by Piper Lawson
Bad Love
Piper Lawson
LOGAN
I bet my family’s legacy on pleasing 10,000 women.
Kendall Sullivan, marketing queen, is my only hope of saving the thing I love most.
She doesn’t have time for my jokes or my playboy reputation.
Too bad I can’t get her sweetness or her toughness out of my head.
So what happens when the only woman I want to please is her?
KENDALL
Pastor’s kid. Single mom. Divorced before I could drink.
I’ve lived my life without regrets.
Until the infamous Logan Hunter makes me an offer: I help with his problem and he helps with mine.
He’s the most gorgeous, infuriating man I’ve ever met.
I know it’s reckless. A bad idea…
I’m totally going to hell for this.
1
“Ten. Thousand. Women.”
“There won’t be ten thousand women in Ibiza next month.” Tanner tosses two chips into the center of the green felt table.
The gold crown Nellie's too young for glints as his hand flexes on his cards. The pendant light over the table shines on his scalp through the buzzcut he’s had as long as I’ve known him. “Tell him, Hunter.”
“It feels like it,” I say, grinning.
The annual trip involves a yacht, models, and enough booze to sink a pirate ship. It’s a beautiful week of partying. But more than that, it’s about living life to the fullest. No worries, no responsibilities, just old friends and new ones.
Did I mention there’s enough booze to sink a pirate ship?
“And these women have Ivy League educations?” Tanner asks dryly, lifting a brow under his mop of blond hair.
“Women can’t score free rides on football scholarships,” I retort. Tanner played two years of a pro contract before an injury sidelined him. “Besides, life isn’t about going to a good school, it’s about what you do with it.”
“True. You have an Ivy League education, and look where it got you.”
I flip him the bird, but only half my attention is on the conversation because there’s an evolving situation in my poker hand. I need one more card to make this work.
Poker isn’t a game of statistics. It’s a game of possibility. Of creativity.
Plus, the winner takes home a couple grand. If there aren’t stakes, why play?
“Even if there were that many women on your debaucherous little trip,” Tanner goes on, shrugging thick shoulders under his polo, “you can’t please them all. Genghis Kahn couldn’t please that many women.”
I shoot him a look over the top of my cards. “You’re an expert?”
“You might’ve sent sorority girls stumbling home with lazy smiles every morning,” he retorts, “but I’ve been married five years. You’re still playing poker in this dump.”
I shift in my seat, taking in the windowless concrete room.
There's no clock, and phones get checked by the door. Both add to the impression we're in a bunker, or that Bill Murray movie Groundhog Day.
The bar fridge holds our drinks. A pile of snacks sits in a reusable grocery bag next to it. (Plastic kills birds in the Pacific. We’re not cretins.)
A poster of some car magazine chick from our parents' generation watches from behind Nellie's chair.
Nellie calls her his lucky angel. I call her Janie, because I was raised right and no man should see that much of a woman without knowing her name.
"There is a penthouse in this hotel, Nellie." I nod for Nellie to turn the next card.
"Yeah, but it's too good for you pricks."
That ten of hearts gives me a full house. My pulse quickens, the thrill of winning so close I can taste it.
"Wasn't too good for me and your cousin after your brother's wedding.” I toss my raise across the table, avoiding the plate of caviar. “She loved the curtains your mom ordered from Paris. Said they gave her something to hang on to.”
Nellie’s face goes purple. “You’re an asshole, Logan Hunter.”
I chuckle as I reach for my beer. Nellie calls my bet and shows his hand. "Two pair."
"Full house."
Nellie curses, and I sweep the table.
Tanner shakes his head. "Your parents must be proud. Two of the biggest self-made families in New York, and your achievement is winning at Thursday poker. You assholes are never gonna grow up.”
“You make it look so appealing,” Nellie drawls.
But I’m caught on Tanner’s words. “What do you mean?”
“This room has played out the same scene since college. Now Nellie's milking the trust fund from his parents’ hotel business, but his contribution is drinking Patrón and pissing in the pool. And you, Hunt. You take off jet-setting, then come back to work in your family’s business. For your best friend.” The look of challenge on his face tells me it’s not a compliment. “The family must love that.”
It’s nearly impossible to score a point off me, but this dig lands.
Tanner’s sitting in for Montgomery “Monty” Axelrod, who begged off poker tonight. He’s probably reviewing financial statements or rescuing puppies or whatever Monty does on Monty's time.
The guy’s the Pippin to my MJ, the J to my PB, the Bey to my Jay-Z…
Okay, maybe not the last one.
But he’s been my best friend since freshman year. I don’t begrudge that Monty’s the head executive at my family’s brewery. He’s good at the things I’m not, including running a growing business. Which is why my grandmother put him in charge.
“Real estate’s how old men get their kicks between doses of Viagra.” Nellie sits up straighter, reaching for his Yankees cap. “I bought something better. An online sex toy store."
That brings the conversation to a screeching halt.
"You're going to run it?" I ask.
"Nah. Sell it for parts in ninety days. It’s a tax write-off."
I snort, and they look at me. “It’s impossible to fail at selling sex.”
“You think you can do better?” Tanner grins. "Neither of you can keep a woman around."
I lift a brow. "Spoiler alert: it's not a ring they're looking for."
Nellie chortles, and Tanner shakes his head.
I love women.
Not just because I enjoy sex like any red-blooded, twenty-nine-year-old guy should.
Women see things men don't. They're curious and subtle and fascinating. When I’m with a woman, I show up and make it worth her time. Great meals, reservations at the best restaurants and the hottest clubs. And in bed? That's where shit gets real.
It's not only a point of pride. It's “Being a Dude 101.” Any straight man worth his salt better figure out what women like and how to give it to them.
I grew up with strong women. My grandmother started her own company forty years ago and still runs the board. My mother left her corporate gig to shake down execs for donations to a national nonprofit.
I respect women. I take pride in giving them what they want. For an hour, a night, a week.
Guys like Tanner can take care of the long game. Anniversaries, Valentine’s Days, rings, kids.
Because those things come with hard times. I’m not good at hard times.
"Fuck Genghis Khan,” I declare, thinking back to our earlier conversation. “I could please ten thousand women today."
Tanner shakes his head, incredulous. “That’s logistically impossible.”
But Nellie's eyes narrow. "We could put something on it."
“I haven’t lost a bet in five years.” I count off my fingers. “Thanks to you, I’ve got an eight-foot antique bronze elephant sculpture, a champagne-colored limite
d edition 4x4, and a named twenty-grand donation to a charitable cause of my choice.”
“That’s history. My luck’s about to change." Nellie’s expression turns smug. "I’ve got it. Hunter has to sell ten thousand vibrators. From my new company. Hell, I’ll even let you pick what kind."
I can’t turn down a bet. Call it a weakness, but it’s been in me since I was a kid.
When I was twelve, diving extra deep at summer camp.
When I was in college doing keg stands.
Every bet since.
I point at the ceiling, bloodlust thrumming in my veins. "I win, the penthouse here at the Charlotte is mine.” He looks skeptical, so I press where it hurts. “I'm sure your cousin'll be more than happy to reprise our evening together."
"I'll reprise your face with my fist, Hunter!" I wait for Nellie to cop out, but after a second’s recovery, his face lights up. "You want a piece of my family business? I'll take yours. Your stake in Hunter’s Cross."
No way. My stomach shifts—from the booze or the wager.
Sure, I was the one to raise the stakes by asking for a piece of real estate most people couldn’t dream of affording.
But some things you don’t bet.
“Come on, Hunter, not like you do anything with it anyway.” Nellie’s leering at me, his challenge burrowing into my brain like a nail I need to extract before it drives me insane.
There's nothing easier than being the guy people expect.
If you're steady, be steady.
If you're proud, be proud.
If you're reckless…
You better bring your A game, friend, because I'll take you on. Anytime, anywhere.
If Nellie's the devil on my shoulder, Monty's the angel.
And tonight he's MIA.
I lean forward. "You’re on. House rules.” Nellie nods in agreement.
“You guys are fucking crazy,” Tanner exhales.
I chug another beer to the sound of raucous laughter.
Janie's gaze from the poster seems incredulous rather than sexual. It makes me realize I've done something very, very stupid.
Because we've been playing long enough for me to know the first rule of gambling.
Never bet something you can't afford to lose.
2
“This event is very important.” Nadine’s honey-sweet professional voice on the conference line hardens my intestines.
I pace the meeting room, holding my phone to my ear.
“Everyone on this committee has to step up. We need to execute it to perfection.”
Closer, the marketing company I work for, occupies the second floor of a renovated factory building. It has beautiful hardwood floors and sleek white walls accented by pops of pink. But today it’s hard to appreciate.
“I don’t need to tell you the reputational risk of failure is one thing, but the mental and emotional scars would endure for years.”
My stomach grumbles because I haven’t had time to grab lunch, and the reception gets spotty when I run downstairs to the closest deli. So instead, I thumb the sleeve of my thin wool sweater as I listen.
“I also wanted to share that the Metropolitan Symphony Orchestra is involved,” Nadine says proudly.
The ridiculousness has reached a new level. I hit the Unmute button and jump in. “Nadine, how exactly is the symphony involved in an elementary school talent show?”
I hear a sniff. “The lead violinist is giving Mitchell private lessons.”
Of course he is.
Nadine’s still talking, but all I can hear is her too-serious, too-caring tone telling us how the tickets should sell out faster than a Taylor Swift concert and the acoustics of the gym should be improved until they match Carnegie Hall.
Okay, I made those up, but it’s barely an exaggeration.
“As committee chair, I’ll circulate a list of jobs next week. Please sign up so we can move forward. Thank you for your time.”
I hit End and set my phone on the table next to my notebook that says "LIVE YOUR DREAMS" on the front.
You know Nadine. She’s the mom whose kid is always perfectly dressed even though she has a full-time corporate job. Who’s at every PTA meeting and heads up each committee, articulating issues in that sweet, caring voice. The one who makes her own Popsicles with watermelon and mint for sports days.
Sometimes I wish she’d shove one of those popsicles somewhere.
Because for all the perfect things she does, she’s also the first to criticize when everyone else doesn’t measure up.
“Am I interrupting?” Rena sticks her blond head in, holding up two coffee cups.
I lunge for one. “If one of those has a latte in it, you can interrupt anything you want.”
“That call looked intense.” My friend and colleague taps a manicured finger against her coffee cup, pursing her red lips.
I savor the taste of the latte with a hint of cinnamon, soothing my nerves and my ego. “I signed up for this event committee for the first time at Rory’s school, and we’re putting on a talent show in three months.”
“What’s your job?”
“TBD. I was thinking I could help with posters or maybe props. Not sure when that’s going to happen, but I’ll find time for something.” Between my job and work and being a single mom, there’s barely time to brush my teeth and find clean underwear in the morning. “It would be fine except for Nadine, who’s in charge of the committee. She’s an executive at her company. Chairs the PTA. Sits on the board of two charities.” I wait a beat. “And makes her own cake pops.”
Rena’s green eyes flash. “No.”
“Yes!”
Even though I met Rena through work, she’s the best friend I have in New York. Maybe because I spend so much time at work and it’s hard to connect with the other parents—except at school events, where everyone’s up in arms over something.
“What a bitch,” Rena tosses with a half smile.
“I can’t hate her,” I confess. “I want to be her too much.”
The fact that her kid’s getting lessons from some virtuoso is ridiculous, but it reminds me my son wants to go to a cooking camp in upstate New York this August and I can’t afford to send him.
“You’re a badass, Kendall. Besides, if the woman does all of those things, she’s definitely not getting laid.”
I look at her. “I’m not getting laid.”
“And whose fault is that? You’re young. Hot. Have that innocent-girl-in-the-big-city vibe guys dig.”
I glance at my clothes. Red Banana Republic sweater. Camel skirt. Ballet flats.
For working at a company that specializes in relationship product marketing, I'm hardly an expert. I’m not fearless and stylish like the founder, Daisy. I don’t have Rena’s directness. Or a fancy degree like some of the other half dozen staff.
But I have a knack for figuring things out, and that knack carried me from an account assistant to a senior account manager in five years.
The same knack helped me figure out my life when I was forced to move to the city with nothing.
My phone goes off, signaling the self-enforced end of my lunch break.
“Do you have a meeting in here?” I ask Rena.
She gives me a strange look. “Yes. And so do you.” The coffee freezes halfway to my lips. “Daisy sent an email twenty minutes ago.”
I whip out my phone and scroll to my email. I try to keep things under control, but despite doing my best to organize, things happen in real-time around here.
Rena shoves down my phone. “Don’t bother. All I know is Daisy wants us here, it’s a VIP client, and she’s running late and wants us to meet him.”
Since there’s nothing to prepare, I grab the spray bottle hanging discreetly on the hook under the table and go to spritz the green wall full of ferns and succulents.
"You haven't asked me to go to goat yoga the last two weeks," Rena notes.
Despite having a busy life, I believe it’s important to carve out a tiny slice of
time to myself. Even small investments in self-care mean we have more to contribute to those around us. In my case, my son and my colleagues. And in marketing, staying open and creative despite life’s challenges is key.
That’s why I try to regularly cross activities off the sheet of paper with a mountain imprint and “My Adventures” written on it that lives tucked inside my notebook.
Lately, I haven’t been crossing off much, thanks to my ever-growing load of clients, several of whom don’t understand why I can’t answer their emails at midnight or turn around concepts Sunday morning.
"My advice?” Rena goes on before I can respond. “Forget the yoga and geocaching and salsa classes and focus on something important. Your to-do list should have one item: Kendall.”
I blush and snort at the same time, a kneejerk response I can’t control. Lots of women in their twenties might be up for casual sex, and power to them. That’s not me. Not only because I have a son who’s old enough to make his own French toast, but because being physically intimate with someone is not something I’ll take lightly.
Not this time.
I’ve made my share of mistakes. The kind you can’t take back.
I’m grateful for what I have. That includes a beautiful, healthy son, a challenging job that keeps a roof over our heads, and that at twenty-six, my hair’s still bright red instead of graying at the roots like my mom’s did at my age.
Am I lonely sometimes? Sure.
But that’s not a reason to throw myself at some smug, gorgeous New York guy who’s as careless as he is confident. Who’ll be gone as fast as he showed up—but not fast enough to avoid leaving a dent in my life or Rory’s.
I bend to spritz the last of the plants—a little guy in the bottom corner that looks as though he hasn’t been watered in forever.
“I’m serious,” Rena goes on. “You need a man. Someone hot who’ll give it to you good enough you can forget your life for a few minutes. Big and strong and with scruff that gives you rug burn on your thighs."
My body twitches at her description, but I shake my head. "No way. I’m not spreading my legs for some careless player, no matter how good-looking he—"