The Bad Judgment Series: The Complete Series (29 page)

“You said it yourself: I’m too recognizable,” Walker said. “I can’t make myself shorter. I’m trying to grow a beard, but that’s not going to fool people. But I’ve never had a tattoo — so I figure, if I get a couple of them, it might at least give me small pass. Someone might see me and not think it’s me. Seconds, Nicole. Even if it buys us seconds, it’s worth it.”

“What are you going to get?” I asked.

“I don’t know yet. Something huge right here,” he said, pointing to his bicep. I ran my fingers down his arm.

“You know I like you the way you are,” I said, feeling sad. Literally,
everything
was changing. The state beneath our feet. Our car. My hair. My job. Walker’s beloved bicep was just the newest chapter, something else I was going to have to adjust to while we were on the run.

I took a long last look at his arm, and took a mental picture.

It’s not like I could ever forget it, anyway.

“Well, I’m gonna get one, too,” I said, squaring my shoulders. “Nobody would expect
Good Girl Lawyer Barbie
to get a big old tattoo.”

Walker leaned over and kissed the top of my baseball cap. “You’ll always be a good girl to me. The best.”

I looked up at him and smiled. And then I imagined the needle and grimaced. “I might need a drink first,” I said.

“No time for drinks,” Walker said, steering me inside. “But I brought that bottle of painkillers.”

S
everal hours later
, we emerged saran-wrapped, slightly sore and really in need of hiding in our room. We’d been in the tattoo parlor for longer than we’d planned; Roxie was chatty and seemed to enjoy touching Walker’s body. My artist was named Finn; he was pale and had a slim black mustache and a tank top that showed off his vast collection of tattoos. He didn’t look very South Beach and he didn’t talk much, but when he pulled back to admire his finished work, he smiled.

Walker had gotten an enormous sleeve tattoo over his left shoulder and bicep, and another one on his back that I hadn’t seen yet; I’d gotten an Egyptian eye on the back of my neck and a cross on my upper right arm.

My hair was cropped now so the neck tattoo would be visible. I’d chosen an eye so I could, in theory, watch my back; I’d chosen the cross for my mother, who’d always wanted us to be more Catholic than we were. She’d insisted that all three of us kids get baptized, and later, on a Catholic Mass and burial for herself. I was not a church-person myself, but I was a good girl. So I’d promised my mother I’d do it the way she wanted.

Just like I promised her I’d make my own money, so that if something happened in my marriage, I’d be able to take care of myself. My mother thought that being poor was undignified. I always tried to tell her that there were worse things. Like cancer. And now I knew that all-encompassing greed was also worse than being poor. If you loved money so much you would kill for it, there was something inherently broken in your moral compass.

I think I knew a few people like that, actually.

I shivered and Walker grabbed my hand. “We need to move,” he said.

“Should we go by the office first?” I asked. “Just to see who’s in there?” I looked around the street, trying to judge the safety of being out in the open, in the bright sunshine. It was lunchtime and there were lots of people out, in suits and dresses as well as in bikinis and on rollerblades, all enjoying the sun and the beautiful view of the beach. To me, South Beach seemed to be an uneasy mix of things: pastel colors and peeling paint; money, affluence and opulence, toned bodies, and then everybody else — the Cuban store owners, the housekeeping workers, sweating in their polyester uniforms, and the panhandlers who’d chosen Florida for the dream of something better, and upon not finding it, stayed for the warm temperatures. There were what appeared to be a large number of models in the crowd here on Ocean Drive, but there were also a large number of restaurants, which seemed to be a contradiction to me.

Probably I was just jealous. Memories of Minky Lucca and the model Walker had dated still haunted me.

As if he could hear my thoughts, Walker looked down at me with hooded eyes. “No walk-by,” Walker said. “We’re too conspicuous right now. Plus, watching you back in there made me really need to be alone with you.”

“You thought that was hot?” I asked. Watching him get pawed by Roxie the tattoo artist had made me sort of hot, too, but in a different way — an angry way.

“Yes,” Walker said, and his jaw clenched. “I always think you’re hot, but with that sexy blond hair and now with those tattoos, you’re driving me crazy.” He started heading towards the hotel.

I smiled at him, but I could feel something stab at my heart at his words. I looked different than I had before — back home, I’d had my natural, long brown hair, I’d dressed relatively conservatively, and my skin was unadorned. That was how I’d always looked. That was the real me.
He likes me better like this?
I wondered. I looked down at the large cross on my arm, the tattoo I’d never pictured myself having. I tucked my short hair behind my ears. I almost didn’t recognize myself anymore.

I could feel the heat, the desire, rolling off of him in powerful waves and my eyes suddenly stung with tears I refused to shed. He wanted me badly, I could tell. I wasn’t sure why it wounded me. This whole time, from the beginning, I’d never doubted him once. I’d been surprised that he wanted to be with me, yes. But he’d made me believe it. Every time we’d made love, every time he told me he loved me, there was an intensity to him, an honesty that put any insecurities I could have had, or probably should have had, to rest. But now, as I could feel his palm get slick with sweat and the urgency that was suddenly radiating from him, I stumbled a little in my faith. His need confused me, and that had never happened between us before.
Why was he acting like this? Why was I feeling so confused and hurt?

I made myself bite my lip and not cry.

He pulled me through the lobby, nodding to Louise. She gave him the thumbs up and he waved to her, hustling me up the stairs. He threw open the door and made sure everything was secure before turning to me, his eyes burning. “Come here,” he said, gruffly.

I shakily went to him and he enveloped me with his powerful arms. He held me for a moment, crushing me to him, and I buried my face in his chest. Normally this would be a release for me; his body was my solace, my comfort, since everything else back home had gone so horribly wrong. Here with him was the only place in the world I wanted to be, no matter what. You could have offered me anything and I wouldn’t have taken it; I wouldn’t leave him. Not for my old job back, not for justice, not even for home.

But now I was filled with self-doubt as I could hear his heart pounding and feel his enormous erection, thick with need, pressing against me. He leaned down and kissed my neck, carefully avoiding brushing up against my tattoos. I stood there, stiffly, as I felt him get hotter and harder against me.

“Nic,” he whispered, and I shuddered. He pulled back from me, his eyes hazy and thick with lust.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, taking in my expression. I was about to burst into tears, and it must have been easy to see on my face. “Are you in pain?” he asked, concerned. I shook my head,
no
.

He wrapped his arms back around me and put my head on his shoulder, stroking my stupid, short, bleached blond hair. I could still feel how hard he was, but he was trying to ignore it, focusing on my feelings instead, and I didn’t want him to. I forced myself to fight back the tears and I put my hands down on his ass, running my fingers over him. I leaned up and kissed his collarbone, his neck.
If he wanted me this way, he could have me,
I thought, feeling shaky, wild, and unbalanced inside.

Everything had changed, not just my looks. I’d left my job, my family, my home. And now I was here, posing as someone else, in uncertain territory. Did Walker love the real me?
More importantly…if I lost my old self…in addition to my career, my apartment, my family…who did I have left?

I didn’t like the way I was feeling and I wanted to make it go away. I wanted to make it stop, to block it out. I needed another feeling — an enormous one to crush it — and that could only be Walker, inside me, all around me. I was going to be with him now and I was not going to give this jittery, disappointed feeling a second thought, for at least a little while. My head hurt. I stepped back from him and pulled my shirt off, then pressed myself to him again, rubbing against him, teasing his super-hard cock by applying pressure to it through our clothes. He was still so hard, it made my insides ache with need, but also with pain.

I was hurting and I didn’t want to hurt.

I pushed all thoughts roughly out of my mind and I put my hands on his shorts and unbuttoned them; I pulled everything down at once so that I freed his cock, which sprung out at me, larger than life, wet at the tip, blind and ready for me.

I quickly got down on my knees and took him in my mouth, all at once. That was what I needed: control. He moaned loudly and I could feel the muscles tensing, quivering all over his body, like my very touch was going to send him over the edge.

I took him deep into my mouth, all the way to his base, and then I released him slowly, all the way up to his tip, almost letting him go, licking and sucking and nibbling at his tip. Then, slowly, I took his length all the way in again. I made myself lick him and suck him until I heard him whimper. That was what I wanted. I wanted to feel myself have some power over him. I cradled his balls gently while I sucked him, then I took my mouth off and cradled his length expertly between my hands, stroking his wet length and feeling him get even harder. He was about to explode, I could tell. I immediately took him in my mouth again, all the way down, and sucked him hard until he cried out. He came in a rush, a flood, and I swallowed all of it, greedily drinking him in as he shuddered and moaned and the muscles on his abdomen spasmed in release.

In that moment, I owned him. Nothing he could do or say could hurt me, not right now. He was at my mercy. Every spasm of his muscles told me that.

I stayed down on the floor, kneeling beneath him, trying to calm the rush of emotions going on inside of me. I simultaneously felt elated, powerful, slightly sick and unsure of myself. For the first time since I’d been with Walker, he’d come inside of me, but I hadn’t felt my own pleasure from it. I felt like I’d won something, but that wasn’t the same thing. Every time we’d made love, every time I’d taken him in my mouth, it had been with pleasure and absolute adoration. Absolute connection.

And now, I felt like I was on the other side of a wall.

Once his breathing went back to normal and he came back to full consciousness he grabbed me, roughly, by the wrist and pulled me up. “What was that, Nic?” he asked. His eyes were blazing, bordering on furious.

I looked at up him, confused. “A blow job,” I mumbled. “I’m pretty sure I’ve given you one before.”

“Don’t talk like that,” he said, dangerously. “Don’t belittle it.”

My face almost crumbled and I felt the tears again, wanting to spill over. I willed myself to stop. To stop being weak.

“It’s not that I didn’t like it, but come
here
,” he said, sighing, and pulled me to him. He kissed the top of my hair. “Why are you being so distant?” he asked, and now he sounded hurt. “I like being bossed around and getting blow jobs just like any man, but I’m not used to you being cold.”

“Well, maybe you’ll like it better,” I said, sounding sharp to my own ears. “All part of the new me.”

He pushed me back, holding me at arm’s length. I wouldn’t look at him. “What the fuck are you talking about?” he asked, and he looked concerned and very pissed all at the same time. “What does that even mean?”

“You don’t know?” I asked. I pulled away from him and walked to the window, which we still couldn’t see out of. “You were just saying how hot my new tattoos and new hair are,” I said, by way of explanation.

“And…that made you upset?” Walker said. He pulled his underwear on roughly and I could see now that he’d gotten past hurt, confused and concerned. He was now just angry. “So upset that you had to give me a blow job, swallow, and then make me feel like a complete asshole afterward?”

It occurred to me at this point that Walker and I had never had an argument before. And that I’d started it. And I had no idea how to resolve it.

I jutted my chin out at him. He looked at me, his eyes burning.

“You hurt my feelings,” I said.

He scoffed at me. “What do you think you just did to me?”

“I was trying to give you what you wanted,” I said, and I could feel the angry, hot tears about to start.

“Don’t be fucking ridiculous, Nicole. And don’t ever use sex as a weapon against me. I don’t ever want to be with you like that — not if you’re angry at me. That’s not what we’re about,” he said, and his voice was still thick with anger, but also with hurt and betrayal.

My heart crumpled and the tears spilt over. “I was feeling weird,” I said. “What you said about liking me with tattoos and different hair. Like you didn’t like the old me. The real me.”

Walker ran his hands over his head, probably wishing he could run them through his unruly strands like he used to. “You thought that because I said you were sexy to me right now, it meant some sort of invalidation of how I felt about you before?”

I sighed and wiped the stupid tears roughly from my face. “Because I thought it meant you liked me better this way, and this isn’t who I am,” I said. “I want you to want me for
me
. For who I really am. And it just made me feel insecure. And insecure is about the last thing I can handle feeling right now.” It sounded stupid to my own ears, but it was the truth. And the truth was all I had as a defense.

“Nic,” he said, and he looked slightly less pissed. “Are you about to get your period?”

I cringed inwardly as I did a quick calculation of the date.
Guilty as charged,
I thought. I wanted to slap my hand over my forehead. He knew what I didn’t. He was paying very close attention, and I wasn’t giving him enough credit.

“Don’t be sexist and blame my period,” I said anyway, and sniffled. “Adrian wouldn’t approve.”

He came over to me warily, like I was a cornered animal who might attack. “I’m not trying to be sexist. I am trying to point out, however, that you’re much more emotional than you normally are. That’s all,” he said, and tentatively put his hands on my shoulders.

I always hated it when people blamed PMS for problems and for tears — I especially hated it when men did it — but if I was being honest with myself, I knew for a fact that I got weepy and insecure a couple of days every month before my period. “Maybe I’m a little hormonal,” I admitted, and let him hold me, the barrier between us wavering. I didn’t want to think about my period; it was going to be a huge inconvenience for me. No matter the weirdness right this moment, I wanted Walker all the time, and it was definitely going to get in the way.

Walker hugged me tight. “You have every right to be emotional — just not for the reason you said. I meant what I said about watching you get your tattoos. It made me want you,” he said. He stroked my hair. “Just like the way you changed your hair makes me want you.”

I felt my insides plummet, again, and I started to pull away from him.

He stiffened and held onto me. “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t pull away from me, ever.” He touched my face and lifted it until my eyes were equal with his ice blue, deadly serious ones.