Savage: A Bad Boy Next Door Romance Read online

  When I get back to the hotel, I’m stopped in the lobby by Alec, who quickly ends his call and walks over to me like he has been waiting for me. “Making any progress? Chris won’t tell me anything.”

  “I’m not doing it, Alec. I’m sorry, it just feels too dirty.”

  He clenches his jaw, eyes boring into me. “You’re sure that’s the decision you want to make?”

  I frown, not liking the tone he’s taking. “I already decided.”

  “Right. We’ll see about that.” He pulls out his phone and turns, walking away without another word.

  What does he mean? His tone made it sound like a threat, and my mind immediately races to think of what he could possibly use against me. I seriously doubt he’d try anything violent, but Alec looks like the kind of guy who doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty and stepping over moral lines. I can’t piece together what he could possibly do to coerce me. It’s not like anyone in my family is involved in something shady he could expose.

  When I get back to my room, my mood is soured by my run-in with Alec. I open the door to my room and find Chris waiting on my bed—fully clothed, thankfully. He jumps up, setting his phone down and smiling at me in a way that’s unnervingly charming.

  “What has you in such a good mood?” I ask, already feeling Alec’s threat floating to the back of my mind.

  Chris shrugs. “Nothing really. Just that I wrote a few pages.”

  “What?” I ask, mouth hanging open. “When did you even have time? I thought you were signing books or something?”

  “It was a thirty minute drive. I just busted out the laptop and punched out a few pages.”

  I can’t help laughing because he looks so happy. The usual brooding cloud that I’m used to seeing all around him is gone and all that’s left is an unusually gorgeous guy with a great smile and eyes to take my breath away.

  “There’s something else though,” he says, eyebrows drawing down as he sits back on my bed. “I brought my mom’s journals. I want you to read more of them to me. Maybe tonight, after our date. I don’t think I’m going to be able to finish this book unless I’ve listened to what she wanted me to hear. They’re linked somehow.”

  “Date?” I ask. “I thought you were just taking me out.”

  “Date,” he confirms. “Let me see what you got.” He pulls the bag from my hand and lifts up the dress I found. It’s simple, but I thought it was a cute kind of simple. It’s white and isn’t quite as long as I’d like—falling only to just below mid-thigh, but it has crisscrossing straps that leave an open back and a embroidered pattern along the hem.

  He purses his lips. “Nice,” he says.

  I fish in my purse for his card and hand it back to him.

  He waves it away. “Keep it. That’s yours.”

  “I can’t take your money,” I say, thrusting it back at him again.

  He takes it from me, giving me a strange look. “I tried really hard not to like you, you know,” he says.

  His words send my heartbeat racing and makes my chest tighten. When the vast majority of things to come out his mouth are insulting or even offensive, it apparently doesn’t take much kindness to shock and flatter me. From him, even the implied compliment is a surprise.

  “And how’s that going for you?” I ask.

  He chuckles. “I guess you’ll have to ask me for my final opinion after tonight.”

  “What, am I the one on trial? I thought this night out was your way of apologizing and trying to prove you’re not actually a self-obsessed asshole.”

  Chris leans back, fixing those eyes on me that seem to be able to send waves of heat my way whenever he wills it. “If I was an asshole, it was only because I was trying to spare you.”

  “Spare me? From what?”

  “Me,” he says simply. “I’m not good for people, Lindsey. I use them up, just like I’ll use you up. I tried to help make it easy for you to hate me.”

  “And now you don’t want me to hate you?”

  He looks thoughtful, but his eyes are hard and piercing, never leaving mine. “I want to prove to myself that you’re no different than the others,” he says. “It’d be easier if you hated me, but you’ve always seen through the act, haven’t you?”

  I shake my head, not fully understanding. “No different than the others?”

  “The fans,” he says, standing and raking a hand through his hair. “The mobs of people who would sell their soul for a night with me because it’d give them something to tweet about or something for their snapchat story, something to brag to their friends about.”

  “And what the hell have I ever done to make you think I’d be like them?” My first reaction to what he’s saying is anger. How else should I feel when he says he wants to prove to himself I’m just like every other superficial person he’s been involved with. But beneath that, I realize he’s saying he hasn’t been able to prove it to himself. He probably started out assuming I was like them, but eventually he realized I didn’t care about his money or his fame. I can’t really fault him for it either. When I think about what it must be like to have to wonder if people actually care about you or the idea of you. I can see how incredibly lonely and maddening it could be.

  “Not enough,” he says. “That’s why I want to fuck you. Call it the ultimate test. If I have you all to myself for a few hours the way I want, there’d be no room for secrets. There’s truth in sex. You said you read my book, right?”

  I nod my head. Shame, anger, and a guilty arousal swirl inside me. Chris Savage actually wants to sleep with me—fuck me. He hasn’t made a secret of it by any means, but until now I’ve been so certain he was just trying to mess with me. That it was yet another form of his cruelty. I thought he might want me to actually try to take him up on the offer so he could laugh in my face for thinking he was serious. But he is.

  I haven’t slept with a guy since Ryan, and before that my sexual experience was embarrassingly absent, so the idea of actually having sex with Chris is borderline terrifying. Especially when he’s making it sound like the only way he’d be interested in me afterwards is if it was different than any sex he’s ever had. What chance could I possibly have of pulling that off? And would I even want to try?

  “I read it,” I say finally. My thoughts are moving so quickly I can barely focus as idea after idea overlap and blur together into a confusing jumble. I can’t even decide if I would really want what he’s offering.

  “It wasn’t bullshit,” he says. “What I wrote about the truth in sex. A real sexual experience doesn’t leave room for lies. Absolute trust. Absolute truth. I’ll need everything. Every last drop of what you have to offer, and I’ll have you cumming so hard you’ll still be feeling the aftershocks a week from now.”

  “We can’t just go on a date like normal people and if it progresses to that, then, well…”

  He shakes his head. “No. Because what I want isn’t just sex. It’s not just passion and lust boiling over. I need everything for the night. Everything.”

  A chill runs up my back at the way he’s watching me. “I don’t know, I mean, I don’t think I even understand,” I admit.

  “Then I’ll make it simple. You come on this date with me, and you are handing me the keys for a night. You’re setting your reservations aside. No second-guessing, no hesitation. You keep your hands and feet inside the vehicle or the ride stops, no getting back on, no apologies, no hard feelings, but it’s over. Understand now?”

  “As much as I’m going to,” I say. I want to sit down or get a glass of water. Better yet, a box of wine would actually hit the spot right about now. “Do I get some time to think it over?”

  “Sure,” he says. “How about thirty seconds? Yes or no?”

  I do sit down now, head practically spinning. I’m split inside between wanting to just throw away my role of the rational middle sister for one night and letting it all go and worrying that it won’t just be one night. I’ll have to live with the decision I make here for the rest o
f my life, and for all I know, it could shape how I see myself and whether I can still respect myself. I mean, what kind of woman lets a guy treat them like Chris has treated me and then agrees to something like this?

  Except for all my inward conviction that Chris has been a jerk to me, I’m also split on how accurate that really is. Yes, he has said rude things and been dismissive and crude, but most of the time, I’ve been the one seeking him out. If you jump in a shark tank over and over again and end up getting bitten, who is really to blame, you or the shark?

  Then again, what I’m considering is basically an invitation to that same shark tank.

  If only it were that simple.

  The problem is Chris isn’t just that guy who has bruised my ego time and time again. He’s the poster-child for wounded artist, except he takes it to an entirely different level. And maybe Brooke was right. I do want to fix him, because I think he’s worth fixing.

  “Three, two…” Chris counts.

  “I’ll do it,” I say. The words spill out of me before I’ve fully made my decision, but I’m not going to take it back now. It’s just one night. One chance for him to prove he’s not all talk, that maybe there’s more to him than meets the eye. Besides, I’ve laid awake at night thinking about the regret I feel for not getting a funnel cake that one time at the carnival before they sold out. I’d probably never sleep again if I passed something this big up. I guess I’ll just have to wait and see if it’s big in a good or bad way. The terrifying part is, I have no idea.

  14

  Chris

  We park at the end of a cobbled road that looks about two thousand years old. There’s a mossy field surrounded by rolling green hills and a scattering of rustic farmhouses in front of us. A huge medieval castle sits atop a cliff-face overlooking a lake. It’s an effort to keep my eyes off Lindsey. She looks so fuckably innocent in her little white dress and sandals that I’m having trouble containing myself.

  Right now, it’s all I’m focused on, like the prize at the end of a game. I’m not going to let myself get trapped in thoughts that will get me nowhere. Like how she brings a kind of happiness with her that leaves whenever she’s not around. Or how the creative block I’ve felt for the past few years is breaking apart day by day that I spend with her. Maybe it’s how she makes me want to be a better person. All those thoughts are a trap. I’ve put too much weight on whatever this is between us and it will only be another disappointment.

  If there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that nothing is ever as good as it seems. Big houses, fancy cars, supermodels… It all disappoints.

  Lindsey is just another empty promise, and that’s what fucking her will prove. She’ll lose all her conviction and all her bite after I’ve given her what she really wants. She’ll prove she’s been playing the game with more patience than the ones before her.

  No matter how many times I tell myself that, it doesn’t manage to fully sink in. Some dumb, hopeful, and idiotically optimistic part of me wants to believe I’m wrong, but I have a lifetime of experience to tell me exactly how unlikely that is.

  Short-lived or not, I plan to enjoy tonight with her. I’ve never wanted anything as badly as I want Lindsey right now. Never. But I know better than to rush things. She probably thinks she understands what I’m going to do to her because she read my book, but I only scratched the surface in the book. She’s in for a surprise that she’ll never see coming.

  “Wow,” she says, shielding her eyes even though the sun seems like it’s not going to peek out from the overcast skies for the entirety of our time here. “This is beautiful, but I have to admit, it’s not what I was expecting when you wanted to take me on a date.”

  “Good,” I say. “It’s boring if you expect it. And trust me, you’re not going to be bored tonight.”

  She smiles, but it fades too quickly from her lips to be entirely natural. Nervous as hell. My cock stirs when I wonder if she’s already wet for me. She can try to play it cool all she wants, but I know she’s hungry for what I’m offering. The only thing standing between her and admitting it is her stubborn pride. Not that I’m not complaining. It’s more fun this way. When she finally opens her legs for me, it’s not just going to be a surrender, it’s going to be an admission. She wanted it all along.

  We’re not the only ones visiting the castle, but I made some arrangements to have that taken care of when the time comes.

  “Have you been here before?” she asks.

  We’re walking through the main courtyard now, where half a dozen other people are lingering around and admiring architectural details.

  “Once,” I say. “When I used to tour for book promotions, I had a woman on my staff to find the best experiences for me in all the nearby areas. I guess I technically still have her on my staff, come to think of it. I never did get around to firing anyone when I decided to walk away from it all.”

  She looks like she’s about to say something, but decides to hold it in at the last second.

  I decide now is as good a time as any to let her know what tonight is really going to be about, so I take her roughly by the hand and pull her into an alcove and then through an ancient wooden door. We’re in a small, private cathedral full of stained glass and enough pews to seat maybe fifty people. The addition of a gift shop at the far end of the chapel and the glass cases with museum-like displays robs the scene of any actual religious power, which makes me feel better about what I’m going to do to her in here—it’s not sacreligious if it’s not a real church, right?

  I turn her, pushing her against the wall where she can’t go anywhere until I’m finished.

  “I meant what I said about tonight,” I say.

  “I believe you. What makes you think I don’t?”

  “You held something in, back there in the courtyard. You were going to ask and you stopped yourself. I. Need. Everything. No secrets.”

  “It’s not a secret,” she says, sounding mildly annoyed. “It was just… It wasn’t a tactful question, and I realized it would be better not to ask.”

  “Ask it.”

  She’s clearly uncomfortable, but my hand on her arm and my body between her and escape seems to send a clear enough message that she’s not going anywhere, like it or not.

  “It’s just that you mentioned when you walked away from everything. I know the story out in the public is that it was a day after your parents were killed, but it doesn’t seem like you were close to them at all. I mean I walked up on you saying mean things to their graves.”

  “Oh,” I say, stepping back slightly. I wanted truth, and I still do, but some dumb part of me was hoping her secret was going to be that she hadn’t worn panties or she was worried she wouldn’t be good enough in bed for me. Not this.

  I walk over to one of the pews and sit down, motioning for Lindsey to peel herself off the wall and sit across from me at the edge of another row. When I said I needed everything from her, it wasn’t just bullshit for my convenience. I learned a long time ago that sex is far more complicated than what goes where and how it goes there. A woman can cum from humping a pillow, sure, but that’s just an orgasm. It’s not an experience. It’s not going to change her life, won’t leave her ruined for other men and still thinking about a singular moment years from later, even when her boring husband is three inches deep in her and grunting like a pig.

  No, to give her what I can give her, she needs to drop every single ounce of her reservations. I need absolute surrender, so complete that she would walk off a rooftop without hesitation because she’d know I would catch her. The only way to start to build that kind of trust is to shine a light on every secret, every dark, forgotten corner.

  “My parents actually weren’t that bad,” I say after a while. “I always got good grades in school and my teachers would go on about how I could do this great thing and that, so my parents ate it up. They wanted me to go to some Ivy League school and change the world. But I was a little shit, and in all honesty, I did want to do something diff
erent, so I applied to Parsons, which is the top art school in the US. When my acceptance letters came in, I got in everywhere but Parsons. My parents were thrilled, because they spent months trying to talk me out of art school, and I guess they thought I’d just cut my losses and go on to the Ivy League, but I decided to skip the whole college thing.”

  Lindsey smiles a little at that, clearly trying to picture me as a kid and enjoying the image she’s conjuring up.

  “They didn’t take it well,” I continue. “They ended up dragging my sister into it and trying to get her to pick sides, to convince me.” I laugh a little, trying to make sense of it even to myself and failing. “It was like a switch flipped. One minute I was the typical rebellious teenager, the next I took it to an entirely new level, but I guess that’s what I always did. What I always do. I take things too far. So I ran away. Worked odd jobs and even panhandled playing my shitty guitar and singing songs I made up for pocket change. It felt good to do anything I knew my parents would be embarrassed by. I’d send them pictures of me on the street looking homeless—probably because I was most of the time.