Saint Jude: Los Angeles Bad Boys (5 page)

I
’m not usually
the sort of guy who obsesses about one person in particular. I usually do my best to help anyone who comes across my path … and the ones that stay in my path, I help even more.

I haven’t seen Catalina in a week, but I can’t stop thinking about her—thinking about the way her body pressed against mine, the way she so openly gave herself to me, without any sidebar requests. She didn’t ask for a single thing.

What are all the other relationships in my life? Not Holden and Cassius, of course. They have my back, I know. But the vast majority? I don’t hear from them unless they need something.

After Etta woke from her nap, Catalina quietly slipped on her flip-flops and left through the front door without even asking me for my number. Without asking for a goddamn thing.

And now? Damn, I want to ask her for something. A date, maybe? Do people even do that anymore? It’s been so long since I’ve taken a girl out.

Besides, this isn’t just a girl. This is Holden’s sister, which opens up a whole different floodgate of problems.

I still haven’t told my friends that Rachel’s gone. It’s been two weeks now; she sent a quick one-sentence text, and when I returned it she didn’t reply. I sent her photographs of Etta, thinking maybe that would be the thing that brings her home, wakes her up.

Damn it, Etta needs her mother. I haven’t told anyone this, but in the back of my mind I’ve had questions about if I’m really her biological father. Rachel leaving makes me wonder if I will ever get any answers.

But hell, maybe having answers won’t fix anything.

The only thing that let my mind hit pause on my baby-mama-drama was Catalina coming over last week. With her, things felt light. Easier. Bearable.

Etta’s crying now, ready for a bottle. I pick her up from the swing that lulled her to sleep an hour ago, then carry her into the kitchen, debating if I should just get some balls and call Catalina.

I don’t want to be weird—don’t want to be that creepy guy, the older brother’s friend—but I also want more of her sweet, sweet pussy. More of her smile, more of her laugh. More of the distraction from this difficult reality.

The phone rings before I can think about it any more.

“Hello?” I don’t recognize the number.

“Hey, it’s Cat,” she says breezily.

Cat. I like that.

“Have you missed me?” she asks, laughing nervously—probably because neither of us knows what we’re doing.

Maybe neither of us should care.

“Yeah,” I admit. “I actually have.” I sit my phone on the counter, putting it on speakerphone. I grab a bottle from the drying rack, and fill it with prepackaged formula. I Googled if this shit was toxic. It’s not.

“Tell me more,” she moans playfully.

I shake my head, knowing this girl is trouble. Knowing I want this sort of trouble. Knowing I want her.

“You want to come over?” I ask, before I can even think about the repercussions of this request.

Fuck it, I want her here. I’ve got nothing else going on, on a Saturday night. I screw the bottle cap on and give it an unnecessary shake. Cradling Etta in my arms, I offer it to her. She sucks it greedily.

At least I’m doing
something
right. Etta is happy. Fed. Clean. Mine.

I think.

“Wow,” Cat says. “Are you asking me out?”

“No. I’m asking you over for that take-out we never got last week.”

“So is this how you’re, like, paying me for my babysitting services?”

“Do you want to be paid for your services?” I ask, wondering how close we’re getting to mentioning the post-babysitting quickie.

Not that it was quick. Or what I would call a hook-up. It was … more. I know it was. But what kind of more, I
don’t
exactly know.

“I don’t want to be paid,” she says, laughing again. “I was actually calling to make sure things were okay. I heard Holden mention that you haven’t been returning texts.”

“You talked to Holden about me? Us?” I immediately wonder how close she and Holden actually are. She wouldn’t tell him about us, would she?

“Whoa, easy there, Mr. Producer. I don’t talk to Holden about my sex life. But I did hijack his phone so I could get your number.”

“So what was Holden saying?” I ask, getting back on topic.

“He was just bitching to Bexley about how you’ve gone off the radar. And then Bexley was like,
well, he has a new baby
. And that shut him up. But it got me thinking—just, like, about you. And Etta. And,” she lowers her voice, “Rachel.”

“Oh,” I breathe—relieved, I guess? I mean, clearly I have issues surrounding my relationships, but I don’t necessarily want to start dissecting those right now. What I want right now is for Cat to come over. “So are you on your way?”

“Is this a booty call?” she asks.

“First off, you called me. Secondly … do you want it to be?”

“Depends on what kind of take-out we actually get this time.”

“Do you have a preference?” I ask.

“Oh, I have lots of preferences.”

“Is that a sexual innuendo?”

“You tell me.” She laughs easily and I momentarily wonder if she’s drunk. Or stoned.

And then I remember that she’s not Rachel. And that not all women require a high in order to be with me.

Fuck. I feel so damn weak right now.

I need to fucking take charge of my life.

“Yes. It was a sexual innuendo,” I tell her firmly. “And I have preferences too,
Cat
. Take-out and otherwise.”

“Good,” she says playfully, with a slight lilt to her voice. The light-hearted undercurrent is exactly what I need right now. “I like a man who knows what he wants.”

I hang up, adjusting my cock, knowing what I want tonight.

E
xiting the guesthouse
, I see my brother. He and Bexley are all dressed up and apparently going out on the town. I know saying “going out on the town” is, like, very clichéd or dorky or something, but the fact is they’re going out—and when they see me in boyfriend jeans slouching low on my hips, my patent-leather Birkenstocks, a sweatshirt hanging off my shoulder, and hair in a messy bun, I’m sure all they see is a girl who needs to get a life.

“Hey, Catalina,” Holden says. “Where you headed tonight?”

“Oh, I’m just going out … to get dinner.”

“Want to come with us?” Bexley asks. “Just going to get dinner ourselves.”

“Thanks,” I say. “But I’m not actually up for a whole thing at the end of my day.” I wave my hand around, indicating their clothes.

“Right,” Holden says, visibly annoyed. His eyebrows are raised and he gives Bexley a knowing look. He has a more than decent handle on condescension. “Because there was something else you did today?”

“Do you want me to move out?” I ask. “Honestly, I didn’t move in here to annoy you. And I didn’t move in here to be all up in your grill. I just needed a change.”

“A change?” Bexley asks. “Cat, not to be harsh … but sweetie, you’ve seemed sort of stuck for six months straight.”

“
W
ow
,” I say. “Okay. I didn’t realize that you had so much insight on my personal life, Bexley. Just because everyone in your social circle is either Grammy- or Oscar-nominated, doesn’t mean I’m a complete loser.”

“Cat,” Holden says, “Bex is just concerned. We’re all concerned. We thought you were coming here for film school—a film school you never actually applied to. Look. We want to help you get out of this … funk, but we don’t know how. You don’t let anyone in.”

“Let anyone in?” I say, trying to temper my annoyance at my brother—because I get it, he’s been really good to me. He’s let me live here rent free, paying for all my food and giving me spending money and paying for my car insurance. I’m lucky. I’m lucky that I can just … flounder.

“Cat, nobody wants to argue,” Bexley says, softer now. “When we say you don’t let anyone in, it’s only because we want in, because we love you. Everybody wants what’s best for you, and sometimes Holden and I—and even your mother—wonder if watching TV in your bed all day is the best life you could choose.”

I try to match her tone by looking her in the eye and remembering that she’s not the enemy. She’s actually the best thing that ever happened to my asshole of a brother. She’s a good person—probably one of the best. Which is probably why I’m so completely insecure around her.

Bexley does everything right. Even when she does it wrong, she does it right. Bexley is amazing. Compared to her? I don’t even know anymore. I don’t think I ever knew to begin with.

“I hope you guys have a really good time at dinner.” I reach for Bexley’s hand and squeeze it. “You look really pretty tonight, Bex.”

“I’d say you look pretty, too,” Holden says. “But, honestly, you look like shit.”

“Holden.” Bexley slaps her hand against his chest. “Don’t be a jerk.”

“I’m not a jerk. When did being honest become synonymous with being an asshole?”

“All right, you kids have fun, now,” I tell them as they walk toward the car. I force myself to smile, not wanting to at all. I remember breathe, feeling like I just dodged a bullet, but not quite knowing who pulled the trigger.

I can tell Holden’s patience for me is wearing thin. I don’t blame him. My patient for myself is wearing pretty damn thin, too.

* * *

P
ulling
up to Jude’s door, I feel my stomach begin to flutter. I haven’t felt like this for a long time—this sense of something new, something exciting, something forbidden. I park in the driveway, press my freshly glossed lips together, and check my phone.

Yuri texted. Twice.

Y
uri
:
I’m going to be in LA, soon. I need to see you.

Yuri:
You owe me, don’t forget it. There are lots of ways you could repay me. You could introduce me to your brother.

I silence my phone. Pretending I didn’t just read that. Pretending Yuri isn’t actually coming to LA. I don’t want to see him.

Ever. Again.

I know so many of my problems right now stem from the fact that I’m not willing to talk about our relationship with my family. I know if I just explained what went down, then they’d understand why I was so desperate to get out of town.

Being with him meant giving up everything else.

I couldn’t just break up with a guy like that. I needed to cut ties, get a fresh start.

Moving here did just that.

Except he somehow got my new phone number a few months ago, tracked me down—and since then? He keeps calling me. Which is only making my spiral of self-diagnosed depression that much worse.

I knock on the door, and Jude answers it wearing a smile and a faded T-shirt. Ripped jeans hug his ass, and leather bracelets wrap around his wrists. He doesn’t look like he’s shaved in a week, and it’s sexy as hell, this scruffy look he has going on. His eyes are the same as I remember—still as deep and dark brown as ever.

“Hey girl,” he says greeting me. “I’m so glad you called.”

“Really? Not too forward of me?” I say, stepping inside his home.

“It’s fine. Actually, not fine—great. Man this week has just been….”

I look around his house and can quickly determine what his week has been exactly. I’m guessing little sleep, no help, and uh … “Have you been rearranging?” I ask.

The magazines that had been stacked neatly on the coffee table are now shoved in a cardboard box, the fireplace is surrounded with an ottoman barricade, and his lamps are unplugged and sitting high on the kitchen island.

“Well, not exactly rearranging. Etta’s learning to crawl. I have a feeling she’s going to be one of those babies that learns to walk at nine months old. This week, she’s gone from zero to one hundred in under an hour. My girl’s fast.”

“I see,” I tell him, looking around with a different perspective. “So you’re baby-proofing the place.”

“I’m trying.” He shakes his head, motioning for me to join him in the kitchen. Etta is sitting in a high chair with a handful of Cheerios on her tray, her four teeth poking out charmingly. “Honestly, if there was a professional baby-proofing company, I’d hire them. I’d pay them anything they wanted. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Hey,” I reach for his arm and squeeze it. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. Honestly, you’re doing great. And I can help you.”

“You came over here because you want to baby-proof my house? On a Saturday night?”

“Well,” I begin, looking down at myself, “I’m not exactly dressed for anything else.”

“You’re always dressed in jeans and a T-shirt.” He eyes me appraisingly, and I may be missing something but I actually think he likes what he sees.

“Are you telling me you’ve been checking me out all this time I’ve been living with my brother?” I feign shock.

“Hell, yeah,” he says, running a washcloth under warm water. He wipes Etta’s face and hands clean, then takes her from the high chair, effortlessly bouncing her on his hip. “Every guy who sees you checks you out, Holden’s sister or not.”

“Now you’re just trying to make me blush.”

“Oh, girl,” he says, slowly leaning in to whisper in my ear. “I’m not trying to make you blush. I’m hoping that soon enough I’ll be making you gush.”

“Jude.” I shake my head. “That’s pretty damn cheesy.”

“I’m a stay-at-home single dad,” he says pointing to Etta as if he has a decent excuse as to why he can’t do any better.

He carries Etta to a
Pack 'n Play
set up in the living room and puts her down. Instead of fussing, like I’d guess a baby would do, she sits happily and begins gnawing on the corner of a blanket.

He turns back to look at me, and I don’t shy away from the conversation at hand. I kind of want to know what I’m dealing with before I make a decision about what sort of moves I’m going to make tonight. Or what sort of moves I’ll let
him
make.

“So you said you were single … is that true? You and Rachel…” I lick my lips, wondering if this conversation is going much too fast.

The doorbell rings, and I’m guessing it’s our dinner.

“Yes,” he tells me. “I am single. Completely. Are you?”

The question catches me off guard, and the doorbell rings again, putting pressure on the moment. Not that I can’t answer truthfully—of course I can. And of course I will.

It’s just that the reminder of Yuri, the last person I was with, focuses me on what I want from tonight.

Last week, when I was with Jude, I felt so wonderful. The rest of the week, back at the guesthouse, I was deflated. But he was like a high—one I want another taste of.

I need my fix.

“Oh, I’m very single.” I find his belt loops and let my fingers wrap around them, tugging him close to me.

The doorbell rings again.

“Good. Then this is most definitely a date.” He walks towards the door with me in step with him, not letting go of his pants. “And I think our dinner is here.”

He opens the door. We both look in surprise.

It’s definitely not our dinner.