

  Her soft, lilting voice was spinning a tale with undercurrents of long-set plans thwarted, of great love unfulfilled. Lucy was a good storyteller and we were her rapt audience.

  “Blaine was obsessed in trying that climb Celia and I had attempted the previous spring. It was fall already and too late in the year to risk the storms coming in off the bay. I told him to wait till summer but he’d been restless. Then he told me to deliver this package to you if he didn’t come back by breakup – that’s when the arctic ice begins to thaw and crack. We’re past breakup now and… well… he’d left enough money for me to travel on and deliver this, and I’d never been Outside before, so… so here it is.”

  Lucy Baranoff bent down and produced a small package, which had sat under her chair until now. She handed it to Rafael. He pulled a knife out of his pocket and flipped it open, cutting the tape.

  There was a letter inside, addressed to both him and me. Underneath it sat a large Zip-lock bag full of old letters. Some of them were written in elegant, cursive handwriting, others contained poetry. Then a small jewelry box, covered in red velvet. I knew that box, and blanched.

  Raf opened the letter first and glanced at me for permission. I nodded, and he began to read aloud.

  Dear Evelyn and Rafael,

  If this letter find
s itself in your hands, then I trust Lucy Baranoff is sitting right next to you. Treat her well; she is the last friend who has seen me alive. Be advised that nothing will please her more than a juicy steak and fresh strawberries, however she will prefer a milkshake to alcohol. Both Celia and I were proud to call her a friend.

  You won the lottery, Rafael! You get a disorganized jumble of love letters, travel narratives, and poetry, which your sister and I had exchanged during our too-brief courtship. I had hoped to present her with the ring in the red box; it is yours now to do with as you please. Keep in mind it’s an engagement ring. Don’t delay, for destiny may have plans of its own. Don’t screw it up, my friend.

  As for me, I’m burning all my bridges, ready to give karma another try.

  Live hard, love harder.

  Blaine

  The silence in Rafael’s office grew oppressive. I wanted to break it and relieve the awkward discomfort of being in the presence of the words written by a man whom I now presumed to be dead. One didn’t go climbing in late fall in Alaska and disappear only to show up come spring, all in one piece. My thoughts drifted to the meal he cooked for me – Celia’s recipe, he had said – and to his book by Julius Caesar I never returned before he disappeared.

  Maybe Blaine couldn’t live with his guilt for Toussey’s blindness.

  Maybe Blaine couldn’t live without Nel.

  Maybe Blaine…

  “Was there a body?” Rafael’s voice ripped through the room.

  “No,” Lucy replied, her eyes still downcast. “No body. Just things.”

  “Did he seem like he wanted to kill himself?”

  She shrugged. “He seemed happy when he gave me the package for you. Like he expected you to receive it. He said to say hi to the lady.” She shrugged, confused, not knowing whom that might mean. The reference warmed my heart and I could feel my eyes fill along with my nose.