Beached with the Bad Boy (Bad Boys on Holiday #3) (7 page)

She retreated to her room and found her sweat pants, pulling them on as quickly as she could. When she got back to the living room, Trick was sitting on the couch again, arms folded tight across his bare chest, his boxers back on, hair sticking up in every direction.

“If you don’t want me, okay. Just say it. We could’ve stopped any time. We still can.” Trick closed his eyes, shaking his head. “Christ, Layla. I’m not made of glass. You’re freaking me out here.”

“I…” Layla didn’t know how to explain the sudden emotions roiling inside her. She knew she was being crazy, dragging him right along for the ride on her emotional roller coaster, and it wasn’t fair. She’d never intended to play games, to come out here and kiss him, taste him, only to have a freaking panic attack right when things were getting good.

What is my problem?

She was so, so tempted to let go. To slide out of her clothes again and into his lap, run her fingers through that wild hair, shrug off her fears, let him take her to that faraway place she’d been missing for so, so long.

But the idea of losing control like that—even for one blissful night—it scared the hell out of her. She’d come too close to letting go already. To forgetting.

And forgetting
always
led to pain.

No matter how brave she wanted to be, inside she still felt like a scared little girl. She couldn’t face pain like that again—not even a fraction of it. Not in this lifetime or the next.

She opened her mouth to try to explain, but once again, the words wouldn’t come.

All she could muster was another “sorry,” and even that felt weak and watery.

“Layla, don’t—”

“Please,” she said. “I promise I’ll be back soon. Just… just let me go.” Shoving her guilt aside, she turned away from his confused face, heading out the door and running down to the beach, begging the ocean to drown out every last one of the incessant, impossible voices in her head.

I
f you don’t want
me, okay. Just say it…

The words echoed harshly in Layla’s head. God, they were so far from the truth it was almost comical. She’d
never
wanted a man more than she’d wanted Trick Harper.

But something had held her back. Something in his eyes, vulnerable and soft in the dim light, blissed out from her touch, his guard totally down. Those eyes had reminded her of hope, of promises, of a time in her life when there was still room in her heart for both.

Those days had long since passed. She wouldn’t—couldn’t—let her walls down again. Not even for one night. Not even for a hot as hell, soft-on-the-inside rock star who’d already given her a gold medal double orgasm without even removing her panties.

Layla could only imagine what the man could do with a full-access pass.

She stuck her toes in the water, then her ankles, desperate to cool off. The water was shockingly cold, but after a few seconds, she got used to it. The sand felt so good beneath her feet, squishing between her toes as the waves lapped gently at her shins. The sun was just starting to lighten the sky, everything still a deep twilight blue.

Calm.

Peaceful.

You are a supremely messed up chick, Layla Hart.

Layla closed her eyes, breathing in the salty air of the Pacific. Her night with Trick could’ve been fun for both of them—a red-hot spring fling, no expectations, no obligations. Instead she’d freaked out, that scared little girl inside her picking that exact moment to show up again, to remind her of all the reasons she couldn’t trust her sex drive.

Lust at first sight, after all, was how she’d met the Asshole Without a Name.

And that’s exactly how his lover-on-the-side had met him, too.

Layla shivered, swallowing the knot of shame in her throat. It wasn’t just that he’d cheated on her after making her feel dirty and cheap for liking sex, for wanting to explore it so deeply with him.

It was that he’d
been
cheating on her the whole time, since before they were married, and almost everyone knew about it but her.

Even her best friend Kelly had known.

God, was I stupid.

After all these months, she still couldn’t forgive herself for ignoring all the signs. Even the way she’d found out was glaringly predictable—lipstick on the boxers, credit card receipt for a hotel and in-room massages for two. When she’d shown up on Kelly’s doorstep in tears, Kelly had broken down, confessing that she’d known about the other woman all along.

She’d
known
the other woman.

She
was
the other woman.

It was a double-whammy loss, two gaping holes in Layla’s heart for the price of one.

Her ex-husband? Well. Layla probably should have seen that one coming.

But Kelly? Never in a million years…

Despite everything, Layla still missed her. Even now she thought of her, imagined telling Kelly about her trip this week.

Girl, you’ll never guess who’s shacking up in my cottage…

But those thoughts never led anywhere good. Kelly’s treachery had ended their friendship, severed all ties. Layla had burned every photo, every card, everything. If she could’ve burned away her memories, she would have lit that damn match, too.

The divorce was quick. He didn’t contest. Didn’t go after her assets. She was grateful for that. But in the end, after she’d signed all the papers and gotten the word from the lawyer that all was said and done, she cried herself into a months-long seclusion. Those first few weeks were the worst; she’d spent more days in bed than not, certain she’d die from the pain and loss. She had no one to talk to—her parents had died when she was young, she had no family, and she’d just lost her closest confidante. She was too ashamed to talk to her other friends about it, lots of them still close with Kelly, even after everything had finally come out in the open.

What a mess.

Eventually, Layla dragged herself out of the house. Got her hair done. Got back to her writing. And on that day, she swore she’d never, ever get involved with another man in the real world. From that day forward, it would be book-and-TV boyfriends all the way.

Until this week.

She really thought she’d moved on, but it was moments like this—when the ghost of her ex crept into her heart and turned it black all over again—that she realized just how stuck in the past she really was.

He was long gone, moving on with his life, as was Kelly. Layla had heard that they’d broken up not too long after she’d caught on. They probably never even thought of Layla anymore, yet it felt like they’d always have a stranglehold on her.

No, not always. Only until you decide to stop letting them. It’s a choice—quit pretending otherwise.

Layla opened her eyes, startled at the thought. It was so clear, so obvious, for a moment she felt as if the sea had whispered the words directly into her ear.

A choice…

It was true. Absolutely true. They were gone from her life, and she was better for it. She’d been using that pain as a crutch, an excuse to avoid getting close to anyone—emotionally, physically, or otherwise. She’d even distanced herself from
herself
, from her soul, her art, all the parts of her that made Layla Hart who she was.

It had caused her to lose friends. It had caused her to lose interest in all of her hobbies. And it had completely disconnected her from the most important thing in her life—writing. Her passion. Her purpose.

Writing had always been such a part of her, but ever since the divorce, she’d been struggling. Resisting. Afraid to let herself be honest and vulnerable on the page. And that translated directly into her real life.

God, she saw it so clearly now, plain as day. It was as if she’d been walking through a fog—she could kind of make her way around, but nothing was as vibrant, as clear, as real as it’d once been.

Until now.

Until she’d felt things waking up inside her again, eager to be touched. Explored. Opened up.

Trick Harper had done that.

She touched her fingers to her lips, the taste of him still fresh in her mouth.

The attraction between them was obvious—it had been from the start. She was a single adult woman. She hadn’t had sex in—God—she didn’t even bother to do the math. The dull ache between her thighs was a near-constant reminder, and it had only gotten worse in his presence.

And then, for a few minutes—before she’d freaked out—better.

She wanted him. And she deserved to go after what she wanted. She deserved a good life. A happy life. No one could take that away from Layla but Layla herself.

She turned back toward the beach house, butterflies tumbling through her stomach when she saw the lights on through the bay window.

He was still awake.

He was waiting up for her.

Layla smiled, suddenly giddy.

Fuck
the past.
Fuck
her losses and her broken heart. It was time for Layla Hart to woman up. To take life by the horns. To channel her inner Lizbeth and go after her man.

Hell, it was time for Layla Hart to get laid.

But there was one thing she had to do first.

T
he universe loves
fucking with me.

One minute she was there, warm and soft in his arms, moaning his name with such intense passion he’d almost come from the sound alone… and then she was gone, bolting out the front door in a rush that left him ice cold.

Layla was driving him insane, and not in a good way. As if Trick needed another reminder about why he should steer clear of women—not just for the week, but permanently.

We need to have this talk again, man?

Gabe, with his usual perfect timing, chiming in right when Trick didn’t want to hear it.

When he was still alive, Gabe had been Trick’s go-to guy for hashing out his women troubles, so—imagined or not—it wasn’t surprising that the guy’s voice of reason was still loud and clear in Trick’s head. Of course, back then his women troubles were more of the “how do I get them to take the hint and back the fuck off” variety. He’d never really been in a situation where
she
was the one dropping the hints, and
he
was the one spinning his wheels trying to figure out what he’d done to fuck it up.

Trick shook his head, damn near laughing at himself.

He wished Gabe could see him now. Bastard would be laughing his ass off, that was for sure. Trick would probably punch him for it. And then Gabe would kick his ass, and ten minutes later they’d be jamming together like nothing had happened. Probably write some dumbass song about it, too.

Fuck, I miss you, man.

Whenever he thought about it too much, a big gaping hole opened up inside Trick’s chest, making him feel like he was about to cave in on himself. He allowed himself another minute of crushing sadness, then he let it go, focusing back on the problem at hand.

Women.

Specifically,
that
woman.

He should’ve seen it coming. Chick like that? Bound to have baggage. Not that Trick was judging—he was toting around enough emotional luggage for a trip around the world, four times over. He just should’ve known better. Should’ve seen the bullshit coming a mile away. Instead, he’d let her in. Never mind that she was hot as hell, that he’d loved making her come, that she’d felt so good taking him in her mouth, sucking him like she enjoyed it as much as he did… He actually fucking
liked
her. Talking with her. Making her laugh. Getting to know her through her writing. Hell, the woman had him reading romance novels, for the love of God.

But obviously he’d done something to fuck it up, scare her off. And now, no matter how hard he tried to clear his head, he just couldn’t get her back out again.

He rose from the couch and looked out the window again, spotting her on the shore. She’d been pacing back and forth for twenty minutes. God only knew what the hell she was doing out there.

Ten minutes more. That’s all he was willing to give her before he went storming down after her. It was well after three in the damn morning; he wasn’t about to go to sleep while she was out there roaming the beach alone.

He flicked on the light, slumped back onto the couch.

Talk about a fucking conundrum. He’d damn near made a second career out of bedding women, never touching the same one twice. But the minute he put himself on detox, he got double-booked with a woman who had him breaking every one of his rules.

He couldn’t get her out of his fucking head.

He wanted her.

But obviously the feeling was no longer mutual.

Trick shook his head. He was no good for Layla, anyway. She liked the romance novel type—heroic, decent. Not him. Used up and spit out, stuck in a rut, a goddamn has-been who didn’t even have the balls to stand up for what he wanted.

He couldn’t even finish his lousy album. One fucking song.

Reaching for his notebook, he tried to concentrate on his lyrics, but despite his imagined warnings from Gabe, all roads led back to Layla Hart. Her bright green eyes. That crazy curly hair. Every one of her damn freckles, lighting up whenever she smiled. Her passion. Her dedication to writing. Her sense of humor.

Drop it.

He had to shake her off. Now. Before he got in any deeper.

So he did what he did best. Grabbed his guitar. Closed his eyes. And threw himself into his music. No notebook, no pen, no record execs in his head, not even Gabe. Just the familiar weight of the guitar in his lap, his calloused fingers on the strings, and a voice to drown out everything in his head.

Just fucking let go, man. Get lost…

That was his own voice, a direct fucking order he was all too happy to follow. Everything dropped away, leaving only the music. He felt his way through the chord progressions, the change-ups, the crescendo. He sang what he felt, from some dark place come to surface. And he didn’t stop. Those ten minutes passed. Twenty. He lost track of time, singing again and again, the same song, the same words, the same chorus and bridge, and still he didn’t stop. Not until his hand was cramped, his voice hoarse.

And his song, the one that had eluded him for months, was finished.

Trick opened his eyes, the music still echoing in the house. In his head. His hands ached. He didn’t even feel like writing down the new lyrics. Didn’t need to. They were with him now. A part of him.

Instead, he rose from the couch, set his guitar back in the stand, and headed down to the beach.

He didn’t care that he was naked except for his boxers. Didn’t care that it was almost sunrise.

And, when he waded into the ocean and saw his girl there, squealing with delight, bobbing up and down in neck-deep water, he didn’t care about the chill, either.

He just wanted to be with her. Fuck the arguing. The overanalyzing. The bullshit. He was out here for one reason: to take a fucking chance at something real, honest. Even if it wasn’t meant to be.

Life was too short to hold back.

“Hey,” he said. “Up for some company?”

She rose from the water and turned to face him, a wild gleam in her eyes.

Water streamed down over her shoulders, her wet hair sticking to her mouth, curling down over her perfect breasts.

She was naked.

Something inside him sparked, ignited. Trick growled, low and guttural like an animal, a warning and a promise of what was to come.

He lost his boxers. Sent them swimming on a wave, sacrificed them up to the Gods of the sea.

“Small price to pay,” he said with a shrug.

And then she smiled, brushing the hair from her face, that freckle-faced grin lighting up the whole damn sky.