Saint Jude: Los Angeles Bad Boys (3 page)

Y
eah
, so Jude is hotter than I remembered.

“Hey,” I say as he holds open the door for me. Behind him, a baby is fussing, a sound I’m not at all familiar with. “Everything okay?” I ask, not really knowing what the question should be.

Baby equals bad. Right?

“Uhhhh,” he says drawing out the syllable. “Things have been better.”

I walk into his place, and look around his gorgeous rambler home. It’s warm and well-worn, so mid-century, so effortless. It’s not like Holden’s place at all; Holden’s is all steely and gray, modern black-and-white.

Jude’s house is oak coffee tables, and bookshelves lined with records, and stacks of design magazines next to a brown leather couch.

There’s also a definite sense of disarray going on as I look around. I mean, it’s hard to tell exactly, considering I’ve never been to Jude’s home before, but I’d guess if everything was in order it would not look like this. Everything he owns appears intentional, as if purchased at a flea market or an antique shop; everything belongs here … except all the things that don’t.

The random baby paraphernalia that’s scattered throughout the house haphazardly. The plastic bouncy chairs and swing, bottles drying at the sink and blocks littering the floor.

The crying baby itself. I mean, herself.

Her. Etta. Jude’s daughter.

I watch him walk to her and pick her up from the swing, pat her back. His biceps flex as he does this, and I swear my pussy gets just a little wet watching him calm this little girl. It’s like my eggs are literally dropping from my uterus as I watch him care for an infant.

Which is weird, mostly because I’m not maternal. At all. I mostly think about the here and now.

And the here and now mostly revolves around bullshit television and scrolling through the social media feeds of old friends from college.

I know, the most productive human being ever, right here. You’re looking at her.

Winner.

“So,” I try. “You have a meeting?”

“Yeah,” he says, walking toward me with his now-smiling baby. “I do. The meeting is important or I wouldn’t have asked. I just … I don’t have anyone else to turn to.”

“Where’s Rachel?” I ask, thinking Etta’s mom could, you know, be the one with her today.

“She’s….” Jude looks around awkwardly, which is quite a feat, considering he has got to be one of the least awkward men I’ve ever encountered in my life.

Jude is tattooed up and down his arms; I’m guessing his chest is, too, but I’ve only ever seen a hint of what’s underneath his shirts when he raises his arms to stretch. Which, okay—yes, I have noticed that because I’m a woman. A lonely woman.

Have I mentioned that?

And besides the tattoos and muscles and deep brown eyes that just ooze sincerity, Jude is also smooth. Not douchey-smooth—he just has a way with people that make you instantly like him, without any of the charm or attitude that Cassius or my brother give off.

No, Jude is different than guys like that. He’s not a bad boy in the traditional sense; he’s nice without being weak. He’s dangerous without being an ass. He’s sexy without being a man-whore.

I mean, clearly he has some trouble that’s followed him around—you only end up with girls like Rachel if you have some unfinished business with your past.

“She’s where, exactly?” I ask, realizing he never answered my question. He just kind of trailed off, looking around the room.

“She’s gone. We broke up.”

“Oh,” I say, hating the way my mouth is dropping into an O. Thinking about the ways my O-shaped mouth could widen around Jude’s—

My God, this is totally inappropriate. He’s telling me that the mother of his daughter just broke up with him, and I’m thinking about sucking his cock. I’m a complete disaster.

“I don’t really want to talk about it,” he says, handing Etta to me without giving me a chance to hesitate. My body shifts to compensate for her weight. My hands seem to instinctively know how to hold her, which is a good sign.

And right now I need a good sign. Because damn, I can’t seem to think straight when I’m looking at Jude. I don’t think we’ve ever had such a long conversation in our lives. The moment I moved to LA, Rachel was giving birth. Not exactly room for he and I to hit it off.

Hit what off, anyways?

There is literally zero reason for me to be imagining him and I doing anything … besides me being the babysitter.

I blink, determined to focus on Etta, and getting her father out the door and to his meeting on time. Maybe Holden is right; maybe I do need a life mission. Maybe right now my mission can be making sure this broken family unit doesn’t fall completely apart under my watch.

“
J
ude
,” I say gently. “Why don’t you head to your meeting?”

I
smile more brightly
than I actually feel inside. Inside I feel just a little bit uneasy, apprehensive. More than a little over my freaking head. Outwardly, though, I can totally do this. For Jude. For Etta. For me.

“I got this,” I assure him. “And if I get totally overwhelmed, I can call my mom. She lives in LA and she’s great with babies—great with most people, actually. So, in a pinch, she could help with Etta.” I laugh awkwardly, cringing inwardly because—well, Jude is not awkward, as we’ve so thoroughly discussed. But I am.

Remember the popcorn and Diet Coke from this morning? The irrational fear that my brother was going to catch me with a vibrator between my legs? Yes, I am awkward.

But this situation does not have to be.

“Thank you, Catalina,” he says. “Seriously.” He takes a deep breath, leans over and … does not kiss me on the cheek, obviously, because that would be weird.

He does, however, kiss his daughter on the forehead.

Because, like I said, he isn’t one of those actual bad boys.

He has tattoos. He’s ripped.

But he also knows that kissing his daughter good-bye is more important than anything else.

T
wo hours later
, I’m cruising back home in my Dodge Challenger, feeling an unexpected sense of relief wash over me. Yes, I’m still in deep shit with Rachel being gone, but at least I have work off my plate for the next month or so.

I got funding for my next project, which is fucking fantastic, but I’m not going to actually start shooting anything for six months. In the meantime I’m going to set everything up that needs to happen before then: cast, crew, studio space … and, most important of all, getting the script into workable shape.

I love my job. When we’re filming, I get to go on set every day and make something happen. And at the end of the shoot, everything has gone my way. I know that might sound like I’m some control freak, some narcissist, but that’s not it. That’s not it at all.

If I can make one thing go perfectly, give every character in my films the ending that they deserve, that they earned, I’ll do anything I can to get them there.

Real life isn’t that perfect.

* * *

W
alking in the door
, I’m relieved to see Catalina hasn’t burned down my house or ditched Etta altogether. I’m not saying I think she’s a flake—I mean, clearly this girl
is
a flake—but she’s a hot flake and part of me is really happy to see her in those tiny little shorts once more before she leaves me alone with Etta.

“Hey, girls,” I say.

Walking toward them, I drop my messenger bag on the couch and kneel down on the wood floor where Etta and Catalina sit. She has spread out a blanket, and a pile of toys surrounds Etta. Etta’s just learned to sit, and I must say she’s doing pretty damn well.

“Did it go okay?” Catalina asks.

“Yeah, it was great.” It catches me off guard, her asking me about the meeting. I run my hands through my hair, suddenly wishing I could just dump all of my problems on this girl. Which I know is completely inappropriate, but she sits here, still looking up at me, so open–and with her bright eyes, she looks so willing.

“Okay, that’s cool if you want to be vague with the details. I totally get it. It’s none of my business anyways.” She flashes me a genuine smile, before picking a rattle up from the floor and giving it a quick shake. “They invent the coolest baby toys. That might sound weird, but I haven’t been around a baby in, like, a decade.”

“How old are you, Catalina?” I raise an eyebrow, giving her another once-over, I’d say it was quick … but that would be a lie. My eyes are grazing over her skin nice and slow, and damn, I like what I see. Not to be that asshole who compares girls, but Rachel was jaded. Bitter.

I’ve spent exactly zero time with Catalina, and I already know she’s looking for something, anything.

Not needy, but longing? Yes, that’s how I’d describe her if I were writing a character description for a casting call. I push away the idea that the thing she could have is me, even though right now that’s exactly what I want to give her.

At least one rock solid part of me. The part of me that is twitching even as we speak.

Damn, I’m horny; I try to calculate how long it’s been.

I mean, it was way before Etta was born. Way before that. Around her fifth month of pregnancy, Rachel decided to stop sleeping with me. So, yep, I’m going on a year.

“I’m twenty-two,” Catalina says, bringing me back to the conversation at hand and not what I’m imagining doing with her. She smiles, and then bites her bottom lip as if she is holding something back. “Why are you asking, Jude?”

“I was trying to figure out how old you were, exactly, the last time you played with baby toys. Sounds like you were twelve?” I pick up a plush bear and toss it at her. She blocks the hit with her hands and laughs.

Something about her is so completely uninhibited, but not, like,
let’s go get drunk and high in the bathroom
uninhibited, like Rachel.

I’m talking unedited inhibition that says
eff the norm
. That says
eff the rules
.

I’m going to show up here and babysit without a bra on. I’m going to sit around my brother’s house for six months without a job and not feel bad about it. I’m going to do whatever the hell I want.

In all honesty, that’s sexy as hell. I’ve been doing what I
should
be doing for a really long time.

“Your little girl is really cute,” she tells me. “And I’m not one of those girls that just gives out compliments willy-nilly.”

“Oh, wow. Not willy-nilly?” I laugh, liking the chance she’s giving me to breathe a little easier. I’ve been stuck in the house all week with Etta, not talking to anyone else, avoiding my friends—because the truth is, what am I supposed to say exactly?

“Don’t be an ass.” She’s laughing too. Then she hands Etta the rattle she’s been holding, and watches as Etta’s tiny little fingers grip tightly to the plastic ring, as if she’s holding on for dear life.

I wish it was that easy. A life ring offered to you when you need it? I could use one now. Not because I can’t hack it as Etta’s father—I love this girl, fucking love her so hard. The problem is trying to figure out where I’m supposed to go from here.

Do I force Rachel back here? For us? I don’t want her around
me
. I don’t want her around Etta. What does that make me?

Right now, I’m feeling like a monster.

“So,” Catalina says, stretching her arms over her head, her belly button taunting me. I have to force my eyes away from her bare skin. “Do you have any food around here? I’m starving.”

“We could call in some food?” I shrug. “I’m pretty hungry, too, actually.” Thinking about it, I realize I probably haven’t eaten all day.

“Sweet,” she says, jumping up from the floor. “My brother’s obsessed with health food and is all protein shakes and Paleo-whatever. He doesn’t order in
anything
. So the greasier, the better.”

I smile, knowing that Holden is really into fitness. He needs to be; his career depends on it. But nobody is looking at me, behind the camera.

Cat stands in front of me, her long legs leading to a narrow waist, her tank top revealing that stretch of skin between her belly button and rib cage, those perfect tits perky and unrestrained.

I could look at her all day long.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she teases. I know she’s just giving me a hard time, playing dumb. She knows exactly why I’m looking at her. It’s the same reason I’ve felt her eyes linger on my body since the moment she walked in my front door.

“I’m looking at you like that, Catalina,” I tell her, reaching over to pick up Etta before I stand in front of her, “because I’m thinking about how badly I need to get Etta down for a nap.”

“Oh, yeah?” she smirks. “And how long does she sleep?”

“How long do we need?”

Etta’s head falls on my chest. Her eyes lazily close. I know I’m lucky; she’s an easy baby. Don’t get me started on another tangent of how Rachel never knows how good she’s got it.

“I’m thinking we’ll need at least an hour,” she says. “You know, to eat our lunch.” She narrows her eyes, as if daring me to tell her I had something else on my mind.

But I’m also not creepy. I won’t talk about sleeping with the babysitter while I’m carrying my daughter in my arms.

“I’m going to put Etta down,” I tell her. “The menus are in the top drawer next to the dishwasher.”

A flash of disappointment seems to cross her face, but she doesn’t press.

That’s fine, I’ll press her soon enough.

In fact, I’m thinking I’ll press her right against that fucking wall.