Bringing Home the Bad Boy

by Jessica Lemmon

That realization led to her thinking of how he’d behaved since the afternoon on the dock, when the air snapped between them palpably—and she thought about it a lot, both while pretending to work and fervently avoiding being alone with her sexy neighbor.

  If she wasn’t mistaken, Sofie was right. Evan had been pursuing her.

  It didn’t assuage her guilt—guilt over Rae as well as a bigger guilt than Rae, which wasn’t something she understood yet—pricking her like one of Evan’s tattoo needles. Although on second thought, maybe that bigger “guilt” wasn’t guilt at all, but something else entirely.

  Yearning.

  So much of it built up during the years after Rae died. Charlie lost her best friend, Rae’s parents, and Evan and Lyon for a while. And in the last two years since Russell left her, she’d found herself wishing she had someone to yearn for. And now, she did. After bottling that longing, Evan had come along and shaken her up.

  No wonder she’d exploded, all the want flooding over her like an erupting soda. Now, imaginary, effervescent bubbles popped along the surface of her skin whenever she thought of him. It was a great feeling; one her body wanted more of.

  That kind of longing could easily become her new pastime. Pastimes took up too much time. And, as the saying went, Ain’t nobody got time for that.

  The ride wound to a halt and Lyon stepped off, pretending to stagger, his tongue hanging out.

  “I know you’re okay. You must be missing a dizzy gene,” she joked.

  “Can I feed the goats?”

  The fattest goats she’d ever seen. Poor things. They’d been fed fistfuls of sweaty, cracked corn throughout the day by kids young and old, and were going to have to go on a goat diet, or perhaps to the goat gym, if they had a prayer of making it through the summer with a modicum of self-worth.

  “Um.” She looked for a less cruel distraction, spotting a booth that would do the trick. “What if you try and win a fish instead?”

  His green-blue eyes lit like a cool flame. “Really? Dad will let me keep a fish?”

  There was so much excitement in his tone, she worried, albeit belatedly, that she’d overstepped a line. “Um…”

  Too late. Lyon was off, and all she could do was follow, secretly praying he didn’t win a fish she’d then have to explain to his dad.

  Charlie gave the older woman running the booth a ten-dollar bill, figuring Lyon would keep busy for a long while since the Ping-Pong balls he was attempting to land in the almost-too-small fishbowls were five for a dollar. He had just tossed his first ball when Evan’s agent approached.

  Gloria’s long black hair cascaded down her back, straight and smooth-as-silk. Charlie opted to pull hers into a clip today and avoid sweating her fool head off. Besides, if she’d let her honey-colored locks free in this humidity, she’d look like a Fraggle. And not a cute one.

  “Hey, sistah,” Glo said, coming to a stop next to her. She wore a tasteful pink skirt and delicate silver jewelry on her neck and ears, but her black top was all rock and roll… especially since it literally read ROCK ’N’ ROLL in pink glitter across the front. The collar of her T-shirt had been cut and her cleavage was on display, and practically in Charlie’s face thanks to the other woman’s tall, spiked black heels.

  Charlie had worn flats considering the grass was soft and there was straw over the muddier parts of the Library Park lawn. It both fascinated and perplexed her how Glo wasn’t sinking into the ground.

  “Hey.” She forced a smile, but it felt false. Normally, she wasn’t one to be fake to anyone, but this was the girl who Evan had kissed, and for reasons unbeknown to her, that fact continued to fester jealousy. Maybe because Glo had been bold enough to lay one on him at some point in time, but Charlie had to be marauded into a kiss she now felt super guilty over.

  They watched Lyon throw another ball. It bounced off the rim of a glass bowl, and the woman running the booth caught it and encouraged him to try again.

  Glo chuckled. “He wins one of those, Evan will freak.”

  A new flare of jealousy pinged her insides. Likely because Glo knew things about him and Charlie didn’t, and she didn’t like that. Not at all.

  “Okay, enough.” A sharp clap made Charlie flinch before giving over her full attention. Glo smiled and rubbed her hands together a few times before she spoke. “You probably know by now I’m pretty direct.”

  Uh-oh.

  Her heart rate increased to dangerous proportions. She didn’t like confrontation. She didn’t like it from anyone, let alone a woman as no-nonsense as Gloria Shields. With no way to run away from this situation—thus leaving Lyon—Charlie was trapped. It took every ounce of her self-control to not slap her hands over her ears, shut her eyes, and hum in order to avoid hearing whatever Gloria had to say.

  “I’m just going to say it.” Gloria was smiling.

  Charlie was pretty sure she was grimacing. She felt her body chill, then heat with worried anticipation.

  “Sweetie”—Glo reached out and put a palm on Charlie’s shoulder—“Evan’s your man. You don’t have to worry about him and me.”

  The statement startled her so much, she blurted out, almost defensively, “He’s not mine.” But her defense lacked authority, not to mention her shoulder was now sweating where Gloria’s hand rested.

  “Our feelings for one another are platonic and mutual,” Glo continued. “We kissed.” She pulled her hand away to hold up a finger. “Once. I promise you, it was like kissing one of those fish over there.” She gestured to Lyon, who threw a ball and (phew!) missed again.

  Well.

  Charlie had kissed Evan, too. More than once. She knew full well he was better than kissing a fish. He was better at kissing than any man she’d kissed, like, ever.

  “Nah, he wasn’t that bad.” Glo laughed.

  The feeling of ease swept away like ebbing tide.

  “We knew on contact it was the wrong move.”

  “Okay.” Despite the fact this was almost verbatim what Evan said, Charlie couldn’t say she felt better. But, at least she knew Glo wasn’t pursuing him in any way… which, now that she thought about it, did make her feel better.

  “You’re wrong, by the way,” Glo stated, making Charlie go rigid again. “Evan is yours, doll.” She turned to watch Lyon. “I don’t know if you want him or not, but they’re both yours.” Her cell rang and she answered it with a cheery, “Roger, hi. Did you have time to review my e-mail?” She wandered a few feet away to take her call while Charlie stared at Lyon, feeling… Gosh.

  What was she feeling?

  Her entire body buzzed like she’d just finished a really hard workout. Her heart stuttered in her chest. Her mouth was dry.

  They’re both yours.

  Both of them. Lyon and Evan.

  She blinked a few times in quick succession, turning the phrase over and over in her mind.

  Both yours.

  She wanted them both. She loved Lyon in the way she imagined a mother loved her son. She loved Evan in a different way… sure, as a friend, but now… in a lusty way. A way any woman would recognize as sexual, and never, ever mistake a kiss from him as fishlike or platonic.

  What did that mean?

  Should she allow herself to have what he was offering? Not that he’d offered a relationship, per se. But he’d certainly promised a few other things: painting involving orgasms, showers involving his lips on every inch of her body, and a tattoo for her. She could accept, if she let go of the guilt, let go of the worry of taking Rae’s family for herself.

  Could she fill the role her best friend had filled before her? Would Lyon resent her? Would Evan compare her?

  Her mind swam, her thoughts too confusing and too many to sort. This was not a decision she could make under the blazing sun while standing next to a woman Evan had kissed a year ago. There were other, more pressing problems to deal with.

  Three seconds later, Lyon added to those problems by one.

  “Aunt Charlie!” He bounded over to her, plastic bag
in hand, shaking the tiny brown fish inside. “I won! I won, I won, I won!”

  “Easy, buddy. Let’s not give him brain damage.” She stilled the bag and looked inside. The fish’s mouth was moving at an alarmingly fast rate, his eyes bugging out, though she supposed, since fish had no eyelids, they always looked like their eyes were bugging out. He was pretty, though she was unsure if he was a “he” at all. Unlike the others waiting to be won, he wasn’t orange, but goldish-brown in color with long, flowing fins.

  “I got to pick him,” he said proudly.

  “He’s beautiful.”

  “That lady said we can get everything for him over there.” He pointed to a strategically placed booth next to the one with the fish game where a vendor was selling everything from bowls and tanks, to filters, food, and decorations.

  “Yeah.” She walked with him to the booth. “I bet she did.”

  * * *

  “Ah, hell,” Evan said under his breath as he watched Charlie and Lyon—with a fish in a bag—approach a vendor who was happily gesticulating to a million accessories she could buy for the miniature carp he guessed he’d be flushing down the toilet within forty-eight hours.

  “The little lady got you a pet.” Ash elbowed him.

  “Laugh it up, dickhead.”

  Mrs. Anderson cleared her throat from nearby and angled a glare at them. Evan lifted a palm in apology.

  “No swearing, Mr. Downey,” Ash said, his impression of Mrs. Anderson as bad as his Forrest Gump.

  “Looks like your girlfriend’s talking to mine,” Evan told him. He was sure Ash would jump to argue that Gloria was not his girlfriend. “Girlfriends” made Asher Knight as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Commitment wasn’t his thing, or so it was written in his rock ’n’ roll credo somewhere.

  “Oh-ho! Charlie’s your girlfriend?”

  Evan speared him with a silent glare.

  Ash grinned.

  He shook his head as he looked around the park. Almost every kid here carried a signed and personalized-to-them copy of The Adventures of Mad Cow—and girls of all ages who’d accepted the book when Ash, under the reproachful gaze of Mrs. Anderson, refused to sign their tits—which meant he and Ash were almost off the clock. Good thing, too.

  “I’m starving. You want a”—Evan squinted at the booth across from them—“deep fried apple fritter hot dog?”

  God. What the hell was that?

  “Sounds like a dare.”

  The booth to their right displayed a menu boasting its claim to fame was something called a “pork rind peanut butter burger.”

  “No.” Evan nodded toward the booth. “I think that blue ribbon goes to Jack’s Shack.”

  “I say we get both,” Asher said. “So. You get laid?”

  Evan felt a grin come on, tried to stop it, and failed miserably.

  Better than laid. He and Charlie had painted one another’s bodies while he kissed the breath out of her. She made herself come while he watched, holding her close, and listening to the sounds she made when she did. Listened to the way she said his name, all high and tight because her moment of pleasure was mixed in the paint imprints on their bodies. And he’d taken her there—she’d arrived there because he was guiding her arm and tasting her mouth and encouraging her with his words.

  Erotic as hell, and like nothing he’d ever experienced. Tapping into her, and into a moment in the middle of a moment where he’d been so filled with artistic vibes and creation. It’d happened right in the middle of a “zone” and on the canvases of their bodies. The smell of paint in the air would forever have a sensual smell after they’d—

  “You son of a bitch. You did get laid.”

  Ash shoved his shoulder and Evan snapped out of what Rae would have classified as a midday “zone out,” only he hadn’t been painting, he’d been remembering painting Charlie.

  Speaking of, he turned his head to see her carrying a miniature tank—a freaking fish tank—loaded with supplies and things that looked like they plugged into the wall. Lyon cradled his new pet to his chest like he’d won a puppy instead.

  “I can’t believe it, man.”

  “Yeah, a fish,” Evan grumbled.

  “Not what I meant,” Asher said, a smile clear in his voice.

  Luckily, he didn’t have a chance to expound on that statement because Mrs. Anderson stepped in front of them.

  She eyed a tiny gold watch—how could she see the face well enough to tell the time?—and proclaimed, “Mr. Knight, your ballad starts in thirty minutes if you’d like to tune up your guitar.”

  “Shit,” Ash grumbled. “Shoot, I mean,” he corrected when she gave him the evil eye. “Yes ma’am. I’ll go uh, tune up.” He slapped Evan’s arm and said, “Drinks at Salty after.”

  Salty Dog was located on the main drag in town, but they’d also set up a temporary dwelling. The tiki-hut-like structure sat apart from the rest of the festival with a sign overhead that read 21 AND OLDER, colored Japanese lanterns hanging from ropes looped around the perimeter.

  “Mr. Downey, I’ve decided what I’d like for the library’s main room.”

  She had, had she? He lifted his eyebrows at the petite older woman standing over him.

  She blinked at him through a thick pair of trifocals. “An abstract painting.”

  “Abstract,” he repeated.

  “Ms. Shields said you’d paint whatever I requested.”

  Yeah, well Ms. Shields tended to overpromise on occasion. He stood and smiled, palming Mrs. Anderson’s petite shoulder. To his surprise, she didn’t feel the least bit frail. There was muscle, strength under that peach blouse, making him wonder if she did bench presses when she retired for the evening.

  He gestured to the painting of Mad Cow. “I don’t do abstracts, ma’am.” Unless they were done at three in the morning while he was mid-nervous-breakdown over his deceased wife. He gestured at the easel next to him. “But if Mad Cow is too… unrefined for you”—and he was—“I can paint you an owl, or maybe a fox reading a book? Foxes are trendy.”

  She glared up at him, the force of her glare so much he removed his hand from her shoulder.

  “I want a piece of art, not a cartoon, Mr. Downey.” She checked her tiny watch again and snapped her fingers at two young guys whose faces looked as miserable as if they were serving time rather than volunteering. “Joel and Micah. Break down this tent and put Mr. Downey’s cow painting in the silent auction section.” Then to Evan, she dipped her chin. “Art,” she said.

  “Art,” he confirmed with a sigh.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Oh boy.

  Charlie watched Evan leave the tent as two teenagers went to work dismantling it. Her hand curled around the five-gallon aquarium, her steps deliberately slowed, which meant Lyon had run ahead of her with Terror—the name he’d chosen for the fish—displayed prominently in front of him.

  When she got close, she heard him saying, “… a few fish flakes twice a day or he won’t eat it and the tank will get too dirty and he’ll die.”

  “Okay, bud, we’ll stick to that so that Terror won’t die.” Evan cut his eyes to Charlie, then mouthed the word “Terror?” and she knew he wasn’t upset over the whole fish thing.

  “Hey, Ace,” he said when he’d ambled within arm’s reach. He relieved her of Terror’s new home, his eyes going to her mouth like he wanted to kiss her.

  She wanted him to. But her eyes deliberately went to Lyon, then back to Evan in silent communication. Evan leaned close anyway and whispered, “He’s gonna see me kiss you a hundred times, Ace.” Then he brushed his lips over hers in a way that made her anticipate the next hundred times to follow. The kiss was slower and sexier than their last kiss, and she didn’t know if that was because he’d kissed her deeper and with more meaning the night in the studio, or if the kiss now was deeper and more meaningful.

  She didn’t have time to figure out the answer to the quandary because Lyon shouted, “Nonna and Poppa!”
/>   Her blood chilled.

  Evan must have seen her reaction because next he said, “Relax, Charlie.” Then to Rae’s parents, he called out, “Hey, guys.”

  She turned to see Patricia Mosley fawning over her grandson, wearing a flowing floral dress and flat sandals, her curves prominent but controlled. Patricia and Rae had the same light brown skin color, the same curvy, sexy, and enviable build.

  Cliff’s wide hands tenderly lifted Terror to get a better look. “That is one fine fish.”

  Charlie smiled at the same time her chest clutched.

  She’d seen them once since Rae’s funeral. Once in four years.

  After Lyon was done telling the tale of how he’d saved Terror with his Ping-Pong ball prowess, Patricia and Cliff both looked to Charlie. She felt the longing from earlier bubble over again, this time for the people who had been more like a family to her over the years than her own.

  “Charlotte.” Patricia, who looked close to tears, approached, arms out, and pulled her into one of those mom hugs. The kind of hugs she used to get before her mother grew ill and too weak to tighten her arms around her.

  It felt so good to be nestled against her, Charlie let the hug linger. Pat let her.

  When she pulled away, they both wiped their eyes and Cliff clucked at his wife. “Don’t make my baby girl cry, Patty.” He embraced Charlie next, giving her several swift pats on the back, his laughter rumbling against the cheek she’d rested on his barrel chest. Then he wiped the stray tears tracking down her face with his big, big hands.

  “Baby girl,” he said with a huge, genuine white-toothed smile. The sparkle in his eyes reminded her of Rae, and made her aware of Evan and her feelings for Evan, and that sent another jolt of guilt surging through her bloodstream.

  Rae’s parents. If they only knew.

  Evan got a handshake from Cliff and a kiss on the cheek from Patricia, not because they loved him less than Charlie, but because he’d obviously seen them multiple times since Rae died. That, too, made her feel guilty.

  Ugh.

  “Thanks for picking him up. I’ll come get him when you’re sick of him,” Evan joked. He kicked Lyon’s tennis shoe. “Probably be ready to send you home by tonight.”