Wrecked by the Bad Boy: The Sick MC Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, events, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  Wrecked by the Bad Boy copyright @ 2016 by Olivia Stephens. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  BONUS BOOK RECKLESS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

  EPILOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  Sasha

  The screeching of trumpets coming in with the first warm breeze of spring through the open door, made me jump from foot to foot with the urge to dance. I was giddy—positively gleeful. I’d arranged the whole shop just the way I liked it, and now it was time for experimentation.

  David never cared much about what I did. The shop was practically mine; had been for years. There wasn’t a person on earth who knew Fancy Florals like I did. That wasn’t saying much since there wasn’t a helluva lot of competition, but it made me pleased nonetheless.

  The walls were painted a pale lilac, and the sparse white shelving popped out like rice paddies. It was a small shop, but with few adornments, it felt quite roomy. The black and white checkered tile floor was like something out of a bad eighties movie, but I loved it. When I was cleaning, I had a habit of skipping over the black tiles, only allowing my feet to touch the white like I was playing some sort of schoolyard game. That was only when I didn’t have any customers, of course. And I occasionally had customers. When a parade was floating by, however, I got to stand and enjoy it. And, despite living in New Orleans for years, I still do enjoy it.

  The sounds of cheering and brass instruments were home to me now. It used to be the hissing of the waves against the shore, but since being transplanted here, I haven’t missed the sea. The rocky coast of Maine had nothing on the beating heart of Louisiana. Nowhere else in America had anything on my state, in my opinion. A treasure trove of bayous and swamps, with mangrove trees slouched against each other like old souls, Louisiana had stolen my heart from day one. And it had continued earning it ever since.

  My mom didn’t quite see the appeal. She was only here for her work and wasn’t as fond of exploring the place as I was. She saw New Orleans as a crowded enclave of partiers. Although Mom and I were close, it would have been nice to have another soul around, in case I wanted to go dance behind the cavalcades of brass performers.

  I got pretty lonely being the only person in the shop. Harriet came in a few times a week, but David knew I could handle things on my own. I wished he would bring in more help, but I’d never be able to say it. How could I tell him I was lonely and just needed someone to talk to?

  Pushing that from my mind, I leaped into the cooler like a gazelle and grabbed a few peonies to add to my bunch. Some baby’s breath, one of the exotic flowers that I could never remember the name of, and a little ribbon weaved around the outside of the vase and—voila! My best creation yet. Simple. Elegant. And totally unsellable.

  I frowned. Nobody was going to buy an arrangement just because I thought it was beautiful. They never did. People just wanted roses or one of the arrangements on the website. Most had a firm image in their minds of what they were looking for when they came in. Gerbera daisies. Roses. Lilies. Not something weird the shop assistant put together.

  I still displayed them anyway. Sometimes they sold. Statistically, though, I had my doubts.

  But I liked making them, and I thought they prettied the place up a bit. And anyway, David let me do whatever I wanted. He knew that without me, he’d have to step in a whole lot more. He knew that I took on way more than my job description, and we were both fine with that. I enjoyed the work, and he enjoyed the freedom. Everybody was happy.

  I brushed my hands against my apron and reached under the counter, fumbling to grab hold of the thicker textbook I had stashed under there. David also let me work on school while I was at work. As long as I didn’t have other stuff to do, of course. But being tucked away in a little side alley in the French Quarter, we would’ve had way more customers if we started selling love spells on the side. I’d pitched it to David a million times—not necessarily love spells, but something a little witchy or cool—and been shot down a million times.

  The tome in front of me practically gleamed in the light. Brand new. The start of a new semester. The beginnings of my adult life practically within my grasp. Just a little bit of work here, a little bit of dissertation there, and I’d have a Master’s degree in anthropology and psychology. I knew most assumed, based on my love of flowers, that I studied botany. But, truth be told, I loved people more than I liked flowers. They were much more interesting to look at. A flower’s purpose in life was simple—to pollinate, make more flowers, and maybe grow fruit. With one look at a flower, you could see how it was achieving that purpose—bright colors, pretty smells, big stigmas.

  But people weren’t so simple. First of all, everyone had a different purpose. In the grand scheme of things, everyone’s purpose should have been as simple as a flower’s. That was how nature had intended it, anyway. It was all about making more humans and growing as a species. But humans had taken that and flipped it around. We made our own purpose in life, and therefore we each created our own code that was necessary to
crack in order to read us at a glance.

  I’d gotten pretty good at it. People didn’t naturally assume, in conversation, that the person at the other end of it was trying to figure out where their priorities in life lay. Some kept their cards closer to their chests; others practically broadcast it for everyone to hear.

  Once you figured what was driving the person, the rest was easy. Just by looking at a person’s clothes, hair, expressions, and mannerisms, I could generally tell where they were in their pursuit of their purpose, how they interpreted the world around them, and sometimes even what they would do next. Broadly, mind you. I wasn’t a psychic. But it was easy for me to see how the psychics that operated in shops in the alleys of the French Quarter got business. Maybe some of them did really have the gift, but as far as I could tell it was easy to see on a person’s face whether they were getting ready for a change or not.

  Tip: Unless you’re ready for love, love ain’t gonna find you. That was something the psychics figured out a long time ago. Saying that somebody was going to find the right person soon was easy if you could tell that they were ready for it. If not, naturally it would take longer. And if they thought they were ready but they weren’t (as was the case with most people, in my experience) it was even longer still.

  Ugh. I’d gone into one of my thinking spirals again. I shook my head and blinked a few times, refocusing on my hands in front of me. I’d been busy straightening and adjusting the stems in the vase of my new creation, though I didn’t really know why. I did that sometimes. People thought I was an airhead, but I just got so deep in my own head that I tended to block out the rest of the world.

  And the rest of the world, at this point, had apparently included a customer. I jolted at the noise of boots scuffing floor, my eyes darting up to the doorway. In it stood a large man in jeans and a white t-shirt with a fitted leather jacket overtop, staring at me with a faint smile of amusement. He had stopped in the doorway, presumably not wanting to interrupt my flow. I could only imagine how stupid I must have looked.

  “Hi,” I greeted, dropping my hands to my side. “Can I help you?”

  He strode forward, towering over me on the other side of the glass counter. He was probably about six-foot-three, give or take, with rich dark hair that was long at the top and short at the sides. Some of it had fallen over his forehead, and he brushed it back when he saw me looking. His jaw was wide and covered with a thin layer of dark stubble, and that seemed to make the startling blue of his eyes contrast even more. He was beautiful. But tough looking. So maybe beautiful wasn’t the right word?

  I couldn’t think of anything a little more refined than “sexy as hell.”

  He smiled, and I swore I forgot my own name. I forgot everything. For such a tough looking guy, he had a brilliant smile. It was like staring into the sun without the accompanying blindness. I’d always wanted to stare into the sun. Who hadn’t? It shone so brightly, teasing all who lived beneath it to glimpse up at its globular perfection. When I was little, there’d been a solar eclipse, and my dad had helped me make a viewing shelter so that I could see it without burning my retinas off. I’d never been much for astronomy, but the sun was something I could think about for hours on end.

  And this guy, whoever he was, seemed like someone I could dream about for hours on end.

  God, my father would have hated him. I could nearly see him now, pale faced with horror as the Saxon warrior approached me from across the shop. He would have lost his damn mind, probably calling up the number of the nearest available convent to shoo me into, in the hopes that I would never stare at a man so dark and perfect again.

  “I need a condolences bouquet,” he said.

  Oh, Christ, his voice was like listening to the sun speak. Warm but deep and commanding, yet smooth as rays of light bursting through a cloud.

  I nodded my head, trying to remain grounded. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  He was in front of me now, blocking my view of half of the store. That was impressive.

  “Thank you.” He seemed genuine in his thanks too. “Could you color some roses black? My club would appreciate it.”

  “When do you need them by?” I asked, trying to keep my eyes from wandering to the tattoos I could see peeking out of the neck of his shirt and under the sleeves of his jacket. “It’ll take some time.”

  He nodded understandingly. “That’s fine. It can wait until tomorrow if necessary.”

  So jarred by the thought of not seeing him again until tomorrow—the horror—I frantically shook my head. “I can have them done tonight. In a few hours, really.” I winced internally at how eager I sounded.

  His lips quirked like he was entertained by the comment, which made me realize that I’d spent the whole time taking stock of his appearance and not a single second devoted to looking a little deeper. It was usually the first thing I did. Call me creepy, but I liked to enter all social discourse knowing exactly where on the chessboard everyone was.

  I decided to really look at him now. What I came out with was surprisingly less than I normally did. I could see that the person who had died wasn’t close to him. I deduced from that observation that he was close with someone who had been close to the deceased, or felt compelled to be by social norms. That being said, I’m not sure society's petty rules had any sway over this guy, so there must’ve been some emotional link to have brought him here. I also saw the flash of lust in his eyes, which made my face burn.

  He wanted me. I was flattered and downright hot under the collar. I couldn’t tell, however, whether he wanted me in the way he wanted all pretty women, or if it was unusual for him to be attracted to random shop girls. In fact, I couldn’t tell anything else period. The dude was as solid as a metal cage. His face wasn’t as multifaceted as most peoples’ were. I couldn’t see what conflicts boiled just under the surface. I saw only desire and amusement.

  It was kind of refreshing, really. Some people were too easy to read. Their eyes would flick around the room facial expressions morphing with each new sight. Or worse, their facial expressions would just move around based on their thoughts. I pitied those people. It was hard enough living in this world without people being able to read you like a book. Maybe not everyone was as good at it as me, but some people might as well have lifted a cone to their lips and told people what they were thinking. Screamed it.

  This man was not like that. Nothing moved on his face. His eyes stayed steadily on me. He was as calm as an underground lake. It was frustrating but freeing. I didn’t feel compelled to tailor my reactions based on his. I was free to just be me and see what happened.

  “Tonight will be fine.”

  His voice came out of nowhere. Well, no, it came out of somewhere. But I’d recessed to that deep spot inside my head again and was so startled by the interruption that I nearly jumped. How embarrassing! What was meant to be a two to three-second facial analysis had turned into a seemingly decades-long staring match ended by me widening my eyes with perceptible shock.

  Oddly enough, his amusement only appeared to grow. The lust stayed put, though, which was even stranger.

  “We close at seven,” I squeaked out. Then I pulled myself in, picturing the thousands of wires that moved just beneath the surface of my skin and tightening them in my fist, urging everything back into place. I was calm. “I’ll need a name to put them under. And a phone number.”

  “Zane,” he said. “Zane Pendleton.”

  I grabbed a slip of paper from beside the cash register and marked that down, followed by the number he gave me.

  “What’s your name?” he asked, once I’d finished.

  I’d been expecting this. “Sasha,” I replied, a gentle smile perched on my lips, hiding the absolute freak out I was having on the inside.

  The great thing about being able to read people is that you can mentally plot where the conversation’s going to go and prepare yourself for whatever may lie ahead. Since all I could see was desire on his face, I was still more unprepare
d than I generally cared for. That being said, it made me feel kind of antsy in a good way. Like I was riding Space Mountain at Disneyland, and I didn’t know which twists and turns, or straight drops, were coming for me. Anything could happen, and my heart was beating a mile a minute.

  “Nice name, Sasha.” He pronounced both syllables of my name, and it sounded like sin on his tongue. I found myself leaning in toward him, and hastily straightened my back.

  “Thanks. I’ll tell my mom you said that.” I winked cheekily at him, but I wouldn’t be telling her anything about this. No way, Jose. This interaction was getting locked straight in the safe at the back of my mind.

  My mom was one of the foremost researchers on the concept of micro expressions. Maybe that was where I got my fascination with people’s faces. That being said, maybe I got it from my dad, who used to work for the FBI. His work brought him in contact with some of the sickest killers that ever lived, veritable goldmines of tangled motivations and other emotional and psychological curiosities.

  I’d never stood a damn chance of being normal.

  But this guy didn’t know that. All he knew was that I was flirting with him—and he loved it. A guy like this undoubtedly got flirted with a lot, so I was confused as to whether the novelty of it had just never worn off or whether he just liked me. I’d take it, either way.

  “I guess I’ll see you in a few hours,” I said. “Don’t be late or else I’ll have to come hunt you down.”