Cherry Bomb: Forbidden Bad Boys

by Clara Leigh

  I keep looking at him, seeking out the flaws that I know, surely to God, must exist. But if they do, I’m blind to them as I assess him from top to toe. He’s wearing tailored trousers and Chelsea boots. A silk shirt flows across the contours of his upper body, the neck of which is open to the third button, revealing a glimpse of inked muscle and smattering of dark hair.

  “Are you just going to eyeball him for the next hour, or are you actually going to take a bite?”

  I shoot Lorne my best sorority girl stare—the one I learned from my American competitors—which does not, as I’d hoped, shoot him down, merely causes him to collapse onto the leather sofa beside Wilde cackling like I made a wisecrack.

  Bastard probably thinks I am a joke. I know there are plenty who look down on Flo and I, who think that because we’re polished and pretty that there’s no effort involved, and no talent either.

  “What’s it going to be, princess? Are you going to wrap your pretty lips around that bottle you’re holding and drink until you’re full of fire, then plonk yourself on his knee and give him some serious mouth to mouth, or are you just planning on gawping at him until sun-up?”

  I’ve too many places to be to hang around for that long. Nor do I want to raise suspicions by missing the midnight curfew. That gives me under an hour to finish up here and get my sweet cheeks back to where they’re supposed to be, or Operation Bad Girl is going to be the biggest flop of my career.

  I don’t care for whisky, especially something this smoky. Regardless, I down three large gulps of the amber liquid straight from the bottle.

  “Whoa, baby,” Lorne growls, fanning his cheeks. I suspect he’s the sort of friend that gets you into trouble.

  For a moment, I prickle all over at the thought of what I’m about to do—something utterly taboo. Understand that Felicity Caine has until this moment only ever kissed carefully sanctioned and studio-approved man-boys. Wilde is something new, decadent, and totally delicious. And even my manager strutting his scrawny arse through the door of this place isn’t going to stop me indulging this micro-fantasy.

  I land my pert arse right on Dare Wilde’s lap and breathe whisky fumes right into his beautiful mouth. Hell, yeah… The man tastes of victory and sin. I allow myself to get high on him for a moment, and indulge the fantasy that sharing something with him could be more just a business deal. But forging a genuine connection isn’t my aim.

  “Wake up, bad boy. I need you to take me places…”

  Having never snogged a comatose man before, I half expect him to awaken with a start and throw me off his lap. Perhaps with a cry of, “What the fuck!” added in for good measure. It’s what I’d do if someone that I didn’t know was taking liberties with my lips while I was comatose. I mean, it’s not as if he agreed to share the taste of my berry-flavoured lip gloss.

  Dare Wilde defies convention… I’ve read it enough times it ought to have sunk in. One second he’s in stasis, the next, hello angel! His tongue flicks against mine, and I nearly catapult off his lap in surprise.

  I don’t actually move more than an inch.

  When did he move and clamp his hands around my waist?

  When did we forge such a strong magnetic bond that I can’t pull myself way from him?

  His fingertips creep inside my clothing, bringing heat to each area of skin he touches.

  Did I mention I’ve been crushing on this guy since I was eleven? I have a whole decade’s worth of fantasies to work through and about ten minutes left in which to indulge them. Less actually. It’s probably more like ten seconds if I’m going to make it home before curfew.

  Yes, I’m nineteen and I still have a curfew. If you rose at five thirty every morning and put in two hours of stretch and dance routines before breakfast, you’d understand why I hit the sack at a reasonable time.

  Hitting the sack with this man, now there’s an appealing plan. Not to mention a heck of a reason to stay up late.

  Hmm, he also has rock solid abs? I can feel them through his shirt—powerful slabs of muscle that make my fingers curl. Shit, I’m horny, but an actual thing between us isn’t part of the plan. I just need him to hang out for a while, be seen with me places. Getting personal… involved is nowhere on the agenda. This… whatever it is we’re sharing at the moment is already far more intimate than we’re ever supposed to get. Still, the way his tongue tickles mine is one heck of a reason to linger.

  It’s only when those touches set off reciprocal sensations of delight between my thighs, and I start squirming against him like a cat in heat, that it occurs to me that backing off might be a surprisingly wise plan.

  Dare holds on, obviously not so keen to let me go.

  “I need to talk to you,” I say as a way of explaining my attempt to introduce some distance between us.

  “Talk.” He cocks one eyebrow, wrinkling the skin above, and I get a first proper look at his eyes. They’re melt-into, dark brown pools of wickedness and deceit. “You know, normally when people want to talk to me they open their mouths and words come out. They don’t breathe cherry-flavoured fire into my throat.”

  “He said this was the best way to rouse you.” I shoot Lorne a death stare. It was his suggestion.

  He blows me a kiss in return.

  “Was it him that suggested you grind your arse against my cock too?”

  Um, what! I wasn’t. “He’s your friend. I assumed he knew best.”

  Lorne earns himself death stare number two, and a prime position on my “Do not trust,” list. I’ve a sneaking suspicion that he’s a dirty fucker who gets off on watching ladies dry hump his friend.

  “What?” He raises his hands. “It worked, didn’t it? He’s roused and communicating.”

  It’s hard to deny the veracity of that when Wilde is sporting a pole in his pants. Not that I’m checking it out or anything. I can just sense it. Heat streaks across my cheeks as I lift my gaze back to meet his.

  “I think you should know that while I’m a total sucker for some sleeping beauty action—I pay people to wank me when I’m not quite asleep—I don’t generally engage them in conversation afterwards.”

  My head can’t decide which of these statements to be appalled over first. The fact that he has people masturbate him, that he pays them to do it, or that he doesn’t speak to them once they’ve choked his chicken.

  My outrage must show, because Lorne starts cackling again. Even Wilde cracks a half smile. Fuck, he’s delicious, especially the way one edge of his smile crooks up his lips at the corner. There’s a white scar there, I realise. It makes him appear happy even when he’s completely at ease.

  “Okay, so I don’t actually pay for it. I can normally find a willing volunteer.”

  I’ll bet he can. I can actually imagine him stretched out naked, apart from a towel, and my hands wrapped around his shaft. Not that it’s going to happen.

  I slide off his knee and onto the sofa.

  “What do you want to talk to me about, Felicity Caine?”

  “Flicka,” I insist, just as I did when I introduced myself to Lorne. Dare Wilde doesn’t question the nickname. He leans forward and sloshes liquid from the whisky bottle into a glass.

  “I wondered if you might help me with something.”

  “Did Jason send you?” He pauses in the act of bring the shot to his sensual lips.

  “Jason?” I’m not sure I even know a Jason.

  “Jason… Jace…J.J. Jones. He didn’t send you?”

  J.J. Jones the hotshot director? “No one sent me.”

  “This isn’t about the film?”

  I shake my head, and add a firm, “No,” for emphasis.

  “Go on,” he insists, while he sits back and indulges in his tipple.

  “I’d rather discuss it in private.”

  “Lorne knows everything there is to know about me. I’m good with him hearing whatever you have to say.”

  “But I’m not.”

  The fewer people involved in this story the better. The onl
y reason I made Flo privy to the plan was that she’d ask too many damned questions otherwise. Also, when the inevitable shit storm occurs, it’ll find its way to her door. I know we’re twins, and we act together, but we don’t actually have a psychic link, and we are capable of independently functioning.

  Flo really is wholesome. It’s just me who’s the fake.

  Lorne shows no sign of vacating his seat. In fact, he grabs the Talisker and sloshes some into an empty tumbler on the table.

  “Scoot for twenty, mate.”

  “Twenty,” Lorne curses in outrage. “You’ll be done in like five.” He rolls his eyes, but nevertheless rises from the comfort of the cracked leather. He tops up his glass to the brim before heading into the darkness of the club. It’s curious that in this little secluded corner, it’s easy to forget there are other people around us, existing inside other bubble booths.

  -2-

  Dare Wilde

  Felicity Caine. Why the fuck is Felicity—Flicka—Caine in my club? Yes, I know who she is. The entertainment business isn’t so vast. When you’ve inhabited its echelons as long as I have, you meet people, you hear things, you recognise faces. Florence and Felicity Caine are the darlings of pre-teens and teenagers everywhere. Twin ash blondes: they sing, they dance, and they break geeky hearts with abandon, in that revoltingly wholesome and consequently sadistically manipulative way. They’re all tease and no touch.

  So why the fuck was she feeling me up?

  I’ve woken with a girl on my lap so often recently I’ve wondered if there’s a target painted there. Even contemplated having one inked straight onto my skin. Most of the knee-sitters are star-struck, drunk, or giggly. Often enough all three. They’re wannabe actresses or models, desperately seeking any means of scoring a break, or else women on hen nights, keen to engage in some meaningless flirty fun. They’re not any of them looking for permanency. They don’t really want to live with an actor, or have to deal with his ego and addictions. They just want a night of make-believe. I’m fine with that. No one gets hurt, because no one is expecting more than what’s given.

  Flicka Caine isn’t like them. I don’t know what the hell she’s after, but the kiss she woke me with is enough to make me wonder.

  “You wanted me, now I’m all yours,” I drawl once Lorne is out of immediate visual range. I doubt he’s gone far. Off to some nearby snug where he can wallow and nurse his bruised dick. It sure wasn’t his heart that got busted earlier when Shelly dumped him.

  I stretch out an arm behind Flicka’s back, and play with the end of one wispy gold lock of hair where it falls against her shoulders. “What is it you’re so desperate to say?”

  She tenses right up, tucks her hands between her knees like she’s waiting for an interview. I liked her better when she was a goddess intent on riding me.

  “I want… I need a favour.”

  I can’t even begin to guess what sort of favour she could possibly want from me. Dare Wilde isn’t the sort of drug she needs to partake of. I’m all about fever and fulfilment. Pretty little Flicka Caine, on the other hand, trades in unfulfilled fantasies and intangibles. The sort of crap that makes you ache and knots your innards up until you’re stumbling through life enslaved. We’re not obvious relationship material, even as far as cutting a business deal. And that, I suspect, is what this is about: business rather than pleasure. Isn’t that just always the way?

  For a moment, I wonder if she was lying earlier, and that it is Jace who’s sent her here. That’d be just like him, sending me a cherry tart when he knows I’m all about the triple chocolate mousse.

  Those kisses earlier were the real deal though… for definite. Lorne and I may have downed a bottle of the good stuff before this little genie popped into existence, but I can still spot the difference between a fake and the real deal.

  “And that is?” I prompt her.

  The tip of her tongue swishes across her glossy lips.

  “I want us to be associated. So that we’re seen together.”

  “Are you asking me on a date?”

  “No. I just want to give the impression that maybe we might have been on one or two.”

  “You mean you want to fake a relationship with me? Well that’s a crock of shit! Seriously? Why not have an actual liaison?”

  She looks at me and temptation wars with practicality in her expression. What she sees is a beast of a man, inked and scarred, coloured by numerous brushes with the tabloids, handsome, maybe even capable of charm if the situation requires it. But she wants none of it. She doesn’t want me, only the impression of me. I’m a means to an end and getting any closer than is essential would potentially lead to messy complications. Well that’s too bad, because life is complicated, and I don’t do fake. Lies just leave you vulnerable.

  “Why the fuck would I pretend to be screwing you when I could actually fuck you and enjoy it?”

  The word fuck makes her wince.

  “We don’t know one another.”

  We would by the end of it. I’d know every blessed inch of her creamy exterior. I’d know her taste, her scent, the way her body contorts when she comes. “That didn’t seem to be an issue while you were waking me.”

  “It’s only an illusion I need to create.”

  I bet she’s got our fake dates all planned out, clothes picked, venues chosen, and an exclusive list of journalists to tip off.

  “You picked the wrong guy, honey.”

  “I picked the perfect one.”

  “Is that supposed to flatter me?”

  She shakes her head. Her lips are parted. “It wouldn’t have to be for very long. Just enough to sow some seeds of doubt—”

  “Make them think you’ve gone wild long enough to snip some strings and then you can make one of those fake speeches about how it’s all been a big misunderstanding, and your purity is still firmly intact.”

  I refuse to be anyone’s mistake.

  “I can’t just do as I please. Dare, please. I can’t be an angel forever.”

  “Then don’t be. Be a fucking bad girl.”

  “It’s not as simple as that.”

  “It could be. You could walk out of here right now and fuck any random guy or girl you fancy in the alleyway. Someone will see. Somebody always does.”

  She swallows like the idea holds merit, but shakes away the notion. “I’m not interested in having public sex with a stranger, or thumping anyone, or getting arrested for drunk driving or on drugs charges.” All tried and tested methods of shedding a wholesome persona. “Please, if you’ll just—”

  I slash my hand before her face, cutting her off. “We’re done here,” I say slowly and steadily, so that she can’t misunderstand that this conversation is finished. “Come and find me again when you’ve checked out of Sweetsville, then maybe we can have some fun.”

  ***

  “What did she want?”

  Lorne returns shortly after Flicka Caine makes her exit. I’m tetchy over having dismissed her. I might be a bad boy, but I like being a good guy. Turning away damsels in distress, even distress of their own making, makes me feel lousy about myself. The result is that I down a tumbler full of the good stuff like it’s lemonade. My body aches for the sweet smell of her and the tart taste of her lips. We could have had fun together if I was prepared to whore myself for zero return on investment.

  Side note: I learned early in life that you don’t do anything for free, unless you want to do everything for free.

  “The same thing every woman wants when they come looking for me: trouble.” As a commodity, I’m only ever in demand for one of two things. Either, I’m the ultimate bad boy fix, or else I’m a fast track ticket to the inner ear of whichever producer, director, or manager I’m currently working with.

  Granted, what Flicka Caine wants from me is slightly different to the norm, but it still counts as rampant bad boy abuse.

  If she’d been prepared to negotiate, actually engage with me—she opened the negotiations so well with that kis
s—then maybe we could have worked something out. For her, I’d even consider a two-for-one offer on orgasms. Sadly, she blew it the moment she mentioned the M word.

  “Forget about her,” I mutter. “She was never here.”

  Lorne laughs at me. Bastard fucking fucker—he always knows. I think he’s in possession of some kind of mind-melding mutation that allows him access to my inner thoughts. What’s worse right now is that he’s pissed, which means the few filters he possesses have been eroded away. “Like you’re going to.” His gaze immediately slides down my chest to my distorted fly. The beast is awake and hungry. “Unless it’s me you’re flying that flag for.”

  “You’re not my type.”

  “Anyone is anyone’s type if the lights are low enough.” He grins at his own remark. I wish I could say he was wrong, but practical experience tells me otherwise.

  “Guess your negotiating strategy sucks, Mr. Wilde.”

  “Compromising wasn’t on her agenda.” Flicka Caine is all about teasing and tying emotional knots, taking what she wants while holding the rest of the world at bay. My past has provided me with a big enough Gordian knot to unravel already, without her needlessly adding layers of complexity.

  She did taste good though, like cherry-flavoured fire.

  “So what now?” Lorne asks. “More drinks, or are you ready to hit the sack?”

  There are flames beneath my skin I’d dearly love to put out, but I suspect additional liquor will only serve as fuel. Also, the hangover tomorrow is going to be a killer as it is. “It’s time to leave.”

  “Ooh, early night! Do we need to stop somewhere for a pipe and slippers?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Any time,” he quips, and I wish there wasn’t such a ring of truth to his words.