Baby Girl: Bad Boys of Summer Series, page 1
Baby Girl
Bad Boys of Summer Series
Reagan Phillips
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Note From The Author
Books By Reagan
Chapter 1
Cole
Waiting on rich girls isn't how I plan to spend my summer, but for today I can't complain about the view.
Joel, my brother from another mother, got me this gig. Tending bar for a bunch of stuffed shirts celebrating their spoiled prodigy's graduation from private schools with an overpriced party for all the precious friends. It seems fitting to celebrate paying an absorbent amount of green for education the rest of us gleam on the government's dime with an elaborate party--including open bar--for a bunch of underage self-absorbed snowflakes.
Who am I to judge? If I weren't here, on the Whitakers' back lawn under a white tent serving up mixed drinks and beers with a view of newly-legal partygoers in dresses that barely cover their asses, I'd be in the back of Joel's bar asleep. Or wanking one out. All depending on the level of morning wood I woke to.
I finish pouring a local brew from the tap and pass it to a stuffed shirt with a Rolex the value of my first two cars combined and run my shirt sleeve over the sweat on my forehead. June in Marshville has a kick. The humidity is enough to soak the stupid button-up shirt and tie Joel makes me wear to cover my tat sleeve. Bad enough he requested I comb my hair flat for this gig. These people wouldn't recognize me if they passed me on the street on any other day. They would cross the road to avoid me. And the thought of a guy like me with their daughters… I smile as another perfect father orders another hippy brew from the local Marshville Ale House. The draft is so light in color it could be piss, and these yo-yos would drink it all without being able to tell the difference.
I pass the bottle over, and the guy drops a buck in the tip jar. A whole fucking dollar. I guess sending his blonde ambition to college is tapping out his wallet already. With tips like these, I'll be able to move out of the bar backroom in, say, never.
A break in the line gives me a chance to lean back on the table behind me with a water bottle and quench my thirst. It's not even noon, and the temperature is enough to fry oysters on the beach. In another hour, I bet that's where most of the girls will be. Hot little bikinis covering only enough skin to leave a guy imagining supermodels tits and asses that don't know the word quit.
I adjust the seam of the black dress pants Joel loaned me. Judging by the tight fit, he's not had a boner in his life.
"Do you have orange juice?"
The soft tone pulls me out of the daydream and drops me back on the Whitakers' back lawn. Ashley Whitaker is dressed in the same white as the rest, but her neckline rides high, almost touching her neck and the hem bruising the tops of her knees. A row of off white pearls clings to her neck and chest as if to scream, look at me! I'm holy as fuck and want everyone to know it. Blonde locks, as blonde and as if she'd bleached them, but with no signs of dark roots, are pulled back into a neat ponytail at the nape of her neck, and her lashes flutter when she glances at me again. Her cheeks round with her smile and a blush breaks across them.
My dick presses hard into my zipper, and I snapped back to her request.
I wouldn't tap that if that was the last tap to be tapped on the planet. My dick would fall off from all of the purity. But my twisted mind goes somewhere darker, and I begin to wonder, is she a screamer? Would my name reach the heavens if I had her, or would she moan into a pillow too afraid of her own pleasure to make a damn sound about it?
I’m jolted back at her request.
"Wouldn't you rather have a screwdriver or a mimosa?" Her daddy’s paid big buck for me to forget id checks, so I'm only kind by asking.
Her blush deepens, and my cock pulses. Damn treasonous dick. Hard up for prim and proper when the lawn beyond her back is crawling with hotness begging for someone's attention.
"Just the juice, please."
"Just the juice," I repeat low, grabbing the bottle from under the bar and filling a champagne glass. So she doesn't drink. I can honor that. No need to walk around sticking out any more than she already does. And she does.
I've been watching Prim and Proper for the last half hour. She stands out in the crowd. All smiles and giggles when the Ralph Laren crew are watching, but as soon as they turn their backs, the happy face fades.
"Here, ya go." I hand it over with a napkin, and she takes it by the rim, avoiding my fingers. Smart girl. She knows trouble when she sees it. Or, maybe it's the tatted ring that throws her off. The only ink on my body Joel didn't make me cover for this shindig.
Her blue eyes land hard on me again. She glanced at my hand, then my hair, then back to my eyes so fast I almost miss the once over. Then she shields her eyes under her lashes, and I barely hear her "thanks" before she drops a fiver in my jar of tips.
"You're welcome," I answer, my throat still dry. Too dry.
She doesn't leave my tent. She turns back to the party and takes a sip of juice. Her shoulders move to the music playing from speakers across the lawn. But, she doesn't make a move to rejoin the party.
"Your parents know how to celebrate a graduation," I add when she glances back in my direction.
"They do," is all she answers.
"Any plans for after graduation?" I ask to fill the awkward silence, almost wishing she'd move one. Those pearls are starting to give me ideas. Ideas that make me question my sanity when I pair them with Ashley Whitiker.
Not that I'm totally far-fetched. Ashely's older sister and Joel used to be tight. She hung around the bar and played a few rounds of pool on the weekends. Nothing stuck up or conceited about her. If it weren't for the wad of bills she paid with, or the cherry red tricked-out BMW 8 Series she parked out front, you'd never know she belonged to the beachfront crowd.
"College." Ashley answers. Her voice is so low and soft I stretch closer to hear. "You? Any plans for after…" she cuts off and looks away like she wants to swallow the words down her throat."
I laugh before catching the concern in her eyes. "I'm far from my graduation days." But it's cute she can't tell I'm old enough to be a college grad. Too old for her. Too old to be having thoughts about those pearls again. She forces a half-smile out of me, a guy who doesn't smile.
That's got to count for something.
"Oh," she answers before turning back to the party. "You seem younger."
I laugh again. What is this chick up to?
Then I see it. Ashley is not here to get a drink or for the small talk. She's hiding. My tent acting as her refuge. Outside of it, an entire production is put on to honor her and her achievements, and she's hiding out in the shadows like she doesn't know a soul at her own party.
My heart thumps against my chest with a pang of mutual pain for her.
"Hey," I grab her attention again. "You know the best thing about bartenders?"
Her eyes lighten, and she puts her glass on my makeshift bar. I swear I can see the tension roll off her body in a wave as she stares at me.
"I haven't been too many bars," she answers, and my groin throbs. So new. So Pure. Cole, get your dick off your brain, you sick bastard.
"We're great listeners. You got something on your mind? A barkeep won't tell a soul your secrets."
For a second, she hides behind those thick lashes again, and I'm afraid I've lost her, but then she centers those baby blues on me, and the world around us disappears. It all fucking stops, and she's the center of my existence for the time it takes her to form her next thought.
I'm falling. Going down hard. Rock hard. On Jagged cliffs that spell my doom.
"I don't have any secrets," she answers, letting me off the hook before I drown in her silence. Then she flashes me a look that could burn me to ash in one lust-filled sweep.
Baby girl, you're full of secrets.
My heart beats one hard beat in my chest for the pain I find in her eyes. I know something about being alone. I know what it feels like to be dragged around by hope. I'm not going to put her through any of that crap.
If she'd been one of the other girls, I'd have an invite back to my truck off my tongue before she could blink, but she's not one of the other girls. She is Ashley. Kate's little sister. Daughter of Stan Whitiker. One of the Beachfront crowds. And as wholesome and pure as they come.
I can't touch that. I'd only make Ashley's reputation dirty. She's too beautiful to ever be marked by a guy like me. So I do what guys like me don't do often. I push her away.
"I've got a break coming." I start, going in gently. "You need anything before I take it?"
The right side of her mouth lifts, but the other side doesn't follow suit. "I'm good. Thanks."
I grab my water and leave the tent for my truck.
I'm damaged goods. A reformed bad boy who is still learning to be good. As much as I'd love to invite her to join me, I can't take on someone else's problems until I've fixed my own.
She's better off learning to fit in with her kind or getting comfortable feeling alone.
Even as I slam my truck door and turn the radio up loud, my inadequacy builds like a fire stoked by the coastal breeze.
Something tells me I'm going to be seeing a lot of Ashley Whitakers in the nig hts to come. Alone in my room with nothing but me and my dreams.
Ash
Mom moved out yesterday. Even knowing it was coming for months didn’t prepare me for the silence in the house. No washing machine running at all hours. No dish chatter coming from the kitchen. I even miss the sound of her NPR seeping from her office as she worked with the door closed.
Funny how you can miss a thing that wasn’t really fully there, to begin with.
Dad won’t be home for hours if he even comes home tonight. Since May, when my parents announced their trial separation, he’s spent more nights on the couch in his office than at home.
It’s gorgeous and sunny, and in a week I’ll be packing the back of dad’s Land Rover for college hours away from the ocean. I drive past the south shore, the most popular spot in Marshville. I opt instead for the beach further north where the tourists don’t travel and the homeless shelter on park benches and in shopping center parking lots.
The beach is less crowded here. The gulls and I have it to ourselves except a few tattooed surfers who pay me no attention except to ask to bum a smoke.
I don’t look like a smoker. Or maybe I do. My hair is pulled back in my usual ponytail and falls straight down my back like honey-colored straw. Instead of a bathing suit, I chose cut-off jean shorts and a short sleeve loose knit white sweater with a cream-colored tank top underneath. It’s comfy and suits my mood.
Dusk falls, and after watching the sunset over the ocean...damn am I going to miss watching this...I collect my things and head for the public parking. That’s when I notice my car seems perfectly fine from far away, but a bit lopsided the closer I approach. A cinder block is placed under where a tire should be, and judging by the angle of the trunk, I’ll find the same on the opposite side.
I unlock the driver’s door and toss my bag and towel in before inspecting the back of the car closer. Like, if I look hard enough, I can make a tire appear out of thin air. Even if I could wrangle the spare from the trunk and manage to make it fit, I’m still a tire short and ten miles from home. Mom’s hours away. Dad will flip his lid if I call him at work. He gave me Triple-A for my birthday along with the car last year. The card is in my wallet, but my phone died while listening to music on the beach, and I didn’t bring a charger.
Across the street is a string of small souvenir shops, a travel agent, and a bar. The shops and agency are closed, but the bar door opens, and a couple steps out, holding hands. How bad can it be right on the main strip?
I grab my bag and jaunt across the street. Smoke assaults me the second I open the door followed by the smell of stale beer and fried food, reminding me I also haven’t eaten since morning. My stomach growls, and I throw my arms around it to quell the sound.
For a weeknight on the north side, the bar is packed. Most of the stools are taken by men in work shirts and rough jeans, and the tables are occupied by couples or big groups of men watching sports on the oversized TV. I recognize a few of the surfers from the beach, and a group of kids in the back is from Hough High, though I can’t remember what year. They look like Kate’s friends, which would make them seniors in college now, though there’s no college in Marshville. Not even a community one unless you travel all the way to Willmington, and that’s a trek on a good day.
I wade through the tables to reach the bar and ask for the phone at the same time a familiar face greets me.
“Orange Juice,” he says with a smile that makes my knees wobble. “What the hell are you doing here?”
He says it like he’s surprised to see me.
I lean on a stool and drop my bag in the bar. “You remember.” My voice sounds like he’s won some super achievement when the party was only a week ago, and I’m sure I’m the only girl who stalked him like a wounded animal.
“Hard to forget. The only girl not sloshed stands out in a crowd.”
His southern drawl calms my frazzled nerves a bit, and I sink into the stool. He’s wearing dark jeans, tight enough to see the definition of the upper legs and a black tee with the bar logo across his chest. His very broad, very defined even covered with cloth chest, boasts the logo for The Trap in large white block letters.
“I’m here to use the phone. Someone stole the tires off my car across the street and--” Before I can finish concern fills his eyes and he reaches a hand to mine on the bar.
I turn hot. Oh, so hot. Going down in a blaze of glory and I don’t even care about the dang tires kind of hot. “Ashley.” His voice is secure and stern, and it makes me back an inch. “You're out here on the Northside alone?”
“Yes,” I answer, faking bravado in my voice. “I come out to the beach here a lot. It’s quiet.”
“And dangerous,” he interjects.
Why do I feel like I’m being scolded? “I know how to handle myself?”
He laughs. The sound bounces off me like darts. Sharp darts. “And that’s why you’re in a bar asking for a phone because your tires were stolen. Where’s your cell?”
“Dead,” I answer.
“Dead,” he mutters. “You could be charging it in your car right now?”
I hate that I’m about to tell him the truth because knowing this guy for all of five minutes I already know what will happen next. I’m not looking for another lecture from another person who barely knows me. I get plenty of those at home.
“I left it in the house. I didn’t plan on this happening.”
“No one plans on this happening, but you should always be prepared in case it does.”
This is when Kate would tell me I have the worst taste in men. I always had a thing for the ones who treated me like garbage.
I’d thought Cole would be different. Why? I don’t know. Something about the way he watched me at my graduation party. The way he’d taken an interest.
Now with his short jet black hair spiked in all directions and a full arm of tats poking out from under one sleeve while the edges of another made strange shapes at the base of his neck where he tee shirt met his skin, I wasn’t so sure.
“Don’t worry about it,” I answered back, trying not to focus on his dark grey eyes or the images on his arm. “Just let me call a tow truck, and I’ll be out of your hair.”
“Out of my hair where?” he asked, a sinful smirk playing on his lips. “It’s dark outside. Someone stole your tires. I’m not letting you sit out there and wait for a tow.”
“I’m not asking you too,” I answer, but I don’t think he hears me. He’s too busy pulling his cell from his pocket and punching numbers. “Who are you calling?”
“A friend,” he says, almost dismissing me. Or so I thought. It only happens for a second, but he gives me a look that could melt steel. A glance that travels from the depths of my eyes, over my shoulders to dip where my sweater drops around my neck.
My stomach clenches. Not in the bad, I feel sick kind of way, but more of a dizzying mix of heat and blush and something I struggle to identify not know is linked to a sudden throb between my legs.
Cole chats on with the person on the other end. He tells where we are and who he’s with and to my surprise calls out the make and model of my car. I never told him what I drove.
When he clicks off the call, I give him an inquisitive stare. “I’m into cars. I notice them. You’ve got the only Shelby GT 500s on the beach. Original 1967 hubcaps if I remember correctly. Those won’t be easy to replace, but my buddy, Snake, can hook you up with a set of loner tires to get you home.”
I know nothing about cars. Shelby, as Cole called it, was a gift on my eighteenth birthday. My father’s always had a knack for buying things he likes as gifts. “Thanks,” I soften my voice. He is trying to help me out, after all. “But I have Triple-A. They can change the tires out without the loner.”
Cole’s face does this coil action like he’s pulling his eyes into his nose to look at me. I can’t read what that reaction says about him, but the harsh outward breath that follows tells me plenty.
“He’s already on the way, and you’re not sitting out there waiting on Triple-A for hours.”
