Bad Boys Under the Mistletoe: A Begging for Bad Boys Collection Read online

“No... it's okay. Really,” I protest, but the bartender shakes his head hard.

  “Fuck that. Merry Christmas.”

  I take the twenty and fold it up, jamming it into my jacket pocket. “Thanks, man. And Merry Christmas to you, too.”

  It's dark now along Lakeside, although farther down around Boardwalk I can see the party district still going strong. While I'm not sure what the cross on my neck really represents anymore, the idea of drinking yourself shitfaced on a night when supposedly you're celebrating the birth of a child to a virgin seems pretty fucked up, even more than what most people would think about what I'm about to do.

  Whitechapel is dead black, not a single light on from outside, and I know it's now or never. I already know that Henry and his wife Juliet left town in his customized Mercedes SUV, heading upstate to his three thousand square foot 'log cabin' in the mountains. I know because I froze my ass off this morning while getting in a very long calisthenics 'workout' along the jogging path circling the lake across from Whitechapel. Thankfully, all those hours with the 'bar boys' paid off, and I don't feel like a fucking walking pulled muscle right now.

  I started this plan years ago, the day after they told me that Aunt Eleanora died of a rare cancer. I guess it's fitting, her husband died the same way before I was born, but she raised me for over a decade, and it hurt. I turned that hurt into a plan, although it took a lot of fucking work after getting out to scrape enough pennies together to get to this point. Information and skills on what I want to do don't come cheap, and I can't afford to learn on the job here.

  The bag on my back is almost totally empty except for the tablet that cost me more than my bike. With it, I detect then hack the house's WiFi, shutting down the phone and internet connection to the outside. I won't have a ton of time, but I know Whitechapel like the back of my hand still. I was born here. I took my first steps here. I even began learning how to read in the library here. And I know where all the hiding places are.

  The back door by the kitchen opens relatively easily with my lock pick gun, and I'm reminded of something that Spanky, one of my teachers, said. “Rich folk, powerful folk, they're some of the easiest to rob. They think that their power or their rep is better than a lock or an alarm. Take away the guards, and I bet the easiest house in the country to rob is the White House.”

  I don't know if Spanky was being ironic or just being straightforward, but I thank him silently as I make my way carefully through the house, hitting up the main wing first. The study where Henry Johnson destroyed my father's life is where I open the safe; Johnson was so lazy he didn't even get the century-old safe replaced. As I pull on the heavy door, I can remember exactly the last time I saw this safe open. The day that Henry Johnson had my father dragged out of this study to be thrown into the streets.

  I find a little cash in the safe, not nearly enough for me, along with a USB memory stick that might have something interesting. I don't have time to scan it now, so I move on toward the other wing where I know the big safe is. In the big library, the one that I remember always smelled good, the smell of old books and leather. I don't want to resort to trying to take the jewels in the bedrooms if I can help it. I don't know a fucking thing about fencing stolen jewels, and trying to blindly fence jewels from a venture capitalist/mob banker is not my idea of a fun suicide.

  I cross the foyer, pausing to look up the stairs. My parents' bedroom was up there, along with mine too when I was little. I can barely remember it all, but Eleanora told me so many stories about Whitechapel, the memories blend seamlessly with her own stories to give me total recall of the layout. But later, if there's time, I'd like to piss on Henry's bed.

  I pass the stairs and head toward the large library, what had been my favorite room when I was a kid because my dad used to keep a model train set in there. I pause when I get close. There's a dim, almost impossible to see light under the door, and if I hadn't kept my penlight off and used my memories to guide me, I'd have probably missed it.

  Nervous, I reach for the BB gun in my pocket. It looks real enough, especially in low light, and let's face it, I'm not winning a shootout here, even if I did have the money for a real gun. But it might help for intimidation reasons.

  I try the door, finding it unlocked. I know I should just skip it, but this safe was the big one, the one where the big bucks were kept and where, if I'm going to get out with more than just a couple thousand dollars and maybe a risky handful of jewels, I need to go. Besides, I can't hear anything behind the oak door, so I take the risk. Maybe someone just left a light on by accident when they left this morning.

  I pull the door to me slightly at first, and pause. I remember how the library door would always swell and stick if you didn't, but still the slight click of the brass scraping over brass makes me hold my breath before I continue to slowly push, carefully opening the door and walking inside.

  The only light is coming from a lamp on the big desk, the one that was positioned underneath the picture window. It wasn't always the best light or location for reading, but had a great view of the backyard area. On closer inspection it looks like the classic green banker's lamp that I remember from my childhood has been replaced with something warmer, something with a more natural light.

  I move to the side, checking the high-back leather chair, when suddenly I see something that stops my heart.

  “It can't be,” I whisper, clamping my lips shut as soon as I do. But... but it is.

  The same hair, that unique silvery-brown that I always thought of as silver oak. Even when I was in high school, I knew that hair would go silver early, but it would be that unique style of silver that truly takes your breath away and doesn't make someone look old at all. It's so rare to see on a woman, either because it's hidden by a dye job or just because it's rare to begin with. But on her, it looks gorgeous, making her look like she's made out of precious metal.

  I take a half-stunned step forward, seeing the shoulders, the curve of the back just like when she would sometimes nap in study hall...

  Suddenly she snuffles, turning her head, and my sense of wonder increases. I've read before about people feeling like they've been punched in the gut after seeing something... now I know how they feel.

  The BB gun tumbles from my nerveless fingers, my eyes still taking in the image of the girl who's been my angel and my demon for years.

  The gun clatters on the thin carpet, startling me and making her stir, and in an instant, those intense jade green eyes open, blinking at me. I gulp, shocked. I remember what I told the bartender, but I didn't actually believe I'd see her again. “Mandy?”

  Chapter 4

  Mandy

  I shouldn't be enjoying spending Christmas Eve alone, but the fact is... I am. After watching A Christmas Story all the way through, perhaps for the first time ever without being interrupted by my father to try and get some sports in, or my mother who insists that Christmas Eve should be as electronics free as humanly possible, I indulged in getting Chinese food delivered. Instead of the boring standard roast goose with trimmings, I indulged in my secret weakness, General Tso's chicken, complete with pork fried rice, crispy fried noodles, and almond pudding, all while sitting around in the oversized fluffy flannel pajamas that I got last Christmas.

  After all that, I decide to get some studying in. Yes, I’m that bored, but mainly because I'm not quite tired yet, but I've sort of run through everything that I wanted to do for Christmas Eve. I'm not into video games, and prowling around online just leaves me feeling sad. So many people wanting warmth and connections on Christmas, and so few people have it. Not that I have a lot to say on that area, considering my own feelings.

  Sitting in the big leather chair, my book open in front of me, I look out the window. Tonight's clear, with the sort of sharp clarity to every star that makes it seem almost magnified, while at the same time telling you that if you step outside you're going to want your heavy jacket and maybe something to cover your nose so you don't freeze inside there, too.
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br />   For some reason, I start thinking about him again, for the second time in two nights. Actually, I know why. The last day I saw him was Christmas Eve. Three days before his birthday. Three days before I was going to tell him how I actually felt about him.

  I find myself looking out on Orion, the hunter in the night sky, and I remember that it was his favorite constellation. Forget star light, star bright... Orion's different. “I know that it's kinda stupid,” I whisper, looking through the window at the heavens, “but if anyone's listening up there, and anyone is feeling like tossing out a Christmas miracle... his name's Jaxon. Jaxon Prescott. I'd like to see him, even if it's just once.”

  Sleepiness comes over me and I close my book, putting my head down on the desk. I don't know why, the library has a perfectly good couch that I've taken naps in before, but it's just for a moment.

  When I hear something hit the floor, at first I don't know what I'm hearing. I open my eyes, and I can't believe what I'm seeing in the dim light of the desk lamp. The hair looks longer, but the face... I must be dreaming still. Then he opens his mouth, and the voice, his voice that's haunted my dreams both good and bad, speaks softly, like he doesn't believe what he's seeing. “Mandy?”

  My first reaction is to close my eyes, to force this dream away from me. Even if it's one of the hot dreams, the ones that I've used to calm my lonely nights since his arrest, I can't bear to dream of Jaxon tonight. But then a weird thought comes to mind. If I close my eyes in a dream, will that mean I could dream within my dream? What happens then?

  Instead, I keep my eyes open, looking at the ghost in front of me. “Go away. You're not real. Stop haunting me.”

  The ghost blinks, then looks to the side, like he's trying to figure out exactly who the hell I'm talking to. When he does, I see the start of a tattoo on his neck, and for some reason that makes it all real. There's no way I'd imagine Jaxon with ink on his neck. “Jaxon, it's really you?”

  “It's me,” he says, kneeling and picking up what he dropped. I look, and in the dim light it looks like a pistol. “What are you doing here?”

  “Studying history,” I answer stupidly, sitting up. He doesn't disappear, he doesn't dissolve into dust and Christmas wishes. He really is real. “And making a Christmas wish. It came true.”

  “And what was that?” he asks. This time I hear something in his voice. He's not as happy to see me as I am to see him. I guess I can understand why.

  “I wished, right before I put my head down... I wished to be able to see you,” I admit. “What are you doing here?”

  “I... I wished... never mind. I'm taking what belongs to me,” Jaxon growls, stepping back. “Your father stole my life from me. Not just once, but twice. I'm taking it back.”

  I think I surprise him when I nod, turning fully to the side to look at him without any fear at all. “I know. I know about the way he stole from you and your family. I didn't know all the details at first, but that doesn't matter. I know he killed your parents, and I know about the way you got railroaded. I'm sorry, Jaxon.”

  “Sorry?” he asks, his voice menacing. “You think 'sorry' is going to make up for almost two decades of my life being turned to shit? For doing time in prison? You can't even begin to make up for that.”

  I swallow, shocked at the anger and pain in his voice, but I deserve it. Instead of making him angrier, I change the subject. “So I'm guessing you want the library safe open?”

  “You're God damned right,” Jaxon says, brandishing the gun. I try not to laugh, I know he's trying, but you can't drop a BB gun and still pull it off with the same effect. Even half asleep I could hear the plastic hit the floor. And I'm not as innocent as I used to be. “Is that a problem?”

  “Yes and no,” I reply, smiling. “Please, put the BB gun away, Jaxon. I'm not a threat to you. Actually, you can help me.”

  Jaxon lifts his right eyebrow, the same exact gesture that he used back when we were secretly seeing each other, but tucks the pistol away in the pocket of his denim jacket. After he does, he sounds more like himself, although the anger's still there, an undercurrent that courses through every word he says. “Okay, the BB gun wasn't the best idea. All I had though. But what do you mean?”

  I get up, stepping away even though I want to reach out and touch him just to make sure I'm not nuts. Instead, I go over to the large wood panel on the door at the far end of the library, twisting the catch to unlock it and pull it back, revealing the safe behind the door. The hinges squeak loudly, and Jaxon looks around, nervous. “Don't worry, I'm alone here. My dad forgot the combination on this safe, or maybe your father didn't tell it to him right, I don't know. Anyway, this safe has sat closed the entire time I've lived in Whitechapel. So you're right, whatever's in there... it’s yours.”

  Jaxon's eyes widen as he looks at the safe, then at me. “What's the catch?”

  I think fast and reach into my pocket, pulling out my phone. My finger rests on the 'emergency button,' the preprogrammed number that doesn't connect to the cops. There's no way my father would ever want me calling the cops, not to come to Whitechapel. “I want you to do two things for me. One... fuck me, Jaxon. I want you to make me come like I've never come before.”

  Jaxon's jaw drops before his eyes gleam, and he starts looking himself again, that same little grin that stirred my stomach when we were in high school together. “I think that one I can do. What's the second thing?”

  “I'll tell you... after you make me come.”

  I'm afraid, and inside there's a part of me that can't believe I just said what I said. I’m still not convinced this isn’t a dream. If it is, I’m going to make the best of it. Maybe I feel like there's a little Christmas magic in the air, but my mouth is speaking what my heart wants even before my brain can get in the fucking way. My brain says that I've never done this before. Other than Jaxon, I've never let a guy even do what the old-fashioned books call 'heavy petting.'

  But my body and heart know what they want, and Jaxon's eyes gleam hungrily as he steps closer. “You don't know what you're asking for,” he says, grabbing my wrist in an iron grip and pulling me to him. He plucks the phone from my grasp, setting it on the shelf high above his head, safely out of my reach. “This won't be nice.”

  “I don't want nice,” I challenge as he envelops me in a crushing embrace, kissing me hard. There's anger in his kiss, years of rage and pain. Pain that I caused, pain that my father caused. I take it, kissing him back and letting his tongue invade my mouth, my body alive with the dream.

  I tear at his clothes, trying to get to the skin that I've fantasized about for years. I can feel his hands tugging at my pajamas, and he's exposing me a lot faster than I'm exposing him, but somehow, in a tangle of arms, legs, lips and hands, we're mostly naked, his pants are down around his ankles while I've got nothing on at all, nearly panting at the adrenaline flowing in our bodies.

  “Wait,” I beg breathlessly, trying to regain some semblance of control. “I want to see you.”

  “No way,” Jaxon growls, looking at the big window. “Too dangerous.”

  “Isn't this dangerous as it is?” I ask, reaching down. I feel the hard muscles of his stomach, and in the darkness, the wiry but still soft hair below his waist. I didn't think it'd feel like this. The hard, warm cock underneath it though... it's just like I've dreamed of, but even better. “Jaxon, I want to see you. And you know the light is just to the backyard.”

  I pump his cock carefully, like I've seen in videos, and Jaxon hums in pleasure before he nods in agreement. “Turn the desk lamp up higher, or turn it this way.”

  I smile and step closer, thrilled when I feel his stiff root press against my thigh as I kiss him. “Thank you.”

  I let go and take the three steps back to the desk, reaching out over the immense space to turn the lamp up higher when suddenly Jaxon pushes me into the desk, doubling me over.

  “You don't want it nice?” he threatens, his right hand reaching roughly between my thighs even as his left hand
pushes into my back. “You're not going to get nice.”

  I hit the lamp switch only by accident, and I look back over my shoulder to see him glaring at me, his finger rubbing my pussy lips before sliding inside me, unforgiving and unrelenting. I'm already wet though and he pumps his finger in and out while he curls it slightly, nerves singing out as he strokes my inner folds.

  In the light, I can get a better look at Jaxon, and I'm shocked by what I see. His face is still that rugged but intelligent face that I remember from high school, but his body is scarred, with tattoos covering most of his chest and arms. I can't see them all very clearly, but they're scary, frightening images, snakes and monsters I think, maybe other things wrapped in there.

  “Not what you remember, is it?” Jaxon hisses as his finger keeps probing, curling maddeningly inside me, heat snaking from his finger through my pussy and up into my chest to blend with the coldness in my heart. “You know why.”

  “Yes,” I half moan, my body torn in half from the pleasure his finger's causing while my heart is torn in half from the pain I see in his eyes. It's bittersweet, a fantasy and a nightmare in one, but my body wants it, my pussy clenching around his finger as I squirm, pushing back. “Jaxon... please, oh God, fuck me.”

  “You asked for it,” Jaxon says, pulling his finger out with a wet plopping sound. He lines himself up behind me, his cock pressing against the lips of my pussy, his left hand wrapping itself in my hair while his right hand rests in a silent threat on my ass cheek.

  He pushes in, and I'm left gasping, groaning for breath as for the first time, a man is inside me. It's better, more electric but at the same time more painful than I thought it could be, nothing preparing me for the feeling of Jaxon's throbbing cock filling me. I whimper in pain as he stretches me, then he stops, shocked as he realizes. “Mandy...”

  “Yes, Jaxon,” I moan, lust-crazed. “Make it fucking hurt!”