Dirty Bad Boy Page 7

  “The no-reason kiss.” No reason, no warning. No mention. No nothing.

  She leans back, crossing her arms. “That pretty much says it all. No reason. Unless he just wanted to.”

  “If he wanted to then I’d think he would have put some kind of move on me after we left the party. We’re not fifteen, and Jack has always been a guy to go after what he wants. He’s not shy and he’s not passive. But he stood here in my apartment for ten minutes talking about plans for the next couple weeks when he dropped me off.” No, I think it might just be that easy for Jack to slip into a role, and the only rule he cares about breaking is the one where we don’t forget the whole thing is fake.

  11

  Jack

  I am not going to kiss her tonight. Period.

  Doesn’t matter what kind of dress she’s wearing or how many hapless fucks try to talk her up. Last week, that off-the-cuff kiss, it was a mistake. One I never should have made. But we’d been hanging out, holding hands, laughing and chatting and sharing stories like we were a real couple—and for one second, I just forgot.

  We aren’t.

  That kiss wasn’t some dickhead claim I can credit like the others. It wasn’t to appease anything but the guy in me enjoying the beautiful girl I was with. Which wouldn’t be a big deal, except this is Laurel, and the control I was counting on having because of our past doesn’t seem to exist.

  I pull up to Laurel’s building just as she’s stepping out into the late-afternoon sun, a pink dress with buttons down the front flirting around her pretty knees and a pair of Ray-Bans shielding her eyes.

  I’m not going to kiss her because that ring on her finger is just for show, because there’s no audience to convince of anything, and because we have a deal. And hell, more than that, we’ve just started to feel like friends. Like maybe she might trust me. If I don’t get my head on straight, I’m going to fuck everything up.

  Hopping out, I round the car to get the door for her, and she smiles at me, catching the hair the wind is blowing around and pulling it along the side of her neck… which leaves the other side bare.

  Fuck. Her neck is so pretty.

  I am not going to kiss her.

  Laurel

  He didn’t kiss me. Not at the rehearsal dinner and not at the barbecue Hank and Abby hosted at their new place out in Bearings the next day. Not even when Carson Dugger, one of the football players from the team Julia managed back in high school, asked me on a date.

  And I know Jack saw because, well, I might have been looking and happened to notice him watching with a less-than-friendly look in his eye.

  Which was totally fine.

  I mean, fine, so I’ve been wondering about when he’d kiss me again. How he’d do it. Whether he’d graze his knuckles along my skin or play with my hair, how he’d look in my eyes. But only because that’s what he’s been doing. Not because I’ve started hoping for it.

  No. This is good. Jack is through making territorial claims. Which makes sense, considering the Devenport deal, by all accounts, is moving along swimmingly and without any recent matchmaking attempts. We’ve established the relationship, and from here we’ll ride out the last month of “dates” before dropping out of the spotlight and quietly ending the engagement that never was.

  Good.

  We have a plan.

  And now that Jack has mellowed with the whole masculine tantrum thing, and I most definitely am not disappointed, it’s good to know that I can wear anything I want without concern for repercussions of the sexy, smoldering almost-kiss variety.

  Jack

  Jesus fuck. She’s trying to kill me.

  “Everything okay, Jack?” Laurel asks, peering up at me from where she’s bent over in a provocative stance, slipping a heel on before we leave for the wedding.

  “Fine.” Nope. Not unless my fairy cock-blocker is about to appear out of thin air and magically drape Laurel in a floor-length potato sack and change out those sexy-as-fuck heels for a pair of Birkenstocks with wool socks underneath. Because this dress she’s got on—dove gray and fitted from her knees all the way up to where it hugs in a low off-the-shoulder style that leaves next to nothing to the imagination—is killing me. Worse, I’m about to bypass semi if she doesn’t stand up in the next three, two… Shit.

  “You sure?”

  Now she stands. And Christ, it might be even worse. The cut and curves… I scrub a hand over my jaw. “I’m sure. How about we get out of here? You want a sweater or wrap or something?”

  “No thank you. I’m fine.”

  I follow her out of her apartment, my focus bouncing from the bare length of her neck and shoulders to the swaying curves of an ass that I’m fairly certain has ruined me for all other asses—Laurel works out—down to the turn of her slender ankles and back up again.

  I need to stop staring.

  I need to stop imagining.

  I need to just fucking stop.

  The wedding is a late-afternoon ceremony downtown at Holy Name. Julia’s a knockout in white, and Greg tears up during their vows. I’ll give him shit about it because that’s what we do, but truth is, I had to fight back a tear of my own. Same thing happened when Wagner tied the knot, and I’m betting it will with Law if he ever settles down.

  I find myself wondering how I’d feel seeing Laurel take those vows, but it’s like my brain won’t compute. Whether it’s because I know there’s no way in hell she’d invite me to her wedding or because I can’t imagine her in love with some other fucking guy, it’s probably better not to speculate.

  Once the bride and groom crawl in the back of their limo and my groomsman responsibilities have been fulfilled, I find Laurel waiting with Greg’s little sister, Natalie Baxter, surrounded by dudes who scatter like roaches when I walk up. I don’t kiss Laurel, but I might as well have hung a sign around her neck that reads “MINE” the way I touch her, letting my fingers trace the line from her ribs to her hips and back, up and down, up and down. I catch her hand in mine, the one sporting my grandmother’s ring, and, holding it at my chest, smile at Laurel, who’s watching me with an amused expression.

  “Can’t wait for this to be us, babe.”

  She smirks, ducking her head before looking back at me. “Oh, Jack.” She pauses, and I’m thinking the ass is implied. “Me too. Me too.”

  Nat snorts, stumbling in her heels. A few years younger than we are, she’s always been a bit of a tomboy. Beautiful, if you could see past the oversized sweatshirts, men’s cut jeans, and the occasional black eye.

  “I can’t tell you how weird it is seeing you guys acting all lovey-dovey. I mean, even knowing it’s not real,” she whispers, careful to look around first. “But it’s freaking me out.”

  “Not as much as seeing you in heels. I don’t remember the last time I’ve seen you in anything but Chucks or hockey skates.” She stumbles again, and I offer my arm. “Greg’s going to beat my ass if you break an ankle on my watch.”

  Laurel squeezes my hand. “Hey, you want to bring the car around and pick us up? We can stop at a 7-Eleven or something and grab a pair of flip-flops for the reception.”

  “Laurel,” Nat says earnestly, “if Jack won’t marry you for real, I will.”

  There were rumors in high school about Greg’s jockey little sister for a while, but I’m about ninety-five percent sure Nat’s straight. Which makes me only five percent jealous. Because I’m fucking nuts.

  And when Laurel stops and pulls Nat into an affectionate hug, peering at me over her shoulder with one brow raised, I’m pretty sure she knows it.

  Thanks to my off-the-charts parking juju, the car’s only about a block down and I’m circling back in no time. Apparently, Nat thinks the sidewalk is worth the risk and has already lost the shoes, strapping them together so they hang over her shoulder like skates. Laurel’s doubled over laughing, reaching for the shoes only to have Nat pull some kind of wide-stanced, arms-out defensive block that’s made even more awesome with the full-length, gauzy purple bridesma
id gown she’s got on.

  I pull up, and the girls climb in, Laurel in front and Nat in back. “Flip-flops stop next, then it’s over to the Wyse.”

  12

  Laurel

  The reception is in the same grand ballroom the moms have selected for us. And I’ve got to admit, it’s pretty swank. The guests are a mix of faces I recognize from back in high school and faces I recognize from the media, all of them blending together in celebration of Greg and Julia’s big day. It’s beautiful and a little overwhelming, and I’m relieved when Jack hands me my first glass of champagne.

  We spend most of the cocktail hour making the rounds together and then dinner apart. But there’s no shortage of conversation, and I feel incredibly lucky to have reconnected with these people in a way that allows me to be a part of their celebration.

  The only fly in my fruit punch is Julia’s cousin, Danni. If Julia looks like Scarlett Johansson, Danni looks like Scarlett Gone Wild. She’s one of Julia’s bridesmaids, and every time the wedding party gets called over to do something as a group, she somehow ends up beside Jack. Touching his arm when she leans in to share some secret. Swatting his chest when she laughs. Pulling a flask from somewhere beneath her dress and offering him a swig. A swig he wisely declines.

  If it weren’t for this ring on my finger, the one I can’t seem to stop playing with, Jack would have himself a sure thing tonight. Who am I kidding—probably within twenty minutes of arriving here, if the way she adjusted her boobs in her dress and checked with him for approval was any indication of interest.

  Not that I’m jealous. I’m not.

  I grab another glass of champagne from a passing server and take a swallow, watching over the rim as the wedding party is invited to join the bride and groom on the dance floor. No one’s really dancing like couples, everyone instead getting down together. And yet there’s Danni, bumping her hip into Jack’s and throwing her arms over her head in what is unmistakably a show of sexy abandon.

  Jack’s easy smile is in place, not a care in the world. For a guy whose caveman throws a tantrum every time another man asks me for directions to the bathroom, it seems a little inconsistent that he’s not managing a bit more space between them.

  But I totally don’t care.

  A moment later, the rest of the guests are welcomed onto the floor, and Jack has me in his sights. There’s something about the eye contact as he slowly, purposefully dances off the floor, crossing to where I’m setting my now-empty glass on the table behind me with a shaky hand. Oh man, Jack is a seriously, seriously good dancer. Like Tom Hiddleston times five.

  His eyes slide down my body as he moves to the beat, and a breathless giggle slips past my lips. And then he’s got me. One arm loose around my back, pulling me along as he sways and moves with the music.

  We reach the dance floor, and I think he’s going to release his hold, but he pulls me closer, and all I can think is how good he smells, how confidently he moves, and how, for now, this man is all mine. I turn, so we’re dancing back to front, Jack’s hands moving over my hips and arms, his fingers trailing a wake of awareness.

  Making me think about every other time he’s touched me, and how a part of me has always wanted more. With each song I lose my inhibitions a little more. I remember how to laugh and turn my hips and shake my body. I remember what it’s like to have a man I want watching as I do.

  When the next song ends, Keith Harvey cuts in, claiming I owe him a dance from junior high. Keith’s an easygoing guy, friendly and about as nonthreatening as they come, but still a part of me holds my breath as Jack’s focus drops to my mouth, holding briefly before he claps Keith on the arm and gives him a good-natured warning to remember I’m taken.

  After catching up with Keith, I see a table with a few high school friends and drop into an empty seat to catch my breath. We’re laughing about old times when I notice Jack dancing with Danni. Again.

  “I can’t believe Julia made her a bridesmaid,” Sally whispers to the table. “You remember when she moved in for that month senior year? She did half the guys on Julia’s team.”

  I glance back to check if she’s serious. I was already graduated and working two jobs in Chicago.

  Sally nods. “Julia was pissed, because she asked her to leave the team alone. But Danni just kind of does what Danni wants.”

  There’s some quiet speculation about Greg having warned his teammates off her tonight, but all I can focus on is the way she’s looking at Jack as they dance, how each touch has something ugly inside me rising up and clawing closer to the surface. How I could swear I just saw her tongue run a porny path from one corner of her mouth to the other.

  “Whoa, Laurel, did you just see that?”

  Yes. Yes I did. “Hey, who wants another glass of champagne? Grab this guy with the tray.”

  Fresh glasses are passed around, and when I glance back to the dance floor, Danni and Jack are gone. We probably should have gotten shots.

  I haven’t seen Jack for close to an hour, not that I’m keeping track, but I’m not letting it ruin my opportunity to reconnect with so many old friends and meet so many new ones. I’ve danced with my girlfriends, then with Greg’s best man and Slayer teammate, Rux, who may be the goofiest guy I’ve ever met. I’ve done a shot with Nat, who seems completely oblivious to the guys essentially lined up trying to get her attention, and now I’m nursing a water on the terrace with two more teammates whose names I didn’t catch but have been alternating between telling raunchy jokes and speculating on how bad Greg’s going to lose his shit when he hears about this new guy, Vaughn something, joining the team. One of them keeps trying to get me to take a picture with him holding up my ring finger as a joke to stir up some social media attention, but I’m not about to two-time my fake engagement.

  Not that Jack wouldn’t deserve it even if I did.

  Just then, I see the man himself. He’s walking past the open doors to the terrace. Alone. An older gentleman stops him, presumably to say hello, but Jack pats his arm while looking around him before stepping away.

  Looking for me?

  He’s about to pass by the doors when he stops and ducks out into the night air. Our eyes meet and the furrow between his brows smooths, his posture immediately relaxing but only until he registers who I’m standing with.

  “Laurel, I’ve been looking for you.”

  Danni wasn’t enough company?

  “I lost sight of you when you were dancing.” Right after Danni propositioned him with her tongue. “So many people here,” I add with one of those mindless smiles. Over seven hundred, according to Julia. “But no worries; I’ve had plenty of company.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Jack says through clenched teeth, the smile on his face stiff.

  Please. Who does this guy think he is?

  Apparently, I’m the only one who notices, though, because the guys start right back up with the conversation.

  “Like I was telling Ellie here, Greg’s pretty level on the ice, but put him on the ice with—”

  “Ellie?” Jack’s eyes lock with mine.

  I nod, returning my attention to the story, pretending I’ve been following any of it rather than sitting here stewing over my missing fake fiancé. Jack moves in beside me, his arm across my back, fingers tracing a teasing line up and down the bare length of my arm.

  That possessive touch has the temper I’ve been trying to tamp down fast on the rise.

  “Really?” I ask under my breath, smile firmly in place.

  Jack stills his touch. I can feel his eyes on me, but it’s not until the story is finished and the guys get called away that I’m willing to meet his stare.

  “You’re upset.” He’s a smart guy. It isn’t a question.

  “Look, I couldn’t care less who you let blow your germ-ridden whistle—”

  Jack coughs out my name, pulling us further off to the side.

  “But since you’re so good at faking things,” I hiss, still careful to keep my voice low, “how
about faking enough respect for me not to do it while I’m wearing your damn ring at one of the most publicized weddings of the year?”

  “That’s not—”

  I hold up a hand. “You made the rules. You broke them.”

  All that BS about paying attention to how I talk to other men. How I act around them. What it looks like. Screw him.

  “Laurel.” There’s a stern edge to his voice that probably intimidates the hell out of most people. Not me.

  “After tonight, Jackrod, I’m done.” I’ll give him the ring before he drops me at home. Have him text the moms to cease and desist with all fake-wedding shenanigans. And close the door on Jack Hastings once and for all.

  Why had I thought he changed?

  Why did I let myself start to care, again?

  “I don’t think so.”

  I blink. “Excuse me?”

  Arms crossed, Jack tucks his chin. “We’ve already talked about the importance of communication, Laurel. But since you seem to have forgotten, let’s go through this together. First, whatever you’re thinking happened with my pristine whistle… you’re wrong. No one’s played with it but me in at least four months.”

  “But—”

  “Four months.”

  That’s significantly longer than the forty minutes I’d been estimating.

  “Second, I’ve been looking for you for more than an hour. And if you don’t believe me, check your phone.”

  As it happens, I have checked my phone. Three times after Jack and Danni went dark, and there was nothing. A half-hour later, I wasn’t checking it anymore. Because I already felt like a world-class fool, and I wasn’t about to add pathetic to the description. Feeling smug, I pull out my phone.

  And stare at the notification alert for thirty-seven new texts from the last two days. Smug turns to sheepish as I read the three from Jack.