Knocked Up by the Bad Boy (5 page)

“You can’t keep me here forever, Dad. I’m going to go to beauty school—”

He wipes his hand over his face. “Waste of fucking money.”

“I’m going to do what I want, because it’s my life and only I get to choose what I get to do. Not you. Not Mom.
Me
.”

He stands in the middle of my shabby room as at least a decade’s worth of hostility hangs between us like an electric cloud.

“You’re a stubborn little
bitch
, Maya. You know you can’t leave the club. The Popeyes, hell, the mob would love to get their hands on you.”

Maybe I want their hands all over me, Dad.

I think of Johnny and how much I enjoyed his hands all over me. Desire simmers in my stomach. He was slim and handsome—almost too perfect looking in his fitted suit, his hair gently slicked back. He caught my attention the moment I saw him walking toward me, that small smirk tugging at his lips, which were just begging to be kissed. Then he got rid of the guy hitting on me. I don’t know how he did that, but damn. The balls on that guy.

It was fucking hot.

Everything about him felt intoxicating, and I had to work really hard to appear in control. Johnny seems like just the type to take advantage of any weakness. His hands on my waist made me so wet that I was afraid it would soak through my panties. Then his hot lips touched mine and he actually shoved his tongue into my mouth, right in front of anyone.

It’s all I’ll ever think about again.

It’s stupid, I know. Beatrice and I heard rumors the bar was connected with the Mafia. It might be true, but I convinced her to go anyway. I didn’t expect anything to come out of it. Maybe I was desperate for a bit of harmless flirting, but every dirty word that flew out of Johnny’s mouth turned me on.

The side of my face still burns as I sit on my bed, forced to a sitting position as my dad takes a step closer, flinging the dress at my face.

God, I hate him.

I’ll take classes at the beauty school I picked out and upgrade from my job at the café. I’ll become a hair stylist and finally get enough money for my own place.

Then I can get the hell out of here.

“Are you done? Can you get out of my room?”

Don’t fucking push it.

Dad’s bushy eyebrows narrow even farther. I can’t suppress a shiver when he turns his face, that horribly pitted scar like a crater in his skin. I’ve never been afraid of my father. All my life it’s been push and pull. Seeing how much I can get away with. He smacked around my mom enough to make me hate him. Sometimes I hate myself for being too much of a coward to try to stop him from laying one more hand on my mom’s face. He stopped doing it years ago, when he became president and wanted to clean up his image. It was enough to stop him from hitting his wife, but not enough to stop his bikers from peddling crack to kids at school.

“Tony wants a haircut tomorrow.”

“Tony can cut his own goddamn hair.”

“What the fuck did you just say to me?”

“I’m not cutting anyone’s hair for free anymore. My time is not a fucking charity—”

“You’ll do what I say, or you’ll get another hand across your face.”

I stand up from the bed, knowing that he won’t do it. He’s already regretting his words. Doubt flickers in his eyes.

“I want in-and-out privileges. I don’t want to ask you permission to go to the store or to my work.”

Someone crashes through the hallway, stomping noisily. I catch a flash of a half-naked stripper clinging to a patched member, and my blood boils.

His smiling face turns back toward me. “No.”

* * *

No.

It’s a word I’ve heard my whole goddamn life: no.

No, I’m not going to buy that for you. No, I’m not taking you to practice. No, I’m not paying for fucking school. No, no, no.

I fucking hate that word.

Even worse is that smug look on my father’s face when he denies something that I really want. Something I’ve been saving up for a long time, like the beauty school classes.

I used to cry my fucking eyes out. Scream with rage and pound my fists on the walls so that everyone in the club could hear how much of a spoiled brat I was, but I didn’t care. Mom would argue with him, would try to take pity on me—to allow me this one,
small
thing. No.

Then I swallowed it down over the years. Did whatever Dad said, because it was easier. Pretending not to care and building up walls around myself was easier than letting myself feel how powerless I am.

But I just can’t take it this time.

I pace inside the small room Dad cleared up for me in the garage. It’s a quartered-off space with a couple sinks for washing hair, a chair, and a giant, old mirror. I yank open the drawers, looking at the scissors arranged neatly side by side. They rattle as I slam it shut.

All of it is fucking useless if I can’t go to beauty school and get the hell out of here. Otherwise, what’s the fucking point?

What’s the point of practicing on these douchebags?

Blood pounds through my limbs as I seize a heavy hair dryer. I look at myself in the mirror. A girl with widened eyes and shaking lips stares back at me.

She looks weak.

I hurl the dryer at the mirror. It shatters and swings from the nails on the wall, crashing to the concrete. That’s not enough. I stomp on the shards, grinding them to dust under my boots. Fuck him and this place.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?”

Mom’s shrill voice stabs my ears before I feel her hand seizing my shoulder roughly.

“He’s trying to keep me here like some fucking pet!”

Mom crosses her arms over her low-cut black t-shirt, tossing her head to shake the dark hair from her eyes. “Everybody has a place in this club.”

I grit my teeth. “I never wanted this. Since I was a kid, I wanted to be normal.”

She reaches up and cuffs the side of my head like a bear swatting one of her cubs. “That’s enough.”

It’s not nearly enough.

“He’s a piece of shit—he thinks he can just lock me inside—”

“
Go
, then. If you want to live out there so badly, just leave. Leave and see what happens.”

The hollow feeling in my chest gapes open. Everything falls inside. Every hope I have for myself drowns in that emptiness.

“You know you can’t leave, baby. I know it’s hard, but everything he does is for your protection. He loves you.”

Mom touches my face and pushes back my thick hair, looking at me under dark lashes. That’s how she always is: a rising tide or a gentle lull. Crashing down on you one moment and then kissing you on the cheek the other.

“He doesn’t love me. He just wants to control me.”

I brush past my mom, the broken pieces snapping under my boots. The satisfying sound doesn’t quite take the edge off my anger, but it helps.

I’m going back to that bar, and I’m going to fuck the shit out of that guy.

I decide it the moment I step into the sunshine. If Dad’s determined to keep me imprisoned, I’m going to make his life hell, starting with giving myself to the hottest Italian guy I’ve ever seen.

* * *

Sneaking out twice in the same week isn’t hard, but it requires a little bit of finesse. And guile.

I shove my hands deep inside my pockets as I approach Julien at the gate, the sunshine glaring through the thick steel bars and casting long shadows on the ground. They crawl up my body in long, dark strips like the bars of a prison cell. How appropriate.

He’s a newly patched member, and he’s eager to please. The older members are used to me pulling shit, always trying to run a scam by them, but not Julien.

I lay my arm across my face to shield my eyes from the sun and he turns around with a little jump.

“Hey, um—listen, I need to go outside for a while. Just for a bit.”

His thick arms cross over his chest as he watches me. “Why?”

I bite my lip. “Um—I’d rather not say. It’s really embarrassing.”

“I’m sorry, but I need to know why if you want to leave.”

Then I lean in, my hair hanging around my face. “Well—I just got my period and we’re out of tampons.”

It’s the magic word.

Julien’s face immediately burns a bright shade of red as he wraps his arms around himself, taking small steps backward. “Uh—well—”

Poor, poor Julien.

I adopt an uncertain tone. “You could get them for me, I guess. I was just going to pop off to the store and get some.”

“No! I mean—yeah, I’ll open the gate. Give me a second.”

A grateful smile spreads across my face as I thank him and head to my car.

Sucker.

I don’t plan on coming back. Not for a very long time. Daddy will just have to deal with the fact that his daughter likes to have sex. With men. I know, it’s a shocker.

Parking at the nearest subway station, I take the train into Montreal. I don’t want to deal with the parking in the city, and taking the metro is just another snub at Dad. Even using the subway was forbidden to me.

My stomach churns as I think about what I’ll say to Johnny when I finally meet him. He told me not to come back to his bar.

I feel lighter than I have in ages when I get out at a stop with a bunch of shopping. There’s not much in my bank account, but I splurge so rarely that I don’t really feel guilty for trying on new dresses.

Maybe he’ll change his mind if I look like this.

In the department store, I look at myself in a sexy little summer dress. It’s a bright-red knit with an art deco design, and it clings to my every curve. Dark eyeliner makes my eyes pop, and my hair shines with the new ginger conditioner that I bought. I look sexy, damn it. No, I’m not model-thin, but who gives a shit?

Fuck yes. I’m buying this.

I walk out of the dressing room still wearing the dress, my black gladiator heels clicking on the floor.

My confidence is blazing when the girl at the register compliments how it looks as I buy it, even as I walk out into the dim early evening as men whistle at me from across the street. It feels different to be free, and I’m too angry to care about the shit I’ll have to deal with when I return home. The summer night is nice and balmy, and everywhere there are couples.

I pass by that bar, already bustling with people, and my heart slams into my chest so hard that I feel dizzy. All of a sudden my confidence bursts like a needle to a balloon.

A group of handsomely dressed people stream out of the bar and dig through their pockets to find cigarettes.

This is stupid. I can’t go back in there. He’ll laugh in my face. Besides, I don’t even know what to say—

You’re going to give up now? Coward.

I imagine myself turning tail and heading home, of making up some excuse to Julien why I was gone so long, and my stomach sinks. Failure isn’t an option. I
want
to go home with that man. Christ, I want to feel him inside me. The last time I had sex was years ago. Years of pent-up, unsatisfied urges, unable to touch myself in my own bed. The thought of another few years of this is too depressing to contemplate.

It’ll just be one time.

Yes, one wild night to remember.

I march through the open doors of the bar, straight into the thick of conversation and music. I wipe my hands on my dress and wade through the crowd of testosterone. Male heads whip around at me. There are so many here to choose from, but I only want one man.

The man who promised me that he’d make me come hard over his cock.

Is he even here?

I belly up to the bar, avoiding the gaze of the pretty bartender. A chorus of deep male laughter captures my attention. Four dark-haired men in suits hang near the bar, and the breath catches in my throat as I recognize one of them.

Johnny raises a shot glass to his wet lips, throws back his head, and swallows the clear liquid. My heart skips a beat when he licks the salt off his hand. His tongue drags on his skin, and a line of pleasure runs straight to the space between my legs. Goddamn, he makes drinking a shot of tequila look sexy. I want that tongue on
my
skin.

So what now? Do I just go up to him or do I puss out and order a drink?

If you don’t approach him, someone else will.

The thought sends a jolt of electricity through my legs, and I head straight for him. Even though the bar is crowded, it’s easy to navigate this place. I watch as his head turns, staring at the cocktail waitress’ ass. She sets down drinks for them and walks away.

Don’t look at me.

Don’t look at me.

Scorching black eyes pass over the heads in the bar, and then they crawl up my figure. They flicker back.

Fuck, he looked at me.

I can’t begin to describe the intensity of his eyes. They’re like some kind of personification of a lion’s stalking gaze. Everything about him doesn’t seem entirely human, from the perfectly slicked-back hair to his spotless appearance. He’s too perfect to believe. Then it suddenly hits me: no way this guy is just a bar owner. And my palms sweat as that realization drops into my head.

I want to bolt in the other direction, despite the fact that I just don’t get nervous around men anymore. Why’s he so different? I can’t figure him out.

I’m still shaking as I weave in between his men, inserting myself into that circle of testosterone as Johnny’s eyes lock onto my face.

He looks gorgeous as he lounges on that bar stool. Clean shaven, not a stray strand of hair, and that tantalizing V of skin right below his neck, revealing his tanned skin and a sprinkling of dark hair. He looks at me, recognition dawning on his face as a slight frown knits his eyebrows.

“I thought I told you not to come back to this bar.”

Oh fuck.

My pulse races ahead and I almost want to take a step back from him, that’s how forbidding he looks.

“Relax, hon. I’m just joking. I knew you’d come back.”

Heat rises in my cheeks as deep dimples carve into his face.

Cocky son of a bitch.

He turns his head, addressing the guys around him. “She told me she didn’t fuck Italians.”

Laughter explodes around me. I knew it would happen—I expected it. Hell, I deserve it for turning him down.