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

by Frankie Love

  “Then how do you want me to talk to you?” he asks. “Like I want you? Like I need you? I'll talk to you however you like.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you fucking had me at hello.”

  I threw my head back and gave a sharp laugh. “This isn't a romantic comedy, Ace. I'm not Renee Zellwegger and you sure as hell aren't Tom Cruise. This is my fucking life. And I get it—you're some mafia bad boy and made all this money and get pussy everyday of the week—but I don't want a guy like you.”

  Ace shakes his head, not even considering my words. This man is fucking persistent and I don't know why.

  All I know is I like it. A lot or too much or everything and more. I want him to want me. I want him to ask a second and a third time. I don't want him to let me go.

  It isn't about the chase; this isn't a game. This is about never having a man say he wanted me for more.

  “Yes, you do,” he leans his forehead against mine, our bodies quickly pressing together as if it was a ridiculous idea to think anything could keep them apart.

  “I don't,” I whisper, scared. Just like Ace guessed.

  “You do.”

  “I do.”

  And then he covers my mouth with a kiss that fucking takes my breath away.

  A kiss I'd write home about if there was a family waiting for me.

  ACE

  We fucked last night.

  We'd fucked harder tonight.

  But this? This is different.

  I swear Emmy is a kaleidoscope—every time I turn the lens a whole new color pours out of her. She'll be fire red or the saddest shade of blue. She'll turn crystal clear with the flick of the wrist, and then just like that she'll be melting in my arms, a puddle of tender purples, all bruised and broken, just wanting to be carried somewhere safe.

  I'll fucking carry her anywhere.

  Right now, I pull her into my arms. Sweeping away a table full of bottles and carafes, I lay her down, pull her dress back up to her waist, and press my mouth to her perfect mound.

  I inhale her, all of her. I fucking love the smell of her pussy. It’s sweet and warm, and welcoming—not at all the same as her words, which have been pushing me away.

  No. It’s obvious as I press my lips against her swollen opening that she wants me in ways she hasn't been saying.

  “Baby,” I say, kissing her thighs, my hands trailing up to her waist, holding on. Holding on to her. “Let me take you slowly this time.”

  I've never fucking done this. Never said these things. Take it fucking slow? Last night she made me a Lifetime movie, today I’m a rom-com. Hell, this girl is making me insane. My friends would never let me live it down if they knew the things coming out of my fucking mouth.

  But hell, they also don't have their mouths in the place I have mine.

  My mouth is all over Emmy's pussy. Her warm, wet pussy. And I fucking know they'd be saying all sorts of crazy shit if they had something this good all to themselves.

  Emmy doesn't answer, she just moans in pleasure. This woman has a fucking depth to her I’ll probably never understand, but hell if I won't try.

  I grew up as an entitled piece of shit, with women and money and greed everywhere I looked—and, from what she hinted at last night, Emmy’s past wasn't quite as connected. It sounded a lot more trailer park than my mother's summer home in the Hampton's.

  That is, until everything my family was fell apart. Until everything my Pops worked for my family to be came crashing down.

  Still, my past feels like a different sort of damaged.

  She seems wounded, whereas I feel raw.

  “Ace, I want you in me,” she says, her hands running through my hair, over my back, drawing me up.

  I drop my pants again, roll on protection and pull her waist to the edge of the table. My length finds her opening and I pull her over me.

  She lifts herself from the table and wraps her legs around me, anchoring herself to my core.

  Her arms snake around my neck and inhale my chest as she presses her face against me.

  “Oh, Emmy,” I say, trying to slow myself down, not wanting to come quickly, but also not wanting to pause.

  I thrust into her, sending a rippling current between us, and she screams out in ecstasy.

  “Ace, Ace, Ace.” She screams my name and I can't help but grin. This woman calling my fucking name is all I ever want to hear.

  Nothing else seems to matter in this moment.

  Just her and me.

  I come, savoring the feeling of her wrapped so tight around me.

  “That was….” She tries to form a sentence, but she can't. A laugh escapes her mouth, a laugh that feels so authentic and real and hers and fucking yeah—I love her laugh.

  “Real,” I finish for her. Because it was. It was real and it was ours.

  We dress, this time flushed and warm and like we've come to terms with something we didn’t see coming. Maybe we could be a thing. Maybe Ace Royalle is turning a fucking leaf.

  Fuck those other women. I have Emmy.

  Well, I mean, I should probably take her on a date first and get to know her—but in a lot of ways I fucking know everything about her.

  “My friends probably think I ditched them,” she says, smiling as she tugs her dress back where it belongs.

  “The guys probably think the same thing.” I shrug. “Wanna go back to the table?”

  “Yeah. I kinda want to dance. Or sleep. Or—I don't know. I swear I can't imagine a time I've ever felt social.”

  “You usually tense?” I ask, wanting to know more about her.

  “I just usually have a lot on my mind.”

  “I hear ya,” I say, opening the door we locked. “So tomorrow you work—but what about the day after?”

  Emmy suppresses a smile and I know I did good by not pressing her to ditch her shift.

  “The next day I am free.”

  “So it's a date.”

  “I guess it is.” Emmy smiles, walking ahead of me with a swivel of her hips.

  We find our way to the table, and Jack is out of his booth and has joined the rest of the crew. Emmy's friend Tess is staring at him like he's a fucking rock star, and Claire is showing Landon photos on her phone of something. I'm sure he would rather go chase some tail, but I appreciate that he's not being a dick to her.

  McQueen, on the other hand, is making out with barely dressed women covered head-to-toe in shimmering sparkle make-up. I laugh, wondering how the hell he will get that stuff off himself before tomorrow night’s performance. But at least he isn't kissing one of Emmy's friends.

  Good, nothing sketchy. I just need these people to get along.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Claire asks Emmy as we find our way to a leather couch in the dimly lit club. I love that Emmy sits right down on my knee like she was fucking made to perch there for me.

  I meet her eye and she gives a small pouty shrug, as if knowing I'd love this choice of hers. I swear this woman has mastered the art of the sexy shrug. It gets me hard just watching her, not to mention the fact that her bare pussy is just inches from my covered cock.

  “We were busy having a discussion,” Emmy tells her friend, pursing her lips. “A work-related discussion. Very serious.”

  “Yeah, work discussion my ass,” Jack says, raising his beer in our direction. “Good to see you again, Emmy. This asshole treating you okay?”

  “I'd say so,” she answers, keeping her cards close.

  Landon hands us both tumblers of whiskey, neat, and I clink my glass against Emmy's.

  The smile spread between us lasts for only a minute.

  “What the fuck is that bastard doing here?” Landon asks, pointing across the club.

  Frank Grotto is making his way through the crowded room, headed straight toward me. He has a posse with him, all suited up. None of them should be here, and they know that.

  It's not cool to show up on my turf uninvited.

  “I'll get a bouncer to deal with him,�
�� McQueen says, quickly assessing the situation.

  My hands are clenched, my body stiff. Two times in two days, this asshole shows up in my domain.

  “Fuck that, I can deal with him on my own,” I say, standing as Grotto approaches us.

  “You got a fucking PI following me?” Grotto asks.

  “It's none of your business what I do,” I say. I'm impressed Trenton followed through so quickly. We spoke briefly this evening about what I need—dirt on Grotto—and already he’s trailing him … though apparently he's being pretty obvious about it.

  “I think it is. And I think you'd be wise to pay a little closer attention to what I do, Bullet.”

  Emmy gasps at this exchange, and I shoot her a look, knowing my woman needs to keep quiet, otherwise she'll get hurt.

  The whole table around us has stilled, watching this showdown.

  “Besides,” Grotto continues, smugly. “I think Trenton is gonna be quiet for awhile.”

  “What did you do to him?” I ask, grabbing him by the collar of his suit.

  “I don't let pieces of shit follow me around, unlike you.” Grotto takes in the people who surrounded me. All my closest friends, and Emmy's too.

  “Fuck you,” I say, pushing him away. Landon, McQueen and Jack have my back, arms crossed, not letting these men intimidate us.

  “I'm out.” Grotto says, hands reaching for something in his pocket.

  For a split second I think it's a gun he's going after, but that’s just my past haunting me. Men like Frank Grotto are smarter than that. They aren't willing to go to jail for shit—they like money and power. None of those things are available behind bars.

  He pulls out a phone, flips it on, and brings the screen to my face.

  “Looks like your PI is out, too,” Grotto says, spitting the words in my face.

  It's a picture of a man, face covered in blood. Shot to the heart. It's from the online new source Vegas Weekly.

  “I'm gonna fucking get you for this,” I tell him.

  “I'd like to see you try, Bullet. I'd like to see you try.”

  EMMY

  I'm trying not to hyperventilate as I watch Grotto and his posse leave the club. It's hard, though. Every inch of my skin is trembling. Every muscle in my body is screaming at me to run.

  I meet Claire’s and Tess’s eyes, searching, hoping they have hidden telepathic talents. And that I do, too.

  I need out of here. Now.

  They seem to register my panic, because they stand, grabbing their clutches and my hands. Leading me away as Ace tries to stop us.

  I don't pause. I can't.

  “Just keep walking, okay?” I tell my friends. They must see the panic written all over my face because they don't ask questions. They just do as I say. These girls are the best friends I could ever ask for.

  I need to tell them everything as soon as we get somewhere safer.

  When Grotto said the name Bullet the first time, I thought I misheard him.

  But then he said it again.

  Bullet. The same person my sister Janie was texting the day of her crash. The name of the person who picked her up. Who was driving the car.

  Ace, the man who put my sister in a coma.

  Ace, the man I slept with, the man I wanted to save me. The man I considered changing all my rules for.

  Ace, the man who walked away from the scene of the crime.

  Ace, the man I need to walk away from now.

  12

  ACE

  I tell the bouncers to shut the club down for the night. I don't trust Frank Grotto not to make a scene, and I fucking need the people at Spades Royalle to be as safe as possible. They are my number one concern.

  Frank walks away, his eyes on me. He just had a fucking PI murdered as a message for me to back the fuck off.

  He says he has shit on me, on my family, and fuck, yeah, it scares me. Scares the shit out of me.

  I know I'm not supposed to say that. Not supposed to show my fear—but I don't want to go back to where I came from, and it seems Grotto is fucking hell-bent on trying to make me.

  “It's bullshit,” Jack says, scanning the club as it empties out. “He can't fucking walk in here like that. Threaten you. You're fucking Ace Royalle.”

  That's what he thinks.

  Jack, Landon, and McQueen think I'm some orphan with a trust-fund. Sure, there have been rumors about where I come from, but nothing concrete. Nothing that’s caused these guys with me now to ask the questions I'm not prepared to answer.

  The truth is, I am Adrian Genova the Fourth. Son of mafia boss Adrian Genova the Third. Last living heir to the dynasty.

  But after my father was murdered, I made a break for it. And yeah, some people might call me a pussy for not holding onto the family name—but family names are fucking pieces of shit when they only represent something demented. Something twisted.

  I'm looking for power now, but I don't want anyone to die while I climb my way up. And what Frank Grotto did tonight has left something vile in the air. Something I don't want to touch. He’s forced me into something I want no part of.

  And I fucking hate him for that.

  No one forces me to do anything.

  “Dude, you look like you're gonna kill someone,” McQueen says. When I don't answer, he speaks up again. “Fuck, do you need us to kill someone? Because bro, we got your back.”

  Landon keeps his mouth shut; I know he gambles at my tables, but this is something else. He saw the picture on Grotto's phone—this gamble could become life or death.

  Still, he steps up, and when he does I know he’s solid. “We have connections all over this town, Ace. We can get Grotto off your back. Do you know what he's after?”

  My jaw is tight, my chest burns. I want to kill that man. I haven't had this kind of intensity run through me since I heard about my Pops’ head getting blown off.

  I ran because I didn't want what he built.

  But this time, if I run I'm running from my own empire.

  I'm not going down that easy.

  “I know exactly what he wants and we need to shut that motherfucker down,” I tell them. “We need to talk, all four of us, but not here.”

  “Your penthouse?” Jack asks. “It's already four in the morning.”

  “Right,” I say, running my hand over my jaw. “Tomorrow, then. Noon. Don't tell anyone where you're going.”

  “Okay boss-man,” Landon says.

  The words boss-man cause my head to swivel around looking for her. The club has cleared out. The girls who dangled themselves in front of us all night have been escorted away.

  “Where did Emmy go?” I ask.

  “A bouncer must have told her to leave.” Jack strains his head as if trying to find her. “None of her friends are here, either. This place is empty.”

  “Fuck,” I say, punching the wall next to me. I've lost my cool in front of my bros. but also in front the security who stands around making sure the place is empty. Ace Royalle doesn't fucking lose his cool. Especially not over a woman.

  But Emmy Rose is not just some woman.

  She’s my woman.

  And she knows it. She felt it when I poured my come all over her tonight. It's not something you can forget.

  Not something she could forget if she tried.

  EMMY

  My eyes burn with tears. I don't even see where I am going.

  I can't fucking believe it. I honestly can't. I never, ever let my guard down. Not since I was teenager and ran with a rough crowd.

  Once my parents died I gave that shit up. I made a life for myself, I scrimped and I saved. I found every shred of decency that I could muster within me, and I swore I'd never let a man who was shady get close to me again.

  But Ace isn't just shady. He’s a fucking monster.

  And what does it say about me that I fucking loved having his hands all over me? His mouth devouring me? His heart next to mine—making me feel more alive with each beat.

  I want to run and hide
from Ace. And, in the same breath, I want to fucking push him against a wall.

  But I also don't trust myself to get close to him. If I pinned him against a wall, I know exactly what my body would require of me.

  My head knows I can't do that.

  “What the fuck is going on?” Claire asks.

  I stop in my stilettos, turn around.

  Claire and Tess are here. They're with me.

  Fuck. I look around and realize I've led us out of Stacked, out of Spades Royalle, and we’re standing on the sidewalk on the strip.

  “Sorry.” I blink back tears and embarrassment. I blink back the shame of not reining myself in. I blink back the realization that: holy effing cow, Ace Royalle should be in handcuffs right now.

  “I need to talk with the detective on my sister's case.”

  “What?” Tess shakes her head, then takes me by the shoulders and shakes me, too. “Honey, I don't know what crack you're smokin' right now, but you are ablaze with something I don't understand. What happened in there?”

  “Yeah, sweetie,” Clair agrees. “One second you were sitting in Ace's lap and the next you high-tailed it out of there like you'd witnessed a murder.”

  “It's bad. Like, so bad.” I press my fingertips to my eyes, trying to squeeze out what I should do.

  “We've gotta get here out of here,” Claire says, tugging me by my elbow toward the taxi line. Tess follows, and a minute later we crawl in the back of the yellow car.

  “Where ya headed?” the driver asks.

  “4213 Carlos Street,” Claire directs him. She's given him the address to my place.

  “Can you swing by Jack in the Box first?” Tess asks.

  Claire gives her an Are you kidding me? look, but Tess just shrugs.

  “What? I love me some spicy chicken sandwiches. And we've been out all night.”

  She flashes her phone screen at us. It’s four a.m.

  FML.

  “I should head to the hospital.”

  “In that? Honey, you have sex written all over you.”

  “No, I don't,” I say defensively, before turning to stare out the window. My eyes are numb to the bright lights as we drive down the Strip, where they sell sex and thrills for a price that suddenly seems too high.