Big Bad Wolf: A Bad Boy Next Door Second Chance Romance

by Frankie Love

  Mostly, warm pussy for my cock.

  “What are you doing here?” McQueen asks.

  “I need to pound something till it bleeds.”

  “Not my face,” McQueen says, shielding his cheeks.

  “I don't fucking care what.” I pull off my tie, shrug off my suit coat. “I'm pissed, bro. And I need to fight.”

  “You know I’m not gonna fight you. We can spar, that’s all.” McQueen laughs. “But you gotta play nice. I have a show tonight.”

  I head to the locker room with the gym clothes I brought, and quickly change into work out gear.

  I grab a pair of gloves and headgear from a trainer. McQueen joins me in the ring and one of the trainers is in the corner, leading the charge.

  We shadowbox in the ring, warming up before we start throwing controlled jabs. We don't go easy on one another, but we aren't complete assholes either. The goal right now, for me, is to fucking get out this rage so I don't go hunt down Grotto and beat him to a pulp.

  I remember doing that enough times, the dirty work for my father.

  I don't play that way anymore. I'm a man, not a wild beast.

  But right now, in the ring, I want to let loose. Lose control.

  I throw a punch, a sharp uppercut, connecting with McQueen's cheek with much more force than intended. He’s not expecting it.

  “Fuck you,” he yells, pushing away. “Play nice.”

  I pull back from McQueen, not trusting myself. I tear off the gloves, raise my hands in surrender.

  “Sorry, bro. Not cool.” I swallow, knowing my mind is fucking all over the place.

  Grotto. Mark Denzel. Emmy.

  Emmy.

  That’s what I want right now. What I need. I don't need to fight—I let that part of my life go. I should never have stepped foot in this gym.

  But a woman offers a different release. I can lose control without beating up my best friend.

  I can lose control while a woman fucks me.

  Maybe two women.

  That's what I really need right now. Maybe Emmy would be up for threesome…. She seemed pretty wild last night. Telling me how she finger-fucked herself in the ladies room.

  Oh man, it gets me horny just thinking about it.

  I need to find her.

  Fuck her.

  “I gotta go,” I tell McQueen, leaving the ring.

  “You're an ass you know that? You come here, punch my fucking face, and then go before I can get you back?”

  “I'll make it up to you tonight, at Stacked.”

  “You better deliver, fucker.” He walks over, gives me a fist bump, and I know we're cool.

  And tonight, he'll forget all about this. I've already told Denise to deliver a dozen women to our table. I'll text her and let her know I only want women with double D's. No panties. Women who don't mind fucking strangers. Who don't mind swallowing. Women who like it dirty, hard. Fast.

  There are plenty of them to go around. I've never had trouble finding them before.

  Not that I'll want them tonight.

  Because right now I'm gonna find Emmy and have her give it to me early.

  I'll have her give it to me now.

  EMMY

  “So the lead?” I ask Detective Clark, sitting his office at the police station.

  Papers are piled everywhere and the lighting is bad, crackling fluorescent bulbs, and the smell of stale coffee lingers in places it shouldn't. It's like a crime movie from the 1940s up in here.

  He offers me a lazy smile, like he always does. There’s nothing presumptuous or off-putting about Clark. I just wish he was a little better at his job.

  “Right,” he says, fumbling with a stack of papers for no apparent reason. “It's not a lead exactly….”

  He's probably only a few years older than me, and not exactly qualified. Last time we met, I was the one reminding him the details of my sister’s case.

  “You called me down here for nothing?” I rub the base of my neck with my hand, brushing against the petals of the rose tucked in my hair. The sweet scent wafts around me, and once again I think about Ace.

  For, like, the millionth time today.

  So for, like, the millionth time, I mentally kick myself in the ass for being such a complete idiot. Move on, Emmy … remember, he thought he could buy you tonight with a few shopping bags of to-die-for clothing?

  I can't be bought.

  “Not nothing,” Clark says, his eyes brightening. “Your sister's cell phone has been recovered, and I just got it back from surveillance. The calls were made to an unknown number, but the texts are traceable.”

  “Who was she talking too?” I ask, my heart beating fast.

  I know literally zero about Janie's life here in Vegas, even though I've gone through her crap apartment a thousand times.

  She'd asked me to send her birth certificate to her apartment a few months before the accident, so I at least knew where she lived. The hospital gave me her keys when I proved our relationship. I hoped I'd find clues about her life when I looked around, but her apartment was a sterile as our relationship.

  The thing is, it feels so shitty to have a sister who I know nothing about. Aren't sisters supposed to have some internal connection? Some bond? We never had any, but I want one with her. Fiercely. Desperately.

  Though, in truth, at this point I'd be happy to have a bond with anyone. I’m tired of running around on my own. Surviving without any support.

  “We don't know who she was texting, but we are hoping when we figure that out, we will have a lead.”

  “That's it? I mean, what are the texts? Maybe we can figure something out from them?”

  “Uhhh….” Clark coughs awkwardly into his hand. “It was mostly … sexting.”

  “Sexting?” Ugh. Typical Janie. That girl has always had boundary issues. But honestly, it could be worse. I have a growing suspicion she must have been wrapped up in a bad scene down here.

  No job had called wondering where she was. No friends had come looking for her. Hell, even the landlord, when I spoke to him, knew nothing about my sister.

  Which makes me wonder what she’d been doing down here to make money. Her closet was full of clothes—albeit pretty trashy ones—and her bills were paid in full, and she had a modest apartment with furniture in all the right places.

  “The only clue … besides the fact she liked to umm….” Clark shifts in his chair, the tops of his ears bright red. “Well, never mind. She kept referring to a man named Bullet. And she asked him to pick her up at nine. The crash happened at 9:15. Your guess is as good as mine.”

  I pull my purse higher on my shoulder, ready to go. My head hurts from this conversation, and, mostly, I need a nap. “I just wish she'd wake up. It would make everything a lot easier.”

  “Sure would, Emmy.”

  “Thanks, though,” I tell Clark, meaning it. At least he followed through and kept me in the loop.

  As I walk though the corridor of the hospital, my new heels click-clack against the floor. I think it sounds sexy, and I blush remembering why I have these on my feet at all.

  Knowing Claire probably thinks I'm the flakiest friend ever, I send her a quick text.

  Me: Sorry for bailing on brunch. I have a good excuse.

  Claire: Prove it. Meet me for dinner? I'm off at 5.

  Looking at the time, I see it's 3:00. Perfect.

  Me: Sure. Where?

  Claire: Here. Davey gave me a 2 for 1 at the buffet.

  I smile, knowing how Claire loves the Spades Royalle buffet. No way would I be able to talk her out of it. That girl loves food like nobody’s business.

  Me: I think Davey is in love with you.

  Claire: We don't date players, remember?

  Davey works hotel security and clearly has a thing for Claire. I wouldn't say she's a dick tease, but she definitely hasn't put the kibosh on his attempts.

  Me: See you at the buffet line, chica.

  Pocketing my phone, I'm once again grateful for her f
riendship. It lessens the sting of not having any family.

  Back in Washington, where I was born and raised, I worked my ass through school. My life always felt complicated and stressful, friendships were always on the back burner. But then when I moved here, got this job, and met Claire—we just clicked. Tess, too, but she's a bit too innocent to take in large doses.

  Though she probably really needs girls like Claire and I in her corner—that girl is gonna get herself in trouble one of these days.

  Thinking of her, I send a quick text inviting her to meet us at the buffet. She immediately replies with a string of emojis letting me know she is in.

  I shake my head. That girl has a never-ending reserve of energy.

  Stopping at the nurse’s station, I offer them a smile and write my name on the check-in sheet.

  “Any progress?” I ask Amy, the head nurse.

  “I wish, sweet pea. But nothing to note. The doctor stopped by earlier; you missed him by an hour.”

  “Oh, really? I was hoping to catch him.” My heart falls, feeling like I can't catch a break today. Tears prick my eyes, and I quickly wipe them away, wanting to remain positive and brave. I know that’s what Janie needs more than anything. “I just feel like she's never gonna wake up.”

  “I know it feels that way, but there's still hope. Her latest CT scan was positive, remember that. No blood clots, no swelling. But the doctor did say he wanted to speak with you.”

  “Well, I'll try and catch him tomorrow.” I know that most coma patients recover after two to four weeks—and we’re going on eight. “I'll just go talk with her. Okay?”

  “Okay, Emmy. Chin up, okay?”

  I smile at her, but it's a phony one. I wish I had unlimited positive mojo to dish out, but I don't. At the end of the day, I'm kind of a mess.

  Sitting with Janie in her sterile hospital room, I hold her hand. In the quiet space I'm able to confess how lonely I am. Admit what I did last night.

  I figure, why the hell not? Maybe hearing about my escapades will jerk her out of her current state.

  It doesn't work.

  After sitting there for ninety minutes, watching crappy daytime television, and crossing and uncrossing my legs anxiously, I kiss her forehead and leave. Maybe tomorrow a miracle will happen.

  Maybe she'll wake up and tell us who Bullet is.

  8

  ACE

  After leaving Kit’s Gym, I'm hot, sweaty, and horny. The day has disappeared; it's already five o'clock. I park my Mercedes S63 in my garage, and take an elevator up to the casino floor.

  While I need to get to my penthouse to change out of these workout clothes, I want to stop to see if by chance Emmy is working. My chest is still pounding from the sparring with McQueen, from the conversation with Mark. Grotto has gotten under my skin and I need Emmy on top of me to make the world right again.

  I'm standing next to some blackjack table when I realize I actually have no fucking clue who the manager for the cocktail waitresses is. This is below my pay grade.

  I pull out my phone to text my assistant, Denise.

  Just as start typing a text, I see her.

  Emmy Rose is headed to the long buffet line in a tight-ass pair of white jeans, a V-neck top that reveals just enough cleavage. As much as I wish there was more skin shown, I also see the guys around me give her a greedy once-over.

  It's obvious that every man here wants want I had last night. What I'm going to get again.

  “Emmy,” I call to her. She's with two women, giving hugs.

  She turns, hearing her name, sees me. Her eyes grow wide. I swear she shakes her head as I cross toward her.

  “Emmy,” I say again. Her name on my lips is so fucking sweet. This woman has completely melted me. If earlier I thought I was a pussy, right now I'm a fucking puddle.

  “Ace,” she says, glancing at her friends who are completely confounded.

  “Ace, as in Ace Royalle?” one of the woman with her asks. She's a platinum blonde, petite and curvy. Not my type, because my type is right next to her. Emmy Rose.

  “And you are?” I take the blonde’s hand and then kiss it suavely. I want Emmy's friends to like me, and I know they will.

  “I'm Claire. I work here. And this is Tess, she does too.”

  The other girl gives a squeak—I kid you not—and a small wave. “Hi! I just love what you've done to the place!”

  Tess has perfectly styled hair, pink nails, pink lips. Standing next to Emmy, who is effortless and currently looking everywhere but at me, Tess looks like an eager beaver. I don't have the heart to tell her she's barking up the wrong tree.

  Instead, I take a more direct approach.

  “Emmy, I need to speak with you about something,” I say.

  “Oh, I'm actually not working today.” She shrugs, and it makes my cock twitch. “You can find me tomorrow when I'm on the clock.”

  “It can't wait.”

  “I didn't know you oversee the cocktail waitresses,” Claire says, looking at me pointedly.

  Okay, so, this blonde isn't charmed with the fact I'm the fucking boss. Who does she think she is?

  “I oversee Emmy.” I speak coolly, but what I want to do is take Emmy by the hand and pull her away from the fucking buffet. I've got a different kind of all you can eat on my mind.

  Emmy gives a snort and my eyes land on hers.

  “What?” she asks, feigning innocence.

  “Now.”

  “Okay, okay.” Turning to her friends, she says, “Save me a seat, I'll just be a sec. Oh, and see if you can get me some of that spicy tuna before it's all gone.”

  “Okay….” Claire says, watching closely as I grab Emmy by the elbow and lead her off the floor.

  “What the hell, Ace? I'm having dinner.”

  “At the fucking buffet?” I shake my head, surprised she would eat here on her day off.

  “What? Is that too low class for you?” she asks, as I pull her toward the bank of elevators. “Claire got a two for one coupon from Davey—can't beat that.”

  I press the up button.

  “I have no idea what you're talking about. Davey? Coupons?”

  “Yeah, well we didn't all grow up privileged,” she says. “And we don't all own fucking hotels. Davey is your employee and so is Tess. And so is Claire.”

  “Like I’m going to work on memorizing the names of the hundreds of people who work here.”

  An elevator door opens. I take her hand and pull her inside. She steps in the doorway, feet planted on the marble floor.

  “I thought you needed to talk about something. We can do that down here,” she says. The doors start to close on her and she raises an arm to stop them.

  “Get in here,” I tell her.

  “No, I don't know what you think this is … but it isn't.”

  “You’re in new clothes. Where'd you get those?” I ask.

  “Low blow, for one. And two, I'm wearing these because they’re fucking cute, not because they’re from you. You can't buy me. I'm not your whore.”

  Just then the elevator across the way opens and a short, balding man steps out with three female escorts: faux fur coats, fishnets, and minidresses, their cleavage spilling out. Surely he ordered them from the directory next to his bed.

  “I didn't say you were a whore.” My voice drops, and all I want is her in here with me. I want the doors to close on us. I want my sweaty body pressed against hers.

  She isn't a whore. She's mine.

  “Well, don't treat me like one then.”

  Her eyes are on mine, and I feel the electricity pulse between us. She may say she doesn't want to be treated like a whore, but I can tell by the way her lips quiver, the way her perfect tits rise and fall, the way she arches her back hungrily—that she wants to be fucked like one.

  “I'll treat you like you want to be treated,” I tell her.

  “Then let me go.” Her voice is soft, as if she's scared. Scared of what she wants. Needs.

  “You don't want
that.”

  I tug on her arm, the final shove she needs to give in to what she is thinking about. In one fell swoop she steps inside, the doors close, and my mouth is on hers.

  EMMY

  Oh fuck.

  One second I'm all strong, resolved, and determined to tell Ace that in no shape or form am I his thing, a fuckable, disposable woman … and the next second I'm literally licking his neck.

  My hands are on his ass, pawing him as if I haven't touched a man in years. When he and I both know that is far from the fucking truth.

  His tongue grazes my ear, causing the heat between my legs to spread, making me squirm in his arms.

  He isn't dressed to kill right now, far from it. He's in workout clothes and smells like a man—all sweat and strength—and this low-key look turns me on.

  My fingers inch along the elastic waistband of his athletic shorts and I know a simple tug would reveal a hard, thick cock. The one I held last night. The one I rode in the early morning hours. The one that tempts me now.

  “I have to meet my friends. We have plans tonight.” I tell him, pushing away.

  “Plans with me tonight, right?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “I can't do this.”

  “Yes, yes you can.”

  “I'm not going to a hotel room with you again. Not doing this whole whore-dance. That's not me.”

  “We don't have to go to my room, then.” He unbuttons my pants.

  I'm still in my heels, still trying to figure out if I'm seriously going to do this again. My brain screams no, my pussy begs yes.

  I eye the elevator door, knowing it might open any moment. As if reading my mind, he bangs against the security button with his elbow, calling on an intercom.

  “This is Ace Royalle. I need you to lock the doors on this elevator until I say so.”

  “Roger that, boss,” a muffled voice replies over a speaker as the elevator stops.

  “You fuck everyone this way?” I ask, shaking my head at this man's power.

  “Not everyone,” he says. He pulls the skintight pants down to my knees. Eyeing me hungrily—I’m in that tiny little thong he got for me—he pushes the lace down, too. “But enough that the operator knows what to do when told.”