Return of the Bad Boy (9 page)

He chuckles. “I wanted to do it last night. You weren’t ready.”

“I was scared,” I murmured. “Embarrassed you’d—“

“Fuck, girl,” he says with a grin. “I’ve never tasted anything as sweet as you.”

He kicks off his boots and pulls off his shirt, then holds me in his arms for the rest of the night, not trying another thing. In the morning, when the sun comes up, he’s already gone.

But for the first time ever, I don’t even question whether I’ll see him again. I know I will.

A
few days later
, and I’m standing in front of an old-style gas stove in Dax’s house, about to freak out.

I look frantically around the house for something or someone to save me. Nothing pops out from the clutter. Dax’s home could definitely use a woman’s touch. The men of the house have Eagles sheets over the windows. They have an old carburetor as a centerpiece on the kitchen table. There are dirty dishes in the sink and layers of dust on all the surfaces. The house is a total sty, with laundry everywhere.

This is the way they’ve lived most of their lives.

I’m not in Kansas anymore, that’s for sure. I grew up in a spotless home with an electric stove. Stupid me, thinking all I needed to do was turn the switch and the burners would light. I’ve been standing here for ten minutes in Dax’s ultimate man-cave of a home, waiting for something to happen, which is throwing a serious wrench in my plans to impress Dax’s family by making them all dinner tonight. So now, four hungry brothers are going to come back from the shop to a box of uncooked spaghetti, raw meatballs, and a salad.

This isn’t exactly working the way I’d hoped.

“What are you trying to do, burn the house down?” someone snaps from behind me, making me jump.

It’s Vincent, Dax’s youngest brother. But Dax always called him Wob, short for Wobble, because he’s never been the most coordinated of kids. The kid was a walking band-aid, all skinned-knees and scabs, or so Dax once told me. When I was in high school, I’d seen him once at the shop, when he was an innocent and scrawny eleven-year old. Now, he’s almost a perfect copy of high school Dax in every way, except that he’s pierced his ears and eyebrow and his hair is a lot longer. He’s wearing a long-sleeve, black Slipknot t-shirt and baggy jeans despite the fact that it’s probably a hundred degrees today and the Harding’s house doesn’t have air conditioning. I’m sweating like a pig in my camisole and short-shorts, part from the heat and part from the stress, but Wobble looks way cooler than I do.

“I’m trying to make dinner,” I explain dumbly.

In the recent days since Dax and I decided not to sneak around, there hasn’t been much to test us. Probably because when I haven’t been helping my parents pack and Dax hasn’t been at the shop, we’ve been together in his bedroom late at night, enjoying alone time.

Which means some really mind-blowing sex.

This is the first time I’m in Dax’s house, without him, though, and it feels a little like a minefield.

“You’re mom and dad teach at the high school, right?” Wobble mumbles, less-than-thrilled. He pulls the ear buds attached to his phone out of his ears and comes up close to me, a sneer on his face.

I understand that look. I’m sure he was in one of the Deadly Donahues’ classes. My parents taught all the Harding kids. They called those kids hellions. I’m sure my father’s gray hairs are a direct result of Cal, Eric, Tom, and Vincent. But I’m sure the hate was mutual. It’s no wonder those boys used to look at me like I’m infested with worms.

Wobble slides open a drawer and smoothly pulls out a box of matches. “Got to light the pilot,” he drawls, sounding eerily Dax-like.

I wrinkle my nose. “But it is lit,” I protest as he opens the top of the stove. “I—“

I stop when I realize that nope, the blue light that used to be there the last time I checked is definitely out.

“This one goes out all the time,” he explains as he lights it up. He switches it on and the burners light. “Voila.”

“Thank you,” I say, smiling at him gratefully.

And he actually smiles at me, too. “No sweat.” Progress!

He starts to stuff the ear buds back into his ears. The music is so loud, he’ll probably go deaf one day. “You’re listening to Slipknot, huh? They’re cool.”

He nods. “Yep.”

Just when I think that maybe this is going to be okay, the smile morphs into this sly smirk. “Yeah. Well. I got to listen to it loud. I share a bedroom wall with Dax. You’re fucking loud when you come.”

And then he walks away, leaving me with my face red and my mouth hanging open, like a goldfish’s.

I spend the rest of the time alternating between mortified over what Vincent said and petrified that I won’t finish dinner in time. It’s not easy, figuring out a kitchen that’s not my own, especially one that’s been ruled by men for the past dozen years, but eventually I set the table and get the dinner ready. Then I sit down at the table and cover my face in my hands. I think about Vincent, listening to everything Dax and I have been doing the past couple days. We’d tried to be quiet, but it obviously wasn’t quiet enough. I’ve had countless mind-blowing orgasms the past few days, but knowing that Dax’s little brother has heard them . . .

Moments later, the door opens and Dax and his twin brothers stomp in, throwing their greasy stuff down in a heap in the middle of the living room. Eric and Tom are a year behind me in school, and back then they were both arrested for drag-racing cars down Main Street, drunk.

I’d never seen Dax so pissed as when he got the call and had to go bail them out. Both Eric and Tom have Dax’s height, but where Dax is lean, these boys are built like linebackers. As far as twins go, they have different personalities—Tom is the type A, go-getting kind who will be first to help out when Dax needs it, and Eric is the slug. That’s why Tom is Sparrow, and Eric is Turkey, because Dax’s mom thought the names fit them, even when they were babies.

“What smells good?” One of them says.

Then they pile through the kitchen doorway and catch sight of me. Dax’s eyes light up, making my insides flutter, but his brothers’ eyes narrow in unison.

“Hi,” I say, giving them a wave, wondering if they heard Dax and me fucking last night, too.

“Hey,” Sparrow says unexcitedly. Their eyes drift to the bowl of spaghetti and meatballs.

“I made dinner,” I say brightly. Looking at them, then back at the table, I wonder if I made enough food.

I bite my lip as Dax moves close to me, and my heart thrums as he kisses me, cupping my backside and massaging it while the boys can’t see. God, I love it when his hands mold my ass. I could probably get off having him do that all day. His eyes drift wolfishly to my camisole, and now I know the true meaning of undressing a person with one’s eyes. “I’m only hungry for one thing, Darlin’,” he whispers.

I swat him away as Vincent quietly appears in the doorway like a black ghost. He rolls his eyes at me. Great. He’s caught us
again.

Dax pulls out a chair for me and says, “Where’s dad?”

I shrug, surprised he has no idea. “I haven’t seen him. I thought he was with you at the shop?”

Dax and his brother share worried glances. Dax pulls out his phone and starts to jab in a number, then brings the phone to his ear and disappears into the living room. The boys waste no time digging into their food. No conversation, no thank you, the only sound the scrape of utensils on the plate. They pile it down, mouthful after mouthful. By the time Dax gets back only a minute later, their plates are nearly clean.

Dax sits down, tosses his phone on the table, and rubs his face tiredly.

“Well?” one of the twins asks. “Where is he?”

“Where do you think, Spar?” Dax mutters. “Guess he’s been there
all day.”

I don’t have to be a Harding to know the answer to that. Murphy’s is the Friesville’s shithole bar. It’s the place where people go to drink away their paycheck after a long week at work. The only reason I know anything about it is because Dax’s dad practically has a VIP barstool reserved for his ass, he’s there so much. Mr. Harding hasn’t worked in the shop for years, so instead of blowing his own paycheck, he’s pissing away everything his sons make at the garage.

“Fuck,” the twins says in unison. Wobble pulls his ear buds out of his ears and groans, “What do we do?”

Dax stands and pockets his phone. “Guess I’m gonna go get him. Can’t have him total his car like last time.”

“I’ll go with you,” I say, rocketing to my feet, though I haven’t eaten a bite of my meal. Truthfully, I don’t have the appetite to sit around and take in a meal with three boys who can’t even stand to look at me.

Dax agrees and we hop into his tow truck. We ride out of the country, toward the downtown, an area with not much else than a rundown liquor store, Murphy’s, and a seedy hotel. As he drives, one arm hooked over the steering wheel, his other hand downshifts, lands on my thigh, then works its way up between my legs. “I’ve missed this all day, baby,” he says. “Dinner was great.”

I spread my legs, giving him better access. Since I’m not wearing underwear, his finger finds its way up to my folds. I’m already soaking wet as he parts them, finding my clit. “You didn’t even
eat
dinner,” I point out, letting out a sharp gasp as he starts to stroke there, sending ripples of electricity straight to my heart.

He nods.

“You have to be starving. You can have some when we get back,” I offer.

“Shit, girl, you’ve obviously never lived in a house with five boys before,” he says with a laugh. “I guarantee all of it’s gone now. They’re probably licking the bowl as we speak.”

“Really?” I’m trying to act surprised but at this point I don’t even know what we’re talking about. He just said
licking.
And so now all I can think of is him, slowly nibbling his way down my body, pressing his mouth hard against me as I clutch handfuls of his hair . . .

“It’s okay, I’ve got my dinner right here,” he says, as I let out a low moan. Holy fuck. He’s going to make me come before we even pull into the parking lot. I spread my legs even wider, letting him slide a finger up into my core. I’m so wet, so turned on. “I’m gonna make you come again and again tonight. That’s a promise.”

Suddenly, I think of Vincent. I press my legs closed. “You know, your brother told me he heard everything. Of, us…you know . . .”

Dax moves his hand back to the stick, then looks over at me, slightly amused, but not ashamed. “That perverted little prick.”

Why the hell am I the only one who feels uncomfortable about this? “So, you’re okay with that?”

“No. But I’m also not going to stop being with you in the privacy of my own room. What do you want me to do, tell him to get out of the house?” he asks. He sighs heavily and bangs a first against the steering wheel. “It’s not like I can get my own place. Not with my dad as bad as he is.”

I know that. I share a wall with my parents’ bedroom, so now I’m wondering if my mom heard me the night we were there. I’d had that pillow clamped over my face, but still, it felt so damn good I
couldn’t
be quiet. “And your brothers don’t really like me much,” I say. “I feel like an intruder whenever I’m at your house.”

He waves it off. “They’re like me. Not good with change. They’ll get used to it. Give it time.”

As we pull into the parking lot of Murphy’s, I tell myself to shut up and stop complaining. After all, he’s doing the best he can.

“Stay here,” he says, climbing out of the truck.

I’m relieved, to tell the truth, because the place is so scary. Having Dax with me would give me courage, but even so, the place is frightening.

I watch as he walks toward the box-shaped, windowless building and disappears inside the door with the neon Coors sign on it. A few unsavory characters are hanging out in the lot, smoking and talking really loud. Moments later, Dax comes out, supporting Mr. Harding on his shoulder. The man is a lot thinner and grayer than the last time I saw him. He’s probably my father’s age, but he has deep lines on his face that make him look a lot older. He has his son’s emerald eyes, but his are glassy and unfocused.

I scramble out of the truck and into the cramped back seat to allow Mr. Harding to climb into the passenger’s seat. I hear him slurring words of anger at Dax: “You din’ hafa come an’ get me. I was
fine!
Can’t a guy haf a good time?”

Dax doesn’t say anything. He helps his father into the car, slams the door, and jogs over to the driver’s side.

The stench of booze and cigarettes makes my eyes water the moment the door is closed. In front of me, Mr. Harding lolls his head to the side, clearly having trouble keeping upright. He drops his head to his shoulder and his bleary eyes slowly focus on me. “Hi, there, darlin’,” he says in a charming drawl. Now I know where Dax gets it from.

My stomach starts to churn. I’ve “met” his dad a couple of times, but he likely doesn’t remember that, not because of all the years that have passed, but because he wasn’t exactly conscious. Most often, when I’d come to the garage, he’d be locked in the office, “doing the bookkeeping” with a six-pack. After we’d talk, the last thing Dax ever did, each night, was wake his dad and help him into his truck. I always thought it was sweet, the way this rowdy, tough bad boy would take care of his father like that. After Dax and I broke up, though, I heard through the grapevine that Mr. Harding had gotten sick and Dax had taken over all the books.

Dax says, very simply, “You remember Katie, right, Pop?” He looks at me through the rear view mirror as he prepares to pull out. “Katie, this is my dad.”

His dad throws a hand over the seat, I guess for me to shake. I shake only the tips of his fingers. They’re ice cold. Then he says, “Donahue?” There’s a long pause. “Henry and Gloria’s girl?”

I swallow. “Yep.”

He laughs, long and hard, which dissolves into a hacking, wheezing cough. By the time I’m thoroughly confused, he says, “Went to high school with your dad. He was always so high and mighty, talking about how he was going to move away and make his mark on the world. And what did he do? Moved right back here.”

I freeze. It’s weird to think my parents were ever right where I am now, ready to start their careers and conquer the world.

To me, they’ve always been teachers.

But I’ve pieced together my father’s story. He got away to Penn State, got his Masters in education and was thinking of law school himself, but he met my mom, and family duty called him back to Friesville. “My dad’s mother was sick and they didn’t want to leave her, because she didn’t have anyone else. And by the time she died, they had good careers here, teaching at the high school.”