Bad Boy (An Indecent Proposal)

  BAD BOY

  J.C. Reed & Jackie Steele

  An Indecent Proposal: Bad Boy

  Copyright © 2016 by J.C. Reed & Jackie Steele.

  All rights reserved.

  Permissions by the authors must be granted before any part of this book can be used for advertising purposes. This includes the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors’ imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Cover design by Larissa Klein

  Developmental editing by Shannon Wolfman

  Inline editing by Kim Bias

  An Indecent Proposal: Bad Boy

  Chapter 1

  Why is it always that the moment you’ve let a guy into your heart—or panties, for that matter—he turns into a big, ugly frog?

  Or a jerk.

  Or a lying bastard, who’d do anything to keep manipulating you so you fall for whatever agenda he’s going for. A hidden motive that made him want to fuck with your mind in the first place.

  Less than twenty-four hours ago, I had married a man I knew nothing about.

  A stranger.

  An enigma with more layers to him than I cared to admit, because my intelligence refused to let me acknowledge the fact that I had been fooled by gray blue eyes and a hard body that belonged on a men’s health magazine; not to mention a tongue that knew how to fill me and lick me until I panted his name. Or maybe it was his deep, sexy voice, able to arouse me with sweet words of nothingness, that had made me lose my sanity.

  Exactly those sweet words of nothingness and hot bundles of defined muscles, as my best friend Jude liked to call them, had pushed me into more than just his bed.

  They got me married—fake married—to an even faker jerk with a fake name.

  They got me completely screwed.

  Those were the kind of dark thoughts running through my mind as I stepped out of the airport in Acapulco and into the blazing heat, a huge tee shirt and black shades shielding me from the afternoon sun that did nothing to improve my mood.

  My two, brand-new suitcases were filled with dresses, shoes, and books—anything the shop assistant thought I would need for my trip. A “recovery trip” she’d called it when she saw my unshed tears and found out I had booked a plane to Mexico. She’d instantly assumed I was running from a bad break up. A bad breakup was theoretically correct, though the guy did not do the dumping.

  I broke up in writing, like the coward I was, or used to be, right before I ran away from him, and now I was more than ready to embark on my next adventure in a quest to forget him.

  Because, to be honest, I was sick of my mascara-smeared face.

  I was sick of guys with blue eyes that could melt your heart.

  Sick of being the pushover of a guy who thought he owned the world.

  Who the hell did he think he was?

  Thor?

  Just because he so happened to be perfect: tall, handsome, and tanned, with a smile that melted your reserve, didn’t mean he could get away with whatever the hell he wanted.

  Maybe he was Loki—Thor’s evil and hot brother. He sure could lie just as well.

  I pushed my glasses higher on my nose and plastered a fake smile on my face. I wouldn’t let some god-faced idiot ruin my life just because my wits left me the moment he pulled off his shirt. Or because I gave him my V-card. And most certainly not because I soaked up all his I-care-for-you bullshit, like some stray puppy, while trying to maintain my dignity by playing hard to get.

  Seriously, who had invented the notion of playing hard to get?

  It got me nothing but trouble.

  Call it my ego, my feelings being hurt. Call it even obsessive. But I couldn’t stop checking my phone, even though it was switched off.

  Holy shit.

  It was hot in Mexico.

  I paused to take shallow breaths and raised my head to feel the warm rays of sun on my face. I pushed the image of ocean blue eyes on a cloudy day and dark hair out of my mind, and focused on the narrow strip of blue stretching in the distance. I couldn’t wait to slip into a bikini and hit the beach with a good book, ready to forget the world around me. Suddenly I couldn’t wait to get to the hotel.

  “Taxi.” I stopped a tourist cab before it could drive off. “Habla inglés?” I asked the driver, a man in his fifties with a mustache. His head was cleanly shaven. His shirt looked like it had seen better days.

  He looked from me to my suitcases, then nodded. “Un poquito. Where do you want to go?”

  Sweat trickled down my back as I took my time checking the license on the right window, the taxi number plate to see if it was an official cab. The last thing I needed was to get into a pirated one, or worse yet, be kidnapped and held for ransom. But the taxi looked as official as they came.

  I handed him a piece of paper with the address of the hotel and what I would be willing to pay for the drive, mentally thanking the shop assistant for her advice to settle for a price before getting into any taxi in Mexico.

  The driver looked the paper over, then nodded again. “Muy bien, pero le advierto que ahora mismo hay mucho tráfico por allí.” When he saw my confused expression, he explained. “Lots of traffic here, but I take a shortcut.”

  Shortcut?

  The old me would have said no.

  It was safe to say she would not have traveled to Mexico at all.

  But the new me?

  Gone were the days of being pushed around. I wanted to take charge, to discover and find myself.

  “Sure,” I said brightly, ignoring the pang of uneasiness settling in the pit of my stomach.

  I just hoped his shortcut didn’t involve a drive through all the areas that were frequented by the drug cartels.

  That could really happen.

  “Gracias.” I slumped into the backseat, then leaned back exhausted, fanning myself with some old newspaper as the taxi sped off through the traffic.

  The smell of the old car was repugnant, the décor colorful. The fact that there was a Virgin Mary bumper sticker and pictures of what I assumed were the old man’s kids and his wife consoled me a little.

  He was religious.

  He loved his family.

  He was probably a hardworking man trying his best to make a living for his family.

  People like him didn’t do bad stuff.

  Then again, I was the idiot who fell for Chase Wright’s shit.

  My knowledge of the human nature sucked.

  I relaxed a little until I noticed the driver’s glance in the rearview mirror, catching me looking at his pictures.

  “Are you married?” the man asked when he stopped at the traffic lights.

  “Um…” I paused, watching the red lights ahead. Should I tell him the truth? I fiddled in my seat, nervously. “I am,” I said. “I mean, I only got married like yesterday.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t believe me. Of course he wouldn’t. What married woman would arrive at an airport—alone?

  Obviously, the lying kind.

  “Where’s your husband?” the driver asked.

  “He’s waiting for me at the hotel.” I forced a smile to my lips, hoping it was convincing enough to fool him. “I work for a paper in the city,” I lied. “My boss called me in for some last minute changes. I was barely able to make it out of that office.” I waved my hand, like he’d know what I was talking about. “This is my first vacation in seven years. That’s how demanding she is.”

  The man gave a short, humorless laugh, completely bored by m
y made up story.

  I couldn’t blame him.

  I was the worst liar ever.

  “You will like it here,” he said. “But a young woman like you should always be in companion.”

  “Yeah, I should be,” I muttered and turned my head back to the window, taking in the unknown streets, the unknown territory, a whole lot of unknown everything, some part of me wishing that I had asked Jude to come along with me.

  ***

  Half an hour later, the taxi came to a halt in front of an old, whitewashed building surrounded by a tall wall and an iron wrought gate. I paid the driver and got out, making sure to tip him well in case he was related to some mafia boss who decided I had not paid enough in fares.

  I mean, you never knew.

  The last thing I needed was another bad surprise. The discovery that Chase was a bad boy who might be after my inheritance was already bad enough. Now I needed some days away from reality, from my old life. I needed time to think how I could possibly divorce him without breaking the stupid contract I’d signed.

  And for that, I needed to be safe.

  His terms had been quite clear: stay married to him for one year and engage in some sexual fantasies of his.

  God, I couldn’t wait to get divorced.

  Does that make me sound crazy?

  At least I had negotiated the part about living with him. The way I saw it, I could spend a whole year abroad and never see him.

  Pulling the heavy suitcases behind me, I greeted the uniformed security guard, and then I walked up the path to the hotel.

  It wasn’t the luxury kind.

  Far from it.

  I would even go as far as saying that it was shabby, which wasn’t surprising given that it had been the cheapest hotel I could find.

  With my credit cards maxed out I couldn’t afford more than a simple room. But it seemed safe and clean—at least I hoped that part was true. It would certainly be more than I could say about the messy life I had left behind in California.

  “Hi. My name is Lauren Hanson,” I said to the female receptionist and handed her my passport and credit card. “I booked a room last night.”

  “Welcome to Casa Estevan,” the receptionist said in heavily accentuated English. She looked in her forties. Her hair was over-bleached, and her eyebrows looked like they had been tattooed to her forehead. Smiling, she began to type on a computer, and then pushed a few forms and a swipe card over the spotless counter. “This is your room key. Take the stairs to the fifth floor.”

  The fifth floor?

  My eyes swept over my two heavy suitcases.

  It would take me half a night to get them up there.

  “Could you get someone to take my bags up to my room?” I asked.

  She didn’t even blink as she grabbed the phone. “Sure. I’m going to call one of the boys to help you.” Her phone in hand, she smiled, exposing perfect teeth. “Anything else I can help you with?”

  “Er…” I tried not to stare at her eyebrows. Her left one looked way bigger as the right one. It made her look ridiculous. “Can I get some sort of info leaflet?”

  “We have none. Sorry.”

  “Could you maybe give me some pointers so that I can find my way around here?”

  She gave a short, annoyed sigh, then put the phone down. “As you wish.”

  I pushed the card into my handbag as I listened to her recalling the hotel’s amenities, making a mental note of the breakfast times and the instructions on how to get to the nearby beach.

  “Any more questions?” she asked, her perfectly fake eyebrows slightly raised. As she glanced over my shoulder, I turned to follow her line of vision and noticed that a few guests were waiting for me to finish up.

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “Have a pleasant stay, then.”

  “Thank you.” I definitely intended to make sure I did. Whispering a “sorry” to the other guests, I made my way to the staircase, unable to shake off the feeling that maybe I should have bought a travel guide or at least spent more money on a room with wireless internet. What kind of person travels to a foreign country without packing at least a tourist guide?

  Yeah, me.

  Chapter 2

  My room was situated on the fifth floor overlooking a dark side street, but if I leaned over the balcony far enough I could almost glimpse a stretch of the blue ocean.

  The afternoon sun seeping through the generous windows cast an orange glow on the white bedspread. Opposite from the single bed was a dressing table and a television set. The bed sheets looked plain but clean enough to sleep in. A narrow door led into a tiny walk-in closet.

  This was going to be my home for the next days, maybe even weeks.

  It was nothing special.

  But it was perfect in its simplicity.

  Sighing, I collapsed on the bed and crossed my arms behind the back of my head. I knew then that I shouldn’t have.

  The bed—maybe the intimacy it symbolized or the memory of being with him the night before—instantly drew Chase’s face back into my mind, and the mess I was in. I closed my eyes and inhaled a sharp breath, distinctly remembering his lips on mine. They were warm and soft but persistent. His eyes—blue with speckles of gray—reminded me of a dark gray storm hovering over the ocean—wild and untamed.

  The knowledge of having been played brought another stab through my chest.

  How did that happen?

  Because you, Laurie Hanson, have fallen in love with him.

  So, his charm had worked on me.

  So, I had been stupid enough to believe there could be more between us.

  So, he had made me fantasize all the dirty things I wanted him to do to me.

  And the final straw—I let him fuck me when I shouldn’t have.

  But when the vows include all that crap about respect and the guy claims to want to date you, one would think your new, albeit fake, husband would at least have the decency to be honest about his name.

  Who was he?

  The question had been haunting me since I figured out Chase Wright wasn’t who he had claimed to be.

  Past internet searches had proven he was an actor, but maybe the sites were fake, too. I had no idea if everything was a sham. I had no idea what to believe any more.

  Why did he have so much information about my inheritance?

  I had been wondering about that ever since I found the folder.

  Should I have given him a chance to explain?

  I let out a shaky breath, knowing I wasn’t ready. Even the thought of seeing him was unbearable; the risk of believing him even when he might continue to lie too high.

  Gullible as I had been, I had to stay away, before my obsession with him morphed into something I didn’t want it to be, and I ended up getting even more hurt.

  Deep down I had known right from the beginning that I shouldn’t trust him. I even knew instinctively that a man as hot as Chase might not be real. However, it should have been a marriage of convenience, a friendship with some great benefits, which is what made me sign up in the first place.

  Setting aside the sheer absurdity of its background, I felt used.

  Because somehow I’d thought there was—could be—more between us.

  I’d thought we had something real going on.

  My phone began to ring angrily. Sitting up with my legs pressed against my chest, I leaned back against the bedpost, and peered at my cell phone.

  Twenty-three calls, and six text messages.

  All from him.

  Talk about creepy. Not to mention desperate.

  And hot.

  Most importantly, hot.

  The kind of hot that made my heart race and left me in want.

  To talk to him.

  To confront him.

  To see him—but I wouldn’t do any of those. I wasn’t a coward, but I wasn’t a fool either. I knew that every confrontation, as small as it might be, would be a mistake. Anything related to him would keep me from moving on.
As long as I felt something for him, I wasn’t ready.

  Stupid love.

  If only I could renounce it, discard and live without it.

  If only I could forget him...the man whose name had been a lie.

  Someday, I promised myself, I would meet a man.

  Someone with blonde or black hair, brown or green eyes, definitely no broad shoulders, a beer belly—the direct opposite of Chase.

  Someone who might not make me forget him in a heartbeat, but who would be worthy of my trust.

  My future boyfriend, I decided, would be a strong man with a great character not great looks; someone who would be a philosopher, maybe even with a focus on spiritualism; or maybe some boring guy with a business degree who’d have mostly numbers in his mind rather than chasing the next trophy. Then I’d take a few snapshots of us and post them online—just to show Chase what he’d lost.

  But that was my fantasy talking because

  a) I doubted Chase was the jealous kind. He told me himself that I was the laurel he liked to chase. He got me so the chase was over.

  b) He was a goddamn liar who only cared about himself.

  c) See b. All rather self explanatory.

  Heck.

  I really should call him Loki, I decided. Chase was definitely the God of deceit and lies.

  Chapter 3

  It felt like barely a few minutes had passed since I closed my eyes when a few knocks rapped at the door.

  That would be my bags.

  “Coming.” I jumped to my feet and crossed the room in a few hasty steps.

  I threw the door open, ready to motion the bellboy in, but stopped in surprise, frowning.

  The man in front of me looked nothing like a porter. He didn’t even seem to be local. Dressed in blue jeans and a beige tee shirt that said “Property of Acapulco,” he resembled a tourist or a student, judging from the “spring break” logo on his wristband. Judging from his body—lean with broad shoulders—he looked like he was in his early to mid-twenties.