Bad Wedding: A Bad Boy Romance (8 page)

Oh, he was such an asshole. I reached up and pulled him down to me, one hand on the back of his neck. With the other hand I traced the perfect, flawless line of his lower lip. “Just shut up and fuck me with that thing,” I said.

“I live to serve,” he said, and leaned down and bit my lip as he tilted my hips with one hand and slid into me.

I arched my back beneath him. “
Oh, my fucking God.
”

He lifted one arm and grabbed the arm of the sofa, shoving into me harder, burying his face in my neck. “Perfect,” he said. “Fucking perfect.”

I reached down and dug my fingers into his amazing ass. “More,” I panted.

“All of it?”

“Yes.
Yes.
”

He flexed his hips and shoved into me harder, all the way. It was huge and hard and I was so drenched that it fit in me without a hitch. It stretched me, burned me a little, the slight pain only adding to the overwhelming pleasure. He paused for a second, taking stock of me, and then he started to move.

I had never felt anything so good in my life. Everything flew away from me—every worry, every stupid distraction, every self-defeating thought, it all disappeared and I did nothing but
feel
, nothing but
be.
I could feel his body on mine, the rasp of his stubble and his breath against my neck. I could see the perfect line of his bicep where he braced himself on the arm of the couch. I could smell his skin, mixed now with the sweat that was breaking out on his neck, on the slick skin of his chest. I could hear the couch creaking as he pounded into me.

“Don’t stop,” I begged him, digging my fingernails into his ass. I had no concern for my dignity anymore. “Don’t you dare stop.”

“Come,” he rasped in my ear. “I mean it. As hard as you fucking can.”

I didn’t have to tell him that I was already halfway there. “Jason—I can’t—I think I—Oh, God.”

His big hand was on my hip, digging into my flesh, and he held me hard, angling me as he stroked into me. “Like that,” he said. “Just like that. Fuck.
Fuck.
”

I flexed up into him, and he hit that perfect spot, and then I was coming, my body riding his as every part of me sparked with pleasure, as my muscles squeezed and my head dropped back and I gasped, inhaling. He rode me through it, and then he came with the hottest, most incredible sound in his throat, every muscle of his perfect body tensing on mine, his hand holding me still, his other hand bracing himself above me. My reaction was instinctive and possessive, my legs twining over the backs of his thighs, my palms gripping him hard.
Mine.

Slowly he relaxed, exhaling, the muscles loosening in his arm where he braced himself above me. He moved his other hand from my hip and propped himself on his elbows, looking down at me, his brown eyes clearing, sweat in his tousled hair.

I was boneless, my knees flung open, my head sinking back into the cushions, catching my breath. He was still inside me, and though he’d lifted his upper half off of me, his hips were still on mine, pressing me down like hot wax.

It was a minute before I realized a smile had touched the corners of his lips.

“What?” I said. My voice sounded breathy and hot, like a nightclub singer’s.

Jason dipped his head down and brushed his lips over mine. “Your hands are still on my ass,” he said.

He was right; I was still grabbing him like my life depended on it, and I didn’t even know it. I loosened my grip and dropped my hands, feeling his smile against my mouth.

“I hate you,” I said.

He just laughed, a silent vibration in his perfect chest and stomach. “Admit it,” he said. “Every part of me turns you on.”

I closed my eyes. He was right.

I was tough. I could deal with my mother’s sickness and death, my father’s checking out, my shitty job situation, my lack of prospects, my warped genes. I could handle anything, and I could do it alone. But I had one weakness. One big, massive, muscled weakness, and it was currently between my legs.

Jason Carsleigh was my kryptonite.

And as of now, he knew it.

J
ason

“
H
ey
, man, what did you do?” Shark said, looking me up and down with narrowed eyes. “You look different.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, zipping up my black warmup jacket that said SECURITY on the back. Prepping for another night at Zoot Bar.

“You lose weight?” Shark asked, stepping back. We were standing next to the bar, which was empty of customers since it was still early. “Get new clothes?”

“Dude, I saw you two days ago,” I said. “There’s no way I lost weight. And we always wear the same fucking jacket.”

Shark’s eyes narrowed, like somehow he thought I was having him on. “If you say so. Whatever. You’re on Puke Patrol first.”

When he walked away I turned to see Edie, the bartender, leaning on her side of the bar and smiling at me.

“What?” I asked her.

She winked one mascaraed eye, her long hair glossy under the nightclub lights. “You have a girl,” she said knowingly.

“There’s no girl.”

“Sure there is,” she said. “I can tell. You got laid, Carsleigh.”

I sighed. “There is no possible way you can see that.”

“Not precisely, but you look different.” She tilted her head. “Hotter. It’s like it gave you some kind of hotness superpower.”

It did? “I don’t know what that is, but if you say I have it, I’m stoked.”

“Is she cute?”

I stared at the ceiling, trying not to think of Megan, who was definitely cute, especially when she was moaning out an orgasm. One time. It was just one time, and that was all. “There is no girl.”

“See, I’d say it was a one-night stand,” Edie went on as if I hadn’t spoken, “except you’re not that kind of guy. One-night stands don’t give guys a hotness superpower. Cute girls do. I’m a bartender—I know this stuff.”

“This is crazy,” I said, for the first time wishing I could just go to the back and start Puke Patrol. “You don’t know anything about me. Maybe I’m a one-night stand guy.” I looked around at the club, which was slowly filling with a few knots of people around the edges. “I could pick up a girl in here anytime I want.” The girls in here were younger than me, and they were mostly drunk, which would make it ultra creepy, but it was still technically true.

“That’s how I know you’re not that guy,” Edie said with perfect logic. “Still, you look like something took the edge off, and it wasn’t porn. Don’t worry, it looks good on you. Just don’t wander too close to the bachelorette party we’re expecting tonight, or they might rip your clothes off.”

I winced. “Oh, no. I haven’t seen a bachelorette party in here yet.”

Edie shook her head. “They’re awful, just awful. Rowdy and shrill, and their tips stink. At least one of them will throw up, guaranteed. Maybe you’ll get lucky and they’ll shove dollar bills down your pants.”

“I hate this fucking job,” I said.

“You think?” Edie’s eyebrow arched. “Welcome to my life.”

I wandered toward the back, glad to be away from her observant scrutiny, glad that the place was dimly lit. The fact was, I
felt
different. The sex session on Megan’s couch had made me more comfortable in my skin, less on edge, less jittery. It had also made me horny as hell. There was no way I wanted to do that only once with her, and I thought she felt the same. She’d gone nuts for me on that couch, every time I touched her, like she couldn’t get enough. Like once wouldn’t do it for her either.

But of course, being Megan, she had to give me shit.

I pulled out my phone and scrolled through our text history. I’d texted her the next day:
If you want a repeat, I’ll consider it. Let me know.
I couldn’t resist needling her a little, but it was a sincere offer. The truth was, she could text me the word
Now
and I’d drop whatever the hell I was doing and go.

Her reply was immediate, and emphatic:
NEVER.

That reminded me of the line about the lady protesting too much, so I’d replied:
You sure about that? I can go all night, you know.

FORGET IT
, she typed back. Then, a few seconds later:
Also, that’s a lie!!

Try me
, I wrote.

She didn’t answer that, so the next day I texted her again:
Waiting
.

Her reply, again, was immediate.
NOPE
.

I make you type in all caps
, I wrote back.
You like me
.

I type in all caps
because you make me INSANE
.

I wrote:
Megan, I still have nail marks on my ass. You can’t lie to me
.

She didn’t answer that one, either.

I was just wondering what to say to her this time when the phone buzzed in my hand.

What are you doing right now?
Megan wrote.

I suppressed a grin.
Working
, I typed.
You missed your chance tonight
.

That isn’t why I asked
, she wrote after a minute.

And then:
Really

It was my turn not to answer. I put the phone in my pocket.

It was Tuesday night, and as the club picked up I found I was looking forward to Thursday, when our trip started. Not just the potential for sex—I didn’t see how we’d keep our hands off each other for five days, but I’d play that by ear—but because I needed to get away. From this town, from my mother’s house, from this bar, from my life. I’d never taken a real vacation. I’d traveled while I was in the Marines, but the last thing deployment is is a fucking vacation. And since I’d been home, the slide of my life into the shitter had been grim. A weekend away was a bright spot, and despite everything, I found that Megan was the person I looked forward to seeing. Maybe it was because she didn’t know me as well as my friends and my family did, so I could be someone else with her. Maybe it was because, due to our screwed-up history, she expected basically nothing of me.

Plus, she was fucking gorgeous. And I wanted to know what the thing that was bothering her was. And she had that one spot, right below her ear, when I bit it just so she made this sound and rolled her hips up like she couldn’t help it, and I really did have nail marks on my ass.

Right. One time.

Edie hadn’t lied about the bachelorette party. They were stationed in the so-called VIP room, a lame spot in a corner that had soft sofas and cushions. I saw women dancing and brightly colored drinks coming in a steady stream from the bar, and when I crossed the room halfway through my shift to check on Edie, I got catcalled. They really were the type to stuff bills in my pants. Thank God, I thought, I didn’t recognize any of them.

But when I was back on Puke Patrol, while Shark was having a smoke, I heard a woman’s voice in the corridor say, “Jason?”

I turned. This woman, I recognized—short, curvy, her hair cut in a stylish bob. It took me a second to place her face, but a name bubbled out of my memory: “Deanna,” I said. And then I realized: I knew her because she was one of Charlotte’s friends.

I choked into silence, and she gave me a smile, though she obviously felt as uncomfortable as I did. “Yeah, hi,” she said. “I thought it was you when I saw you earlier. I’m with the, ah…” She waved toward the VIP room.

“The bachelorette party?” Oh, shit. Was it Charlotte’s bachelorette party? I couldn’t picture that, but I still prayed instinctively to the slimy gods of Zoot Bar.
Please don’t let that be my ex-girlfriend’s bachelorette party.

Deanna nodded. As if she read my mind, she said, “It isn’t Charlotte’s. It’s some girl I know from work. I hate these things. Sort of embarrassing, really, but I can’t get out of it.” Her cheeks were red; she was probably remembering her friends catcalling me. “So, you work here, huh?”

“Yeah, I do,” I said, realizing that all of this—everything about me, how I looked, everything I said—was going to be transmitted back to Charlotte. Including the fading bruise on my cheek. That was just fucking great.

Deanna looked confused. “It’s weird. I thought you worked at the bank.”

I nodded. “I got fired,” I said. There, let her tell Charlotte that. The bank job had always been her idea.

“Oh. That’s too bad.” Deanna didn’t seem to want to leave, which to me was inexplicable. “I was really sorry, you know, about you and Charlotte. You were such a nice couple.”

Why did people always say that? I shrugged. “It’s fine.”

“She’s doing okay,” she said, as if I had asked. “She’s applied for a job at a PR agency, and she thinks she has a good chance.”

“That’s nice.” Deanna looked away, flustered, so I just bit the bullet. “Just tell me, Deanna. What is it?”

Deanna glanced at me again, blushed again, then shook her head. “She’d kill me if she heard me say this,” she said, and she took a breath. “I’ve just been a bit worried about her. She puts on a good show, but she hasn’t been dating anyone, and she spends most of her time alone, and I wonder if maybe she’s having second thoughts, you know? I get the feeling from a few of the things she’s said. And so I was just thinking, maybe you could call her, and—”

“Yeah, that won’t work.” The words were out of my mouth before I could think them. “I have a girlfriend.”

Deanna’s eyes went wide. “You do?”

I hooked my thumbs in my pockets and turned to face her, looking down at her. I let her see my Carsleigh-just-got-spectacularly-laid full-on hotness superpower. I smoldered down at her and let her have it full blast. “Yeah,” I said, my voice gravel. “I do.”

Her mouth dropped open, and she was silent for a second. She might have said “Oh,” but she said it so softly, and the music was so loud, that I saw it in mime. Her eyes went cloudy. Then she mimed “Okay then, see you,” and walked away.

At first, I was elated. Because damn, I still had it. Despite everything, I still had it going on.
Eat that, Charlotte.

Then I realized what I’d just done.

Since the day we’d split up, Charlotte hadn’t contacted me. Not once. I hadn’t contacted her, either, so it was fine with me. On my side, it was numbness and relief. But I knew how Charlotte’s mind worked. I’d been a disappointment to her. It was over, she was done with me, there was nothing about me that interested her anymore.

Until now.

Charlotte would not only hear about me, she’d disapprove of everything about my life. She’d disapprove of the bouncer job, the fact I’d left the bank, the fact that I had a bruise on my cheek. And she’d definitely disapprove of the fact that I was fucking someone. Because the one thing Charlotte had to have more than anything, even over the people she didn’t want, was control.

Charlotte wasn’t going to be indifferent to me anymore. She was suddenly going to care.

I couldn’t get out of town fast enough.