Badd Business

by Jasinda Wilder

  “D-F-F-ing?” she asked.

  “Drinking, fighting, and fucking.”

  She went back to cleaning up the workstation, but it seemed to me, in my admittedly limited experience, that the station was pretty clean already.

  “Juneau, I—” I trailed off, not sure what I intended to say.

  “What?”

  That was a lie—I knew what I wanted to say, and I also knew how she’d react. “Your tattoos are gorgeous.”

  Her laugh was soft, and not unkind. “You’ve said that already. Thanks.”

  “Show me the rest.”

  She stiffened again. “I don’t think so. You weren’t even supposed to see these.”

  “Why not? They’re amazing?”

  She shrugged, and glanced at me in the mirror that took up the entire wall behind the tattoo station. “You just weren’t. Like you said, it’s a long story and not one I want to tell. Not to you—not now, and probably not ever.”

  “Even if I ask really nicely?” I said, meeting her gaze.

  She watched my hands drift up again—I’d restrained them once, but now they had a mind of their own. They lifted, drifted, settling lightly on her shoulders, on the shirt. Her eyes widened, and her lips parted—her tongue peeked out and ran along her lower lip, that plump, pink curve. She watched in the mirror, her dark eyes unreadable and intense, as I slid my fingers onto her skin. Soft—so soft—softer than I’d even imagined it to be. I brushed the fine cotton of her shirt across her shoulders, to the edges.

  “Remington—” she whispered.

  I watched her eyes, held her gaze, and swept the shirt off her shoulders entirely; her breath caught in a sharp gasp as the garment sagged against her elbows. Her back was entirely bared, now…except—

  I slipped the two buttons free of the buttonholes, and the shirt draped forward, falling off, held in place now only by one of her hands. Her bra straps were dangling around her elbows as well, and I could see hints of the cups, white lace, innocent and sensual. A swell of breast, and the curve of her spine, and the alluring, exotic dark caramel of her dark skin, and the colorful sweep of her tattoos.

  I caressed a palm across her shoulders, careful to avoid the fresh tattoo, and then followed down her arm, and her ribs, and then her back, fingertips tracing the wolf paw tracks as they danced in single file. Then up, rubbing a thumb across the curved beaks of the salmons’ mouths, and the deep rippling blue hues of the fjord waters and the blushing fiery sun setting on her shoulder…

  “What do they mean?” I asked, my voice a low whisper. “I know they have meaning.”

  “The new one—the mama bear is art, the art of tattooing, specifically. The cubs are Ink and me.” She reached up and tapped the wolf tracks. “Those are my sisters. The salmon jumping upriver is my father. The fjord and the sunset is my mother.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I don’t know why I told you any of that.”

  I lifted my shirt to show her the left side of my ribcage; there was a doorframe, partly closed, just a hint of a woman’s high heel vanishing through it. “That’s my mother.” I tapped the heel. “She left when we were seven.”

  “Oh. I—I’m sorry.”

  “I only tell you that to share my personal story so we’re even.” I ran my palms over her back, exploring now, testing her limits, feeling the swelling thrill of touching her glorious skin with its delicate softness and vivid illustrations.

  I dragged my fingers up her sides—she wasn’t ticklish, but she did shudder. For a different reason, I’d like to think.

  “Remington…” She curled away from my touch, and then twisted away.

  Only, in her haste to retreat from my touch, she seemed to have forgotten that her shirt wasn’t fastened in any way, and the movement as she twisted away sent the garment tumbling to the ground, her bra with it. She lurched down, snatching the shirt and clasping it desperately against her front.

  She stood in front of me, trembling, eyes locked on mine, shirt knotted in her fists, pressed hard against her chest. Keeping my eyes on hers, I bent, retrieved her bra, and gestured to her with it.

  “Move your hands,” I murmured.

  She shook her head.

  “Trust me.”

  She shot me a disgusted eye roll. “You just want to see my boobs.”

  “Absolutely.” When she started to protest, I cut over her. “I absolutely, desperately want to see you bare, all over. I already told you that. But I only want that when you show me yourself voluntarily.”

  “I won’t,” she whispered. “Not ever.”

  I just smirked. “Don’t be so sure.”

  “Remington, you don’t understand—”

  I held the bra cups in one hand, and clasped her wrists in the other. “I’m gonna put it on you.” I tugged them away. “Trust me, Juneau.”

  “Why would I?” she asked, resisting.

  “Why wouldn’t you?” I countered, letting her keep the shirt pressed against herself.

  “The last time we talked, you told me you wanted to—”

  “I remember. And I also remember telling you you probably didn’t want to know.” I leaned closer to her, until I could smell the faint tang of her perfume. “I want that. I fantasize about that, Juneau. And you want to know something else?” I asked, applying pressure, testing her resistance.

  “What?” she whispered, gradually letting me pull the shirt away from her body, my eyes locked on hers.

  This is a funny situation: I’m trying to put her clothing on her, and she’s resisting.

  I kept our gazes locked, kept my eyes on hers. “I think you fantasize about that, too.”

  Her eyes flicked away, to a tiny square of much-folded yellow, lined notebook paper sitting on the counter of the tattoo station.

  Interesting.

  “I do not,” she muttered, the lie obvious in her eyes, her voice.

  “Such a bad liar, Juneau,” I said, smirking at her.

  “I am not.”

  I decided, in that moment, to give in to the asshole inside me—in this case, the asshole was fed by equal parts lust and curiosity.

  I reached forward and snatched the square of paper.

  “Give me that!” Juneau snapped. “That’s mine.”

  I just smirked, holding up the bra in one hand and the square of paper in the other. “Choose.”

  I knew she couldn’t put the shirt on without letting me see, and we both knew there was zero chance I was turning away to give her privacy.

  “You’re such a bastard.”

  “Yeah, well, you already knew that about me, didn’t you?”

  She bit her lip hard, and then huffed in anger. “Give them to me, Remington.”

  “Not a chance.” I stared down at her. “Make you a deal. Trust me—let me help you get dressed, and I’ll give you your little note back without reading it.”

  “Go to hell. Just give me the bra and the…note. Don’t be a dick!”

  “Oooh, a swear word!” I backed up a step. “Getting feisty.”

  She glared at me. “You think because you’re so damn sexy and good-looking you can just do what you want, is that it?” she said, her eyes sparking fire. “You can go to hell.”

  She set her jaw, lifted her chin, and I knew she’d made some kind of decision. She unclenched her fists, letting the shirt—knotted in her fists—drape loose in front of her. Sucking in a deep breath, keeping her eyes locked defiantly on mine, she shook it out, oriented it, and slipped her right hand through the correct sleeve, swinging the button-down around behind her.

  And, just like that, she was bare for me, her entire front exposed. Heavy, round breasts with wide, dark areolae that took up almost the entire front of each breast, her thick dark nipples standing out on end. Her skin was decorated across her breastbone and shoulders above her cleavage with lines and triangles and various rune-like shapes—things I recognized from Ink’s sample book as being culturally significant for her—and then across her stomach and ribcage and down both sid
es, vanishing under her skirt’s waistband—more tribal markings and animals and a jumble of images.

  And then I stepped forward, covering her breasts with the bra; I had to cover them, or I’d lose what little control I had left. The vision of her lasted barely a moment—only an instant, and it was a glance I knew would haunt me forever. I pressed the cups against her dusky flesh, guiding her arms through the straps, and then helping her with her shirt. I leaned close enough to smell her hair and her perfume and her skin and her breath—and reached around behind her with both hands, hooking the eyelets together behind her back, and then set to work buttoning the shirt from the bottom up, my eyes on hers the entire time. I was careful not to get too close, not to let my painful erection press against her.

  Her gaze was troubled, confused, angry—and aroused. “Happy now?”

  “Happy?” I snorted derisively. “No, not even close. That was like giving a man dying of thirst two little drops of water on his tongue.”

  Her eyes rolled. “So dramatic.” Her gaze shot to the piece of paper still gripped in one of my hands. “Will you please give me that?”

  “What’s it worth to you?” I asked, grinning at her.

  She narrowed her eyes at me. “If you were anything like honorable or a gentleman, you’d just give it back.”

  “If I was anything like honorable or a gentleman, I wouldn’t have taken it in the first place,” I said. “And one my greatest failings is that I’m insatiably curious.”

  “If you don’t give me that back, I’ll never speak to you again, Remington.”

  I laughed. “I was under the impression that was already the plan. What with the way you left Seattle and all…” I shrugged, flipping the square of folded notebook paper between my fingers. “Yet…here we are.”

  “You are SUCH an asshole, Remington Badd,” she snapped. “For real.”

  I just grinned all the harder. “You know it. All my life, baby, and I ain’t plannin’ on changing anytime soon.”

  “Give…it…back,” she snarled. “Now.” Her eyes met mine, shifted to desperate pleading. “Please?”

  I frowned. “It’s really that important to you?”

  “I’m a very private person, Remington,” she whispered. “You’ve already invaded my privacy in ways you’ll never understand.”

  “Invaded your privacy?” I echoed in disbelief. “What, by one little peek at your tits? Come on, Juneau—they’re just boobs, at the end of the day. And I didn’t really see all that much or for that long, except that you’ve got more seriously killer tats covered up under there.”

  She shook her head. “It’s not about that. I mean, yeah, that was mortifying. I never let anyone see me like that, not ever. Just like I never have these conversations, but yet with you, this crap is happening again.” She closed her eyes.

  “Me just being here, in this tattoo parlor, with you, is an invasion of your privacy?” I asked, still not quite following. “And what do you mean, you never let anyone see you like that?”

  She shook her head. “You wouldn’t get it.” She gestured at her torso, now once again modestly covered. “I don’t show people my tattoos. Ink is literally the only human being alive who even knows I have them. And now…you.”

  I blinked in shock. “So what, you’re a virgin? No guy has ever seen you naked?”

  “No, I’m not a virgin, thank you very much,” she snapped. The ire quickly faded, however, morphing into…insecurity, or something similar to it. “There are ways of…hiding them.”

  I stepped back, turning in a circle, running my hands through my hair. “Well then I’m just confused to hell and gone,” I said. “Because while I had you pegged for modest and reserved and all that, and probably more on the innocent side of things, sexually, I didn’t have you pegged as insecure.”

  “I’m not insecure!” she snapped. “I told you, you wouldn’t understand.”

  I stepped up close to her and stared down into her deep, warm, conflicted brown eyes. “No, I don’t. But I could, and I’d sure as fuck like the opportunity to try.”

  She shook her head. “No, no.” She backed away. “You say that, but…you don’t, not really. You just want to lure me into sleeping with you.”

  “You’re underestimating me in a big way,” I said, my voice low and quiet. “I’m not gonna lie—yes, I have every intention of seducing you into sleeping with me. But I’m capable of a hell of a lot more than just that.”

  I cupped her cheek in one hand, and she blinked, and then her eyes went wide and her eyebrows crinkled and her teeth caught at her lower lip, and her face tilted up to mine.

  “You just have to give me a chance, Juneau.”

  6

  Juneau

  His hand was warm and hard and rough, yet somehow gentle.

  He was a man of contradictions. He asked me to trust him, yet he snatched the note like a troublemaking eighth grader; he refused to give me my clothes, manipulating me into exposing myself to him, and then he immediately covered me, gently, almost lovingly dressing me when he could have drawn out the moment to get an eyeful of my breasts; he flat out told me he planned on seducing me, but in the same breath, he asked me to just give him a chance.

  How do I reconcile all that?

  His deep-set, vividly blue eyes pierced me. His lips were parted, his chest rising and falling deeply, swiftly, as if fighting for breath…or control. He still had my sketch. It was, honestly, safer to call it a “note,” because if I called it a sketch, he’d be even more curious.

  I wanted to kiss him.

  I wanted to know what his mouth felt like against mine. I wanted his arms around me, blocking out the world, his chest against mine in a solid wall of male muscle; I wanted his body against mine. I wanted to feel the evidence of his arousal against my belly.

  I wanted his hands to wander my curves.

  I wanted him.

  I wanted him.

  The bell tinkled, and I staggered backward, out of his touch.

  “Hey, hey, I got some good stuff, cuz! We’re gonna eat good!” Ink said as the front bell tinkled. “Ol’ Joe just dropped off some salmon candy, and I got us some lunch meat, some sliced cheese, a big ol’ salad, some chips and salsa, beer…”

  “I have to go, Ink.” I snatched my purse off the floor where I’d deposited it near the tattoo station. “I’m sorry.”

  Ink’s brown eyes reflected hurt and puzzlement. “But I just bought all this food for the two of us.” He slowly set the bags down on the floor at his feet.

  I didn’t want to go, but I couldn’t stay here with Remington any longer; I’d do or say something monumentally stupid, something I’d regret. “I’m sorry, Ink. I—I have to go.”

  Ink’s eyes cut to Remington, who was standing with my note between his fingers, watching me very closely. “Good job, asshole. I don’t know what you said to her, but you just ruined my day.”

  “I’ll come back, Ink,” I said. “Soon. I promise.”

  “Yeah. Like, a month or two. Whatever.” He snatched the bags up. “Go. I’ll see you later.”

  Remington sprang into action, then, heading for the door. “Juneau, you stay here.”

  “I really have to go,” I said, lying through my teeth. “It’s not about you.”

  He smirked down at me as he paused beside me. “Like my dad says—never bullshit a bullshit artist, honey. You’re just trying to escape the fact that you were about to kiss me.” He touched a finger to his lips, and then to mine. “Soon. For now, you stay here with your cousin.”

  And then he was out the door, and gone. I was dumbfounded.

  I sprinted to the door and half fell out of it onto the sidewalk, shouting after him. “HEY! My note!”

  He was swaggering away, hands swinging at his sides, powerful legs driving him swiftly, tight hard ass cupped in faded blue denim, oblivious to the chill in the air with his skin-tight T-shirt. He spun around without slowing his pace, walking backward, flipping the note between his fingers in a d
ramatic flourish.

  “Consider it insurance that I’ll see you again!”

  I stomped a foot and cursed, huffing, knowing it was futile. “You better not open it!”

  He stopped walking and stood facing me about twenty feet away, stuffed the note into his back pocket, and then lifted his fingers in the Scout’s Honor salute. “You have my word of honor as an Eagle Scout, and as a smokejumper, that I won’t look at it…for three days. If I don’t see you by the end of the third day, I’m opening it.”

  “That’s not fair!”

  He just smirked. “That’s the deal.” He pointed at me. “Seventy-two hours, Juneau.”

  I watched him reach a pickup truck that had seen better days: rust had eaten away at the wheel wells, the tailgate was fastened in place with a combination of duct tape and bungee cords, there was a sizable dent in the front right quarter panel, and there was a crack in the windshield running from one side to the other. He hopped in, slamming the door closed, and the engine started right away with a powerful rumble that said while the outside may have been in rough shape, the motor had been well-maintained. He drove away, and I stood outside watching until he was out of sight.

  Back in the tattoo parlor, Ink was laying squares of cheddar cheese and circles of sliced turkey together on a plate in neatly overlapping layers. He had blue corn chips dumped into a big bowl, and the salsa poured into another smaller bowl, and the salad mixed up in a third bowl. There was a six-pack of locally brewed beer, as well, the bottles sweating with fresh condensation, as well as half of an apple pie—which Ink was famous for within our extended family. In the center of the spread was a bowl of sweet, smoked Salmon candy. This stuff was like crack to me, and I put Remington out of my mind while I helped myself.

  “You stayin’, then, June-bug?” he asked, glancing up at me as he finished layering the meat and cheese.

  I sank in the tattoo chair with a heavy sigh. “Yeah, I’m staying.”

  He only just barely suppressed a grin. “So the cheechako was right, huh?”

  I glared at my cousin. “No.”

  “You say that like our little cousin John John tells his mama he didn’t steal the cookies.”