Bad Boy's Fake Wedding Read online

  And I’m also hoping she’s available for the next forty-two days.

  My cock twitches. I almost like the idea of taking her to breakfast, if I get to bring her back and fuck her all over again. I smile. Just looking at this girl, I know she’ll be a challenge. She doesn’t have one night stands. She doesn’t mess with ex-cons covered in tattoos, and she’s not out for a casual fuck. And I’m almost certain she’s not a mafia groupie girl.

  I imagine her bouncing on my cock, throwing her head back in ecstasy.

  I nod at my brother and start walking toward the girl. He sighs and shakes his head. But he doesn’t know what I’ve got in mind, that for once in my life, I’ve got a good feeling about something. It’s impulsive, reckless. Probably idiotic.

  But I’m going in for the kill.

  And I never miss.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “You need a casual fuck,” Rhiannon says. She hands me a drink. “It’ll fix everything. Trust me. I know one of the guys who owns this bar. One of his brothers will apparently deliver exactly what you need. My friend Trista said it was like nine, ten inches at least. And he knows how to use his tongue.”

  “That’s good,” I say. “I guess. Isn’t that like—too big?” I blush, cheeks hot and red. My dearest friend in the world has no idea I’m a virgin. You’d think Charlie would have taken the opportunity to finally fuck me in the six years we were together, but he didn’t. He was always way too focused on Jesus. He wanted us both to wait. He made me do that all this time, and where did that get me? Nowhere. I just turned twenty-three, and I’m still a virgin. In every way. I’ve only ever been kissed.

  The mere mention of a cock that big—it makes me quiver with fear. But it also makes me feel empty inside, and deeply excited in a way that I haven’t been before. I take two giant gulps of the Cosmo Rhiannon got for me and choke and sputter. Too much at once.

  Much like a dick that’s too big? I wouldn’t know.

  I always thought about it a lot. Sex. Then I met Charlie, and I thought he was the one. Pretty stupid idea. Rhiannon might be right. I might need a casual fuck, as she says. But it terrifies me. What would it even feel like to have a man touch my body? To have him inside of me?

  I shiver. Maybe not tonight. Another time.

  Pretty ridiculous for a girl who always wanted to be a romance author. I always liked the parts with the sex. My mom’s old Harlequins were dogeared and cracked on the seams. There were a few that opened right up to the good parts—the pirate capturing the maiden, taking her down to the hold for the first time, her dress ripped, exposing one fair, virgin shoulder.

  It was romantic in those books to be a virgin. A maiden.

  For a grown-ass woman in the publishing business, it’s just pitiful. And hilarious, if I’m looking at it on a good day.

  “You look smoking hot, Skye. There’s a bad boy here for you. He’ll show you how it’s done. I’m sure Charlie had no idea.”

  “Oh, you’re right. He had literally no idea at all.”

  I look around and sip my drink, slower this time. The guys here are hot. They’re all bad boys. They’ll give me a good time, pay for my drinks, and fuck me silly until morning. And what’s more, they won’t expect me to come back around. I try psyching myself up.

  “Trust me. You’ll definitely find what you’re looking for here. That outfit looks fierce as shit.”

  “I’m… passable.” I’m wearing a shirt that’s far too low cut, a skirt that’s far too short, and a thong that Rhiannon made me buy at Target. It feels weird. Not just the thong, but the whole outfit she dug out of her closet and forced onto my body. She shoves me up to the bar and flags down a second drink. She’s like that—always easygoing with her personality, with her body.

  I usually end up watching people from a corner and taking notes on their names and body language on my phone. I do it for myself—for the novels I’d like to write someday. And for my boss, Mariella Davidson, the famous romance author who writes about exactly this type of guy. I told Rhiannon that this bar would be good research—but I told her that when we were a bottle of wine into our pre-gaming, back at her apartment. I’m feeling way too sober to be here right now. Low lights, the smell of beer and old smoke, alpha male ex-con types laughing way too loud and talking over one another. And girls, everyone of them taller, thinner, and more charismatic than I am.

  Rhiannon shoves another drink in my hand, and I sip it tentatively, like it might bite me. Like everything in here might.This one is clear, and much stronger. “You look way more than passable. I keep telling you, guys like boobs. And you’ve got them. And an ass like Beyoncé. Well maybe not quite like her, but you know what I mean. It’s really good. It’s a good ass.”

  I laugh. “I don’t think Beyoncé would take kindly to that comparison.”

  “She would. I promise you that.”

  Clearly, Rhiannon is not feeling her sobriety. I laugh and try the drink again. “You’re full of shit. But I’ll take the compliment. I kinda doubt any of the guys in here is going to notice me though. It seemed like a good idea back at your place—”

  “The Dougherty brothers own this place. I know Finn. And I know that his brother is like the pinnacle of one-night stands. And with you, looking like you do—you could pull him into the bathroom, just like that.”

  I cringe. “The bathroom? Isn’t that a little…”

  “You’re right. It’s gross. But you need to get laid. It’s been forever, right? This is the place to do it. And your research.” Rhiannon looks at me and winks. She pulls off the whole sex kitten thing really well, even though she’s an overworked social worker by day. She polishes off the last of her vodka tonic and clinks the ice in the glass, signaling the bartender again.

  “Oh yeah, research.” I look down at my drink. Is it straight vodka? What the hell did she order for me?

  “You’re a romance author. This type of thing should be part of the job!” She laughs, loud. Too loud.

  My cheeks go bright red, and I look around to see if anyone heard Rhiannon. When she’s drinking, her voice goes twice as loud and an entire octave higher.

  “Oh God, no,” I groan. “I assist Mariella. That’s all I do. She’s the romance author. I’m just the intern. Barely paid. I get coffee. I look over proofs. I get her marketing and interviews and all that shit. That’s not called being an author. It’s called being an English major with no direction in life. But I will take down some notes and get a list of good names. I like doing that kind of thing. And I’m good at it. Maybe that’s the best thing I can hope for tonight.”

  Rhiannon rolls her eyes and tries to get a few more drops of vodka out of the bottom of her drink. “You want to write like her. That’s what you said. And this is the place to get laid, get the juices flowing. It’s all in the name of research. For science. It’s bad boy central. And this is the best place to learn your trade.” She gestures broadly to all of the bar, and I catch her hand, bringing it quickly back to her side.

  “Rhiannon, come on.” Researching bad boys and hooking up with strangers had seemed like great ideas when we were drinking wine at her apartment an hour ago. But now—well it just seems embarrassing. For lots of reasons.

  “We came here for bad boys. So you need to actually start talking to boys. So you can, you know—” Rhiannon makes an obscene gesture with her fingers, and I bury my face in my hands. “Seriously—it’s been—how long?”

  It’s been never. I came close with Charlie but that was a good six months ago. And yes, I get it, I’m pathetic. Especially if I want to be a writer someday.

  “Six months or so.” I take another long swig. It burns my throat. The way this conversation is going, I decide to finish it off, hoping to get some of the buzz back that I lost when we came in. With Rhiannon drunk-yelling about my sex life, I’ll definitely need something more than a buzz. The drink is gone now, and I’m still about to jump out of my skin.

  Rhiannon clinks her glass against the bar again, and finally, the
man behind the bar turns to see us. A shadow falls across him, obscuring his body. But even from here, it strikes me—he’s the type of man we were talking about. The kind Mariella might write about if she weren’t so in love with billionaires at the moment. It’s like he materialized straight from one of the covers of her books.

  “Another one for her too!” Rhiannon shouts. “She’s thirsty. For vodka. Or whatever. And men. Definitely men.”

  The bartender steps into the light, laughing and polishing a glass instead of focusing on the growing crowd and line of customers. He nods to another man behind him, who starts taking orders instead. He takes a step closer to us, and my heart catches in my throat for a second. He’s a swaggering, muscle-filled, chiseled masterpiece. It might be the alcohol, but this guy—he takes my breath away. I close my eyes for a second and imagine him as the pirate, the one who took the maiden down below deck.

  I open my eyes again. He’s still there. Not an apparition.

  Not that I’m into that sort of thing beyond the research I’m doing or the novels I like to read. Or that I even really know what that sort of thing is like. Hazel eyes, beneath dark eyebrows, flash in our direction. When he smiles, it sends a tiny shiver down to the base of my spine. But I’ve known guys like him—all talk and flashy watches, black t-shirts, and pick-up basketball. Not the type that gives a second glance my way.

  “What do you ladies want? I can’t come down there just to wait on a couple pretty girls. I have responsibilities. Customers.” He takes a step toward us, his voice steady and deep. There’s a slight rasp to it, like he’s been talking all night. When he comes closer, I can see the faintest hint of dark stubble. Beneath the sleeve of his black t-shirt—or is it dark gray?—I can see the beginning of a multi-colored tattoo. His eyes catch mine for a moment, and he gets a beer from the tap for himself. When he drinks it, the tiniest bit of foam clings to his upper lip. Even from here, ten feet away, I can see the fullness of his lips, the square jawline, the hooded intensity of his eyes.

  “Two vodka tonics. Heavy on the vodka,” Rhiannon says.

  The man shrugs and pulls down two glasses. His movements are languid, like he’s comfortable in his own skin. I might be imagining it, but he looks our way again while he’s pouring the drinks. And not at Rhiannon. At me. I try to take my eyes off of him, but I can’t. It’s probably the alcohol. And all the talk about men like this.

  Rhiannon leans down toward me and whispers in a voice that the three people closest to us can probably hear it. “Skye. That’s the guy you should hook up with. He was looking at you. He looks like he could throw you over his shoulder like a caveman. And get you out of your slump.”

  “No. No—definitely not. He’s not the type of guy who looks at me.” When I look up, the man is looking at me. Smiling, one corner of his lip turned up. He gives me a quick wink and finishes up making the drinks.

  Rhiannon shrugs. “Hurry up! My friend here wants her vodka tonic and she wants your number. Or at least your name!”

  At that, I nearly melt into the floor. But the guy—he walks over.

  He places the drink in front of me. I expect his eyes to cut over to Rhiannon, but they don’t. He stays focused on me, instead. I take the drink and take a long swig. The buzz is hitting me hard now, but my mouth is dry, the words suddenly vanished. I look over for help, but Rhiannon is already talking to some other guy. “I, um, thank you for the drink.”

  The guy smiles again. “Liam,” he says.

  “What?” I smile, and I’m sure I look confused.

  “That’s my name,” he responds. “I thought that’s what you wanted.”

  I take another long sip, and the alcohol pulses through my veins, warming me. Making me bolder. Which is something I’m definitely not.

  “Is it really what any of us want? Names… of people. I actually like names. I collect them.” The veins in my temples pulse, and my cheeks burn red. That was an idiotic thing to say, and it makes me sound like a serial killer collecting trophies. I clear my throat. “I mean, yeah. I guess I wanted your name. Maybe. I was going to say—thanks. This drink is… nice.” I lift the drink in his direction in a fake toast.

  “It’s a vodka tonic. It’s literally just vodka and tonic.” His accent is pure New York. “Pretty simple.”

  “Best simple drink I’ve had in a while. Even if it wasn’t hard to make. Or I don’t know, maybe it was. Proportions and all that.” Anxiety surges in my body, and I try to tamp it down with more vodka.

  He shrugs, like he has this effect on women all the time. “I can get you another one.”

  “No, it’s fine—I came here with my friend. I’m sure we’re leaving soon.” Oh shit. No, you’re not. You might actually have a chance with this guy. If you stop saying stupid shit. “She dragged me out so I could do some, uh, research.”

  Shit. No. He’s going to ask—

  “What’s the research on?”

  “The, um. This part of town. And the bar. The people here.” I smack my lips together. Another nervous tick. “Yep. This part of town, and the people who—well, own it.”

  Men like you. Oh and she want’s me to get laid.

  “The Irish families.” Families, like mafia. “That’s us. That’s me, I mean. The Doughertys. They own this area, and the more violent ones are still trying to stir up trouble every once in a while. I’m not in the life anymore because of certain responsibilities—” He stops for a second. “Because I don’t need to get back in trouble. I’m co-owner of this bar, and I’ll leave the other shit to my family.”

  Dougherty. Okay. Sure. Just like Rhiannon said. Nine inches. Ten inches. I stare hard at him, like I can see it, like I can guess.

  Several girls look over our way, and I’m pretty sure they’re glaring daggers at me. Liam is talking loud now, and he’s leaning over the bar, his broad chest poised over his elbows. I can see the tattoo. It’s an elaborate Celtic cross. I don’t ask, but I’m betting it’s part of the whole family thing. From the scars on his arms, and the one fading on his jaw, I can guess Liam wasn’t always just the co-owner of a bar.

  He’s not your type. Not at all.

  It occurs to me in that moment that maybe no one is, or was, my type. And maybe this guy standing right in front of me, the one very obviously flirting with me, he could be the type for one night, anyway. Then it wouldn’t matter that I’m saying stupid, meaningless bullshit.

  “Wow. That’s—pretty crazy. That’s your family.” Even apart from Rhiannon, I’ve heard of them. Heard what they’re capable of.

  “That’s my family. They’re all right. At least my brothers are for the most part. My dad—that was a different story. My cousins. Who knows about them?” He laughs, and that thing happens again. The feeling in my core, the tingle at the base of my spine. “And you? Who are you?”

  “Skye. I’m Skye Williams.”

  “A good name. And what do you do? What makes you more than just ‘Skye?’”

  I take a long swig of the drink and realize I’m leaning in toward him too. “I write. Or I work for a romance writer. I don’t really write my own stuff yet, not to publish.” The words roll together now, easy off the tongue.

  “Oh you write romance? Like sexy stuff? You look like you could pull that off.” He grins.

  “No—I mean. Not yet.” I pull my hair behind my ear and look down. The redness rises over my body. But I can’t help it. I look up and see him again. He’s still there. “I’d like to. Write romance. But I don’t have much experience—and you’re supposed to write what you know—”

  His eyebrow raises. “Oh really? I like the sound of that. Because I have plenty of experience. And I could be inspiration.” He leans over and touches my hand, sending a shock to my core. “I can be very inspiring.”

  Rhiannon catches this bit of our conversation, and she looks over, giving me a big, exaggerated thumbs up.

  “I’m sure you can… but I’m not exactly your type. I don’t think.” I chew on my lip.

 
Liam looks at me. Holds my gaze. Waits for me to continue. His eyes moves down to my breasts, unabashed.

  What do I want? Do I want a one-night stand? A few sentences, a hot evening, no goodbyes? Or do I want him to leave me alone?

  “And when I say I’m not experienced, I mean I’m really not experienced.” I’m really just digging myself deeper and deeper. I make a move to slink away from the bar and pretend that none of this ever happened, but Liam catches my hand again, fingertips linking with mine.

  “Wait.” He smiles, and then he laughs again, rich and deep. It stirs up something inside of me, like I want to leap across the bar and run my fingers through his hair. Examine his tattoo in detail. See if I could rip his shirt in half with my bare hands. Charlie didn’t give me that feeling. Not ever. Which could explain a lot.

  “I don’t usually talk to guys like you,” I blurt out. My heart starts beating fast. I remember the last time I was with Charlie. It was dark and horrible and awkward. I’d wanted to so badly—and he hadn’t wanted any part of me. And with Liam, with someone I don’t even know, it would be seventy times worse. “Not ever, really. I’m stumbling over my words here. I should go. This—” I gesture between the two of us. “Isn’t going to go well.” Because you’re really hot. And I have no business talking to you. I don’t say that, but it hangs there in the air.

  “Who says? And I don’t know if I should take offense to the whole ‘guys like me’ thing, but I won’t. I like the challenge. I could show you a damn good time, too.”

  His smile. Infectious. Addicting. I need to see it again.

  “I mean, like. Bad boys. Guys like you. With a past. And—” I look around. “At least six other girls staring at you.”

  He laughs out loud. “So you’ve heard about me?”

  “I can guess. And yes. A little.” Nine inches, ten inches. At least. I finish the drink. Was it three drinks? Four? I’ve said just about every embarrassing thing I know how to say, and this guy is still talking to me. Still flirting with me, for fuck’s sake.