Goode To Be Bad

by Jasinda Wilder

  “Jesus, Lex.” I had a raging hard-on and a welter of confused emotions.

  She looked at me, tears in my eyes. “Myles, I—”

  The fear in her eyes, the wariness…told me everything I needed to know.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t ask you to make that a reality.” I sounded cold and I knew it.

  She closed her eyes, relieved or hurt, I wasn’t sure if was one or the other or both. “Myles, that’s—”

  “You wanted it, it felt beautiful and right, but you’re not about to let it happen. That’s what made it so hard for you, right?” I felt cracks seam the tender inner sanctum of my heart. “Because letting that happen would be letting me in.”

  She straightened, and I saw the moment the clamshell snapped closed. “Yep. You guessed it.” She pushed away from the railing. Turned and went inside. “I’m going to take a shower and change clothes. Mom wants us to meet her and Lucas at some place called Badd Kitty.” And with that, she walked away.

  I watched her go.

  I’d already had sex with her twice today, and got a handjob to boot. She’d come…god, six times? More, maybe. I wasn’t sure.

  So maybe that was why I didn’t invite myself into her shower. That had to be it. A mere surplus of sex. Maybe there was such a thing as too much of a good thing.

  I didn’t believe myself for a second. Desire wasn’t the issue, for me. Nor was biology—I was rarin’ to go right this minute.

  Taking a shower was her running away. If she let me into that shower with her, she’d run the risk of giving in to what her body and heart wanted but her mind was too terrified to allow. So, she ran.

  From me, from us. From herself.

  And I let her.

  Lexie

  I didn’t have the courage to invite him into the shower with me. I wanted to. No matter how frequently I had that man inside me, I always wanted more. I’d always had an out of control libido, an insane capacity and need for sex. Just physiologically, where most women seemed to run out of energy, get sore, need a break, or just plain get tapped out of libidinous drive, I don’t. I just don’t. Myles North is pure jet fuel dumped on my sex drive. What was already a wild inferno, he turned into an uncontrollable supernova. It honestly scared me.

  And then there was the emotional aspect of it all. I wanted…a whole bunch of things I couldn’t even begin to quantify or name.

  I wanted to be held; I wanted to feel safe—like I had on the plane ride here. Like I had every night since meeting Myles.

  I wanted to feel him raw and bare inside me, feel him lose control, feel him desperate and wild and all fucking mine, in my arms, above me, behind me, beneath me, all around me, everywhere in me and through me. I wanted to—

  Fuck.

  I wanted to love him.

  To be loved by him.

  Standing in the shower, coming to that realization, I fucking lost it.

  I fell to the floor of the shower and sobbed. Again. For the second time today.

  Because I just could not figure out how to let him in. I could not tell him how I felt. Admitting to myself how I felt about Myles was terrifying enough, but there was no possible way I could tell him. Telling him I was falling in love with him meant I would have to reveal more secrets.

  And lordy, I had some doozies.

  Secrets which not even Mom, Charlie, Cassie, Torie, or Poppy knew about. Secrets no one knew except me and the person involved.

  Secrets that I did not even dare to think about.

  Eventually, the water started to lose its heat and I forced myself to my feet, finished my shower, then turned off the water and stepped out, toweled off.

  I borrowed Mom’s hairdryer and did my hair in a tight topknot, minimal makeup, and dressed in a pair of saffron yellow peasant slacks—tight at the waist and ankles, low-rise, and voluminous and blousy and flowing around my legs. Above, I wore a bright leafy green piece of thin linen which tied up around my neck and around my back, and was entirely open down between my breasts to where it was knotted over my diaphragm. I put some nude-colored nipple pasties on, just so I didn’t start a riot with Mom’s new “family,” along with some strategically applied double-sided boob tape to make sure the girls didn’t totally escape the negligible constraints of the top.

  Leather sandals completed the outfit, and I was ready to go.

  When I emerged from the bathroom, which was en suite to the bedroom Myles and I would be sharing, he was in the process of removing his damp jeans, shirtless, barefoot, messy hair. Fucking glorious. My heart started palpitating immediately upon seeing his broad back and taut, muscular ass and powerful thighs—he was facing away from me, kicking the jeans off and swearing under his breath as the damp denim stuck to him. God, he was beautiful with his collage of tattoos, his wild damp hair, skin golden.

  When he was finally free of the wet jeans, he kicked them across the room with a shout of triumph, and snagged a clean pair. He shrugged into a tight white T-shirt, and threaded a faded, worn, tanned leather belt with a big platinum Texas-shaped buckle into his jeans. He snagged a clean ball cap from his duffel—this one white and orange with the Longhorns logo, then sat on the bed, tugged his socks on, and his trusty boots—in all the time I’d known him, I’d only ever seen him wear two different pairs of boots: one a pair of floppy-sided, square-toed, scuffed and stained tan leather cowboy boots, and the other a pair of Doc Martens, brown and shiny, often polished, but scratched and well-worn. Despite his wealth, he was a man of simple tastes, and was dedicated to comfortable, familiar clothing.

  Dressed, he stood up, settled a deep sigh, and just stood there a moment, not realizing I was behind him. I stepped carefully closer, and I noted the moment he realized my presence—his shoulders straightened, his head lifted. I pressed up against him from behind, slid my hands up his belly over his shirt. “You look every inch the country star, Mr. North.”

  He chuckled. “I was going for average Joe.”

  “You couldn’t pass for an average Joe if you tried, Myles. You just exude star power. It’s just in your DNA.”

  He twisted his head, sniffed at me, inhaling deeply. “God, Lex, you smell so fuckin’ good.”

  I leaned closer, so his nose slid along my throat. “Lavender and vanilla perfume.”

  He inhaled deeply, and my skin pebbled. “Been driving me crazy, tryin’ to figure out what the scent was.” He inhaled again. “Fuckin’ love the way you smell, Lex.”

  I shivered. “I’ll wear this scent more often, if you love it that much.”

  He growled. “Best be careful, wearin’ it around me. Makes me fuckin’ horny as hell.”

  “Myles, seriously, what doesn’t make you horny?”

  He nipped my throat. “About you? Not much.”

  I shivered again, laughing as his hot breath and sharp teeth moved down my throat to the hollow where my throat met my breastbone. “Stop, Myles, or we won’t make the get-together.”

  “Well damn, what a shame that would be.”

  I felt my hand lift, slide along his cheek, tracing his rough three-day stubble. “We have to go, Myles. Mom really wants me to meet them all.”

  He sighed in resignation, kissed my shoulder. Straightened. “Fine, fine. I’ll be good.” Another unexpected nip to the side of my neck. “For now.”

  “You be good now and I’ll be good later.”

  “Sexy Lexie, you’re always good.”

  Two words, one a compliment that I valued under most circumstances and the other simply my name—together, said as a nickname, were like being doused with cold water. Worse, like having acid thrown on me. I writhed away, shuddering convulsively, nearly gagging; instant panic attack.

  “Do not ever—fucking EVER call me…that…again.” I whirled, and I knew he saw the deadly serious venom in my eyes, in every line of my expression. “Never. Do you understand me?”

  He blinked, eyes wide, hands up in surrender. “Jesus fuck, Lex, yeah, I got it. I apologize. I didn’t know.”

&
nbsp; I swallowed hard. Turned away to blink the hot salty mist away. “Thank you,” I whispered. “I can’t explain, I just…”

  He was behind me, hands gingerly resting on my shoulders. “It’s okay, Lex. You’ve got triggers. It’s okay. We’ll uncover ’em as we go along and I’ll learn them. Breathe, okay? It’s all right, Lex.”

  I shook my head. “You had no way of knowing. Just please don’t say that again.”

  “I won’t.”

  I tried to steady my breathing. Waited for the questions with shoulders hunched as if waiting for a blow. They never came. I turned and stared up at him. My eyes were still damp. “You’re not going to ask?”

  He shook his head. “I know better.”

  “Dammit, Myles, that’s not fair.”

  He pulled me close, wrapped me up in a hug. A warm, enveloping, platonic, safe embrace. Just held me. “I’ll wait, Lex. I know you got shit you can’t talk about, won’t talk about. I ain’t blind. It’s deep, and it’s big, and it’s painful, and I doubt you’ve ever talked about it. I ain’t gonna ask, now or ever. I want to know—I need to know. But you gotta decide if you trust me, if I’m somebody you want deep enough in your life to give me your secrets. Only you can decide that. I ain’t pushin’, Lex. Not gonna. Just so we’re clear, I am asking you to try to trust me. To give it to me. Talk to me. But this, right here, right now, it’s the only time I’m gonna say it. It’s up to you, Lex, and I’m strong enough and patient enough to wait for you to figure it out on your own time.”

  I let him hold me and didn’t try to respond. I had nothing to respond with. Eventually, the panic attack lessened, faded away, and left me. When I could, I pushed away from him. Drew a deep breath, and let it out slowly. I stared up at him and tried to find something to say. “Myles, I…”

  He touched my lips. “Don’t have to say anything, Lex. Just wanted you to know where I’m at.” He took my hand, twined his fingers with mine, and smiled at me. “Ready?”

  I sighed again—I didn’t deserve him, the way he treated me. But I was going to take it, because it felt too good to deny myself. “Yeah, let’s go.”

  Badd Kitty turned out to be Badd Kitty Saloon—a supermasculine place, but in an inviting, appealing way. Faded, reclaimed wood for the floorboards and walls, weathered, aged, rusted, reclaimed bits of tin, copper, and steel for trim and odds and ends, a long polished bar running the entire length of the interior on one side, real double-hinged batwing doors in front of the bathrooms and kitchen; forties and fifties pinup posters on the walls, along with movie posters from spaghetti westerns, Charles Bronson movies, and old black-and-white horrors like Psycho, Nosferatu, and Creature from the Black Lagoon. Other decorations included an entire antique motorcycle on one section of wall, a pair of Old West pearl-handled revolvers and a gun belt, and an assorted collection of antique tools and weaponry. There were lots of two-tops and four-tops in the middle with plenty of space between the tables and a space for people to dance and mill around. Booths lined the wall opposite the bar.

  Interestingly, there were only two TVs in the whole place, placed on either end of the bar, and neither was tuned to Sports Center, but instead both were playing what looked like The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, with the volume up enough that if you were sitting near the TV, you could actually hear it. There was music playing everywhere else, an old Elvis Costello tune I recognized but couldn’t have named.

  The bar was busy, but I soon realized that it was only immediate Badd and Goode family members and attached significant others and kids in attendance; there was actually a sign on a stand as you entered which stated the bar was closed for a private event.

  And good golly Miss Molly, what a crew it was. Every male I saw was more mouthwateringly hot than the last—I’m not ashamed to say that if the entire collection of men in this room were to do a nude or mostly nude calendar, I’d be the first to buy one and hang it in my bathroom for the purposes of visual stimulation while twiddling my bean. Because damn, the men were hot. The sheer volume of muscle and testosterone and insanely perfect male sexiness was so overwhelming I had to fan myself, and restrain myself from running into the bathroom and doing something inappropriate with myself—or better yet, with Myles. I mean, the testosterone and sexiness levels were off the charts.

  And then there were the women.

  I have a healthy self-esteem, okay? Facts are facts, and I’m hot. I know what I look like and I’m not intimidated being in a room with other beautiful women.

  But…the women milling around in the Badd Kitty Saloon? Each of them was incredible.

  Faces so beautiful they could start not just fights but whole wars.

  Bodies that made mine seem downright frumpy.

  Perfect hair in shades ranging from blond to brown to red to black like my own.

  Mesmerizing eyes.

  Brilliant smiles.

  Geez, what a group.

  Myles and I were standing in the entrance, taking it all in, and I glanced up at Myles. “Wow.”

  He snorted in disbelief. “No kidding. Wow. I mean, where do I look first? The men make me feel like a ninety-pound wuss, and the women make me feel funny in the pants region.”

  “Right? I mean, god. Check out the monster dude behind the bar talking to Mom. He makes even Jupiter look small and puny.”

  “Must be Baxter, the one Jupe was telling us about.”

  I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He was the physical embodiment of a comic book superhero. “He’s scary as fuck.” I eyed the crowd again. “I won’t be mad if you feel a little overcome by lust at some of these women, I gotta say.”

  He shook his head. “Check out the strawberry blonde with the ice cream-colored skin and the freckles, over there with the blond Adonis.”

  I followed his gaze, and was dumbstruck with marvel. “Dude.”

  “Right?”

  “I think I have boob envy.”

  He guffawed. “You got no reason to envy anyone, Lex. But yeah, she’s fuckin’ stacked.”

  “Is that how you’d describe me? Stacked?”

  He smirked at me. “Jealous?”

  “Nah.” I shrugged. “Just curious.”

  “She’s not just stacked, she’s fuckin’ stacked. It’s a level up.” He eyed me, his gaze raking over my rather prominently displayed tatas. “You, Alexandra Goode, are not just fuckin’ stacked…” he trailed off. “I’m trying to think of what would be one step up from that.”

  “Well, I’m not sure I know how men rank their categories of boob size, so I can’t help you there.”

  “Myles! Lex!” A female voice from across the bar. “Get in here and meet everyone!”

  I turned my gaze to see Mom standing on the rung of a bar stool, hand on Lucas’s shoulder for balance, waving at us over the heads of the crowd. I waved back, took Myles’s hand, and we wove our way through the gathering of sexy men, gorgeous women, and more than a couple of toddlers hanging on to adult legs. Despite being a bar and everyone except Mom and Lucas being young and beautiful, it was a surprisingly familial, comfortable atmosphere. Not a party, just…a family get-together.

  Myles glanced at me as we approached Mom and Lucas. “Pretty chill, actually. I was expecting either a lame reunion atmosphere, or some kind of crazy party. This is cool. Just family and friends chilling. Like a backyard barbecue, but in a bar.”

  “So…not the time to do Jaeger shots and dance topless on the bar, then,” I joked.

  “Uh, probably not. That’s later.”

  A tall guy with long hair in a low ponytail overheard me, and grinned. “I mean, if you wait till later, Liv and Lucas take the youngsters to one of the houses and put on kiddie movies, and things in here get a little crazy. So if Jaeger shots and dancing topless on the bar is your thing, nobody here is gonna get pissy about it.”

  Lexie laughed. “Good to know. I was joking, though.” She shrugged. “Mostly. I have been known to flash while drunk, but I don’t think I’ll let myself go that far at a famil
y get-together.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m Lexie Goode.”

  “Lucian Badd.” He gestured to the woman beside him—about my height, dark skin and dreadlocked hair making her mixed race all the more beautiful for it. “This is Joss Mackenzie.”

  Lucian and Joss both turned to Myles, and he shook both of their hands. “Hey guys, nice to meet you. I’m Myles.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Joss said, laughing. “I think by now everyone in the bar knows Myles North is in the house.”

  “So what am I, then? Chopped liver?” A woman’s voice, a familiar voice.

  One I’d heard in half a dozen of my favorite movies. I turned, and there, live and in the flesh, was Harlow Grace. Oscar and Emmy winner, A-list star, and one of my heroes, because she isn’t afraid to speak her mind. She’s classy, elegant, outspoken, opinionated and unapologetic. She has the kind of star power that allows her to choose her roles, and she’s played the gamut, from ditzy bombshell arm candy villain-bait to hard-charging journalist, and everything in between. She’s never done a nude scene, has publicly stated that she will not, and it’s written into her contract, yet she still manages to be sexy, a Hollywood sex symbol. She’s released sexy, provocative photos, professionally done, on her website, for free, and even a nearly nude full page spread in Maxim, and a Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition feature. She is not afraid of her body and not afraid to show it, but it’s on her terms. And that’s what I find heroic, especially in today’s society.