UNHOLY - A Bad Boy Romance
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Authors: Gabi Moore
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UNHOLY
A Bad Boy Romance
By: Gabi Moore
Table of Contents
ADDITIONAL BOOKS IN THIS ANTHOLOGY
All The Knickers I’ve lost Over The Years - The Memorable Ones
THE OVERRULER – A Hot Novelette
Manipulator Of Elements: Earth – An Urban Fantasy
Manipulator Of Elements: Air - An Urban Fantasy
Manipulator Of Elements: Water – An Urban Fantasy
THOU SHALT KILL – A Military Bad Boy Romance
MAN MILK - A Gay Romance Of Cosmic Proportions
A Bad Boy Romance
By Gabi Moore
My name is Melanie, and I’m a pretty good girl, if I do say so myself.
I have just two secrets.
Judging from what a crazy mess the world is, and how awful most people are, I would rate I’m not doing too badly if I’ve only racked up two so far. Just two.
The first one is my hidden wedding Pinterest board where I collect millions of pictures of dream dresses, beautiful cakes, fun things to do with shells, wedding manicures and sexy yet classy bridal lingerie that has the name of your dream guy embroidered in tiny white stitches on a silky suspender belt…
The other is that I seem to be addicted to watching hardcore porn.
I always thought that the best colors for a wedding are obviously pastels, even though I know they’re a little predictable, right? Still, you can always go with a retro theme. There’s a whole section of my “Dresses” board that shows, like the stripes in a rock, the periods of my life where I was intensely interested in 50s wedding frocks with poofy skirts and the cutest little shoes.
But then I decided I wanted a bright Frida Kahlo style Mexican theme with paper cut outs and piñatas that rained down wedding favors when the guests hit them with sticks that had ribbons plaited on them. But I soon decided that would probably end up cheap-looking and that what I really wanted was something all mute and elegant – lace, you know, and pearls, and little desserts that look like roses with tiny cakes tucked inside.
My tastes in porn …well, that stayed pretty much constant. I always chose the same, nasty, horrible, no good stuff to look at, sadly.
Now, I like fitted wedding dresses the most, honestly, and find they flatter my butt nicely, even if I do say so myself. Like I said, I’m a pretty good girl, but lord help me I do think I have a nice butt, and it’s not too vain if I say so. Good girls wait for the wedding night, and listen to their mammas, and do well in school so they can be dental technicians and live the dream. And that’s what I did. A Pinterest board may have been jumping the gun a little, sure, but so what if I fantasized once in a while about what my groom would wear even before he technically existed? Only a bad girl would let such a small detail get in the way of her planning a decent wedding.
The porn though. Ugh. What could I say? God knows I tried my best to get over this filthy habit. I read “The Beauty of the Chaste Woman” by Reverend Peters. I took cold showers (does that only work for boys though?) and I wore my own makeshift pledge ring on my middle finger, where it was too small and so would hurt the most. I put special parental controls on my browser. Then I took them off again.
Nothing worked, which just goes to show you that even good girls struggle sometimes. Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I’m some poor repressed Christian soul. You’re thinking I’m a big old prude and that I’m like one of those girls on the TV who believes the idiot in her youth group when he tells her you can’t get pregnant on Easter or something.
Well, I’m not. I’m no fool. I may be on the inexperienced side but I know a thing or two about
you-know-what
. My family’s a bit uptight about these things, sure, but besides my Aunt Carol, we all just like to do things properly. The right way. What’s so wrong about that?
I’m young, I know (nineteen years old and ten months!) but it seems to me that living a good life is a bit like planning a wedding: you have to pay attention to the details, you have to plan ahead, or else you’ll have a big old flop on your hands, won’t you? Besides the nasty issue with the porn (don’t judge me, I’m working on it and
no
, I certainly won’t tell you what kind of porn it is) I was going to have that good life for myself. Right down to the last table arrangement and swan shaped bottle of bubbles. I thought nothing could possibly stand in my way.
Boy, how wrong I was.
“For Christ’s sake, Jenny, it’s not
lube
, it’s personal moisturizer” said my Aunt Carol, who had not only taken to using the lord’s name in vain, but had also joined a pyramid scheme, from what I could tell.
“Personal moisturizer? Well, for such an open minded company, they sure have some funny ideas about calling a thing what it really is,” said my mom, turning a green bottle over in her hands a few times before plonking it on the table like it was poison. If my mom had been in charge of what to call the stuff, she’d probably have gone with “slut water” but I told you, my Aunt Carol was a bit of an outlier in the family.
“Nonsense. ‘Personal moisturizer’ is just what everyone calls it these days.”
“Oh do they? And what does it moisturize? Your
person
?”
My Aunt Carol is the black sheep of the family, although with her fierce dyed-red hair and massive hippie earrings, she’s more like the red sheep. It didn’t used to be like that. A few years ago, my uncle died and left my Aunt Carol a ton of money, which she promptly used to fuel a long and obnoxious journey of sexual self discovery.
While my mother and other aunts watched in horror, she went to Spain and probably, I don’t know,
did things
, and then she dyed her hair and started to wear chintzy stone jewelry to channel her inner goddess; these days she was peddling lingerie and “personal moisturizers” from a company called “Oh! So Good” that made my mother’s ulcer tingle.
“Don’t decent people sell Tupperware anymore?” said my mom, drawstringing tired lips round her cigarette, looking for some strength there since God never seemed to give her any. My aunt’s hippie earrings were flapping now as she shoved all her goodies back into a branded tote bag.
“Just forget about it. Jesus,” she said.
It was a Saturday morning, one of those boring domestic scenes where you just drink coffee and wait for some activity to suggest yourself. Living at home was fine, I guess, except for these little moments of drama.
Aunt Carol had been given a decent amount of leeway, as a widow you know, but my mom was steadily losing patience. My aunt’s gift of the bestseller, “Sexual Freedom at Fifty and Beyond” didn’t sit well next to “The Beauty of the Chaste Woman” and found its way into the trash. My aunt packed up her bag of tricks - all those things that the brains behind Oh! So Good thought would make the average housewife happy – and made for the door.
“I should go anyway. Some of us have lives to live, you know?” she said, with a flick of her beet-red and newly liberated hair.
“Ooh! Aunt Carol! Am I still housesitting for you this weekend?” I asked as she reached the door.
“Yes! I nearly forgot. Get your mom to drop you off. Jared and I will be leaving at around 9 on Friday to catch our plane, so come then and see us off.”
“Jared? Is this a
new
one?” my mom said, freshly judgmental, smoke blowing out her nose like a dragon.
“He’s not a ‘one’, he’s a very nice man I met at gym, and he’s coming with me, and we’re both consenting adults” said my aunt, slowly.
“Consenting adults? Oh, well, I hope you and your
person
have fun with him,” mom said.
I giggled, and Aunt Carol left, not about to let family or advanced age prevent her from enjoying her youth.
“What’s the bet she’s paid for his ticket and everything? He’s probably less than half her age and twice as evil,” mom said, who was really very good at virtue accounting.
My mom had been mad at Aunt Carol’s indiscretions before, but this one had her particularly riled up. There was some extra energy in the way she spoke about this “one”.
“Have you met him? This Jared?” I said.
“Never. But Alice told me he can’t be a year or two older than you. It’s disgusting.”
Of course it was. Utterly disgusting.
So disgusting, in fact, that I had to find out more.
Now, don’t ask me how, but I’m not a complete stranger to boys. Even still, meeting Jared in person was …surprising.
I arrived at my aunt’s on Friday evening, ready to see her and her inappropriate lover off on their vacation. I brought a backpack with my laptop, some clothes, a book, a box of pop tarts. I would feed Buttons, maybe get stuck into an essay that was due on Tuesday.
It was all planned out.
The moment I stepped through my Aunt’s front door, though, something instantly let me know that all my plans were about to be disrupted somehow. It could have been the intense stinking cloud of cologne I walked into, or it could have been the loud, laughing voice that seemed to fill the whole house. Or it could have been something else entirely. Buttons was well-known, for instance, for being able to judge when earth-tremors or quakes were coming because he’d scamper under furniture and meow and meow till it hit. Maybe it was like that. Maybe some part of my brain sensed a disturbance in the force, you know, and I could tell a quake was coming.
I slammed the door shut.
“Mel is that you, sweetie? We’re in the kitchen!”
I found my aunt there, even more animated than usual, fussing with some snack bars and a tiny cooler bag, hippie necklace flapping over her big shelf of a bosom. “I’m just trying to pack some nibbles in case we get hungry! Although how many should I bring? Will they give us a snack do you think, babe?”
She turned to look at the guy standing beside her, a young guy who was eyeballing her closely. He was clearly the source of the cologne, the laughing I heard a second ago and all the disruptions that were about to hit my innocent, good girl life.
He was smiling. A kind of mocking smile, one filled with cockiness and spunk, and he stood there with both hands on his hips as though he had been transported straight from a beer commercial into my aunt’s middle aged life.
“Babe, babe, no snacks, ok? Come on what do you want snacks for?” he said in a voice that sounded unnervingly young.
He was right.
If there was anything more lame and middle aged than packing seed bars for a plane trip, I couldn’t think of it. I usually think my mom exaggerates with most things in life. For instance, I’m pretty sure that anal sex doesn’t mean your children will have cleft palates, and that soy isn’t a crop invented by the communists to make good people resist the teachings of Jesus. But still, staring at this young guy and my ridiculously red aunt, I had to say: this was quite something else.
Was she
paying
him? It didn’t make sense. Why would a guy like this do a thing like that? And why would my sweet, goofy aunt do a thing like that, for that matter? He looked no older than me, it was true. And immediately feeling embarrassed, I wondered if I should have worn something a little nicer to judge him in.
He threw the seed bars back in the cupboard and shrugged, laughing.
“You’re right! You’re
so
right. Why am I packing them? God, I don’t even like them. This is what I love about you, Jared, you’re so carefree,” she said, smiling a big flushed smile at him. Jared beamed right back at her.
Gross
. My eyes scanned over my aunt’s matronly figure, over her freckled hands with her wedding ring still attached
(“It’s water weight! I’ll take it off once the swelling goes down!”).
My aunt was an elegant lady, of course, and I loved her to bits, but she was also
fifty-four
years old.
I glanced over at him, trying not to dwell on his branded hoodie and squeaky clean trainers. Did they …you know …? I shuddered to think. Just as I had pushed the thought out of my head, he leaned over and pecked her on her cheek, just like that, right in front of me. I swear, if they ended up an item I would not invite them to my wedding. No sir. My aunt’s maroon hair alone would be enough to ruin the color scheme, for sure.
I cleared my throat and plunked my bag down onto a kitchen stool. I took out my laptop and plugged it in, getting ready for a long weekend where I could pretend that I was actually a grown up who lived alone.
My aunt began to fuss with a few more things in her bag. Jared turned his attention to me, eyeing my laptop.
“So you’re Mel? I’ve heard all about you.”
“And I’ve heard about
you
too,” I said, unconsciously taking over my mom’s work in her absence. He didn’t respond to this, but kept eyeing the laptop.
“What’s that for? Don’t tell me you’re going to
study?!
It’s the weekend, girl, loosen up!”
I hated him. Settling down and putting Buttons in my lap, I casually replied, “No, no work, but I have other things I wanted to get done this weekend…”
He grinned at me. “
Other
things, eh? Looking at naughty things on the internet I bet.”
My face burned. Aunt Carol absentmindedly swatted his meaty arm, “Oh leave her alone, babe, she’s a good girl.”
He stood there, the fool, staring at me full on. He winked, cracked a bubble of gum between his teeth. “Yeah, no, I’m sure she is,” he said in an arrogant voice.
I wanted to hit him. I couldn’t decide what irritated me more. The fact that my aunt was so dismissive about me, or the fact that this meathead had technically guessed one of my two big secrets within 5 minutes of meeting me. Nevermind, he would never know how right he was, and I certainly would never let him know my
other
secret.
I hugged and kissed my aunt goodbye and they hauled their luggage out to the car.
Hadn’t he gone to school, like a decent, normal boy? Where on earth did my aunt even find him? Why was
any
of this happening, for that matter? It was annoying, to say the least. What was the point of anything if idiots like him could just swan in and take advantage of a vulnerable widow like me dear aunt? Although honestly, at this very second she didn’t look quite so vulnerable as I would have liked.
Jared hoisted up her bags onto his broad shoulders, the spidery edges of some tattoos on his belly peaking out as he stretched upwards. He went out to the car, came back in and then slapped my aunt’s ass as she grabbed her coat, and she both giggle and jiggled, reminding me of a very happy Miss Piggy. Bizarrely, he then spread his arms wide and demanded a hug from me, too. Before I knew it, he was squashing his indecently hard body against mine and squeezing me goodbye as well.
I stammered a goodbye and closed the door, nothing but my own surprise and Buttons’s bored green eyes to keep me company. I sniffed my sweater: I smelled like him now.
Gross
. I tore it off and tossed it onto the sofa, unsettled by the whole thing. So what if I did look at naughty stuff on the internet? Who was he to judge, when he was running around with a woman more than twice his age?
I opened my laptop, clicking to open a secret browser, looking over my shoulder to see if Buttons had anything to say about it. Don’t judge me, but my favorite these days was “2 tattooed jocks fuck teen” and I had watched it dozens of times before. I know, I know. But at least if I kept coming back to only this one clip, it would mean that I’d only technically watched one of them, which was less terrible than watching a whole bunch of them, right? I’d stop eventually, I was just stressed these days, that’s all. I would give it up one day, definitely. I was a good girl, and this kind of nonsense was definitely
not
in my life plan. But oh well, it was just me and Buttons here, and I
was
pretty tired, and it didn’t count since it was just this same clip anyway.
The familiar figures moved across the screen and I watched. Some badly behaved college boys, ink all over their hard chest and abs, roughly passing a girl between them. I was ashamed. My hand found its way into my skirt and I desperately rubbed that shame away. Then it was at the best part – the part where they’re both, well,
you know
, and she’s completely and utterly, well. You can just imagine. What a dirty slut she was. I sighed. It would all be fine just as long as I never watched anything more than this one clip. It would be OK, I’m sure.
Just then, with a little flutter of horror I realized: they look like
him
.
I looked closer at the screen and crunched up my face. Yup, just like him. Darn it. The same cocky smiles, the same toned shoulders and rough hands. I sat back, a little irritated. Well, he had completely ruined
that
for me, the idiot. I quickly closed the window and found Pinterest instead. Maybe the problem was that I was thinking too classic. Too traditional. Maybe instead of petit fours inside the rose desserts, it should be white éclairs? Buttons looked on, completely uninterested in my mortal soul.
