Exposed: A British Bad Boy Romance (7 page)

“I’m kind of a huge wimp about pain. That’s why I’ve never done it because I’m terrified of how it’ll hurt.”

“So you want me to go first so you see it’s not so bad, is that it?” I chuckle.

She nods, “You probably think I’m ridiculous.”

“For many reasons, I do, but not for that, luv. Right now, I think you’re a
badarse
,” I husk in her ear.

She rolls her eyes and thins her lips at me, “You don’t have to make fun of me.”

“I’m not!” I say a smidge too loudly, drawing an impatient look from the shop girl, “Straight tequila
and
a tattoo? You’re totally a badass.”

She frowns, “You didn’t say it right that time.”

“Hm?”

She grins, “You said
badarse
the first time.”

“Now, now. I don’t go pointing out the peculiarities of
your
accent.”

“I don’t
have
an accent!”

“Do so.”

The third wheel in the room clears her throat, “Are you guys getting a tattoo or…”

“Right!” I say, steering Susie to the wall, “What shall I get, luv?”

She turns to me with disbelief in her eyes and there’s that pesky urge to kiss her again, clawing its way to the forefront of my mind, “I get to pick?”

“Sure,” I say, wrapping my arms around her from behind, resting my chin on top of her head. It’s so familiar and comfortable that I wonder how I’ve never noticed its absence before. “I’ve picked all the others I have.”

“Um… okay,” she murmurs, her eyes darting back and forth across the wall. I’d be quite alright if she never picked something because then I could just stand like this with her.

You knobhead. Never drink tequila again, it makes you sappy.

Unfortunately, not everyone is as content with our current arrangement and there’s another coughed ‘eh hem’ from behind us.

Susie finally points at something on the wall, “That one.”

“That one?” I ask with a grimace.

“Yeah,” she says, her tone turning defensive, “what’s wrong with it?”

“It’s a bloody yin yang, luv. It’s the most generic tattoo out there. Right there with the butterfly tramp stamp.”

She sways a little in my arms and hiccups, bringing another smile to my lips, “I like it. It’s…” Hiccup. “Symbolic.” Then, she turns to me with malevolent glee in her eyes, “Would you rather a butterfly tramp stamp?”

“A yin yang it is!” I say, turning to the shop girl, who — now that we’re confirmed customers — introduces herself as Skye.

Skye’s not much of a talker, but Susie doesn’t let that stop her from barraging the poor artist with a hundred and one questions:

“How long have you been a tattoo artist?”

“Why did you want to do this?”

“Have you always been artistic?”

“Was it hard to learn?”

“Aren’t tattooers mostly male? How does that affect your career?”

And on and on and on.

To make things easy, I’ve decided to put the bloody thing on the inside of my wrist — probably not what I’d have chosen in times of sobriety, but there we are.

Skye’s placed the ink-transfer paper to my skin and the faint purple outline of the design gives her the guidelines.

The needle buzzes to life and Susie watches me with no small amount of trepidation, like she’s wondering if I’m actually going to go through with it.

The first pinch of the needle entering my skin makes her tense and I see her knuckles are white where her hands are clasped together in her lap.

“You didn’t even flinch,” she says, awed as the outline begins to take shape on my wrist.

I offer a half shrug, careful not to move, “Not my first rodeo, luv.”

She goes quiet for a long time then, only the sound of the buzzing needle and Skye’s angry girl rock playing on her phone to keep us company.

She wipes at the tattoo, smearing ink and blood as she clears the space and I lock eyes with Susie.

Her face has drained of all color.

Well, that’s not entirely true — her face has this pale greenish tint to it and I notice her hairline is damp with a fine sheen of sweat.

“Are you feeling alright, luv?” I ask, feeling my shoulders stiffen and my arms itch to embrace her. Skye holds my arm firmly, but casts a wary look over to Susie who hasn’t answered me.

“Suzette?”

Her eyes are glossy and unfocused and I see the muscles at the back of her throat working, swallowing.

Skye doesn’t bat an eye, she whirls around and grabs a small rubbish bin, setting it in front of Susie only moments before she upchucks.

“Shit,” I mutter, up from my seat before she even completes her first wretch, my hand on her back, stroking gently.

“Uhhhh,” Susie groans and I hand her the bottle of water she’s been nursing.

“Come on, luv, let’s get you home,” I say, not even caring that my new ink is nothing more than a half-filled circle.

Skye starts to say something, then thinks better of it as I help Susie to her feet. I offer Skye a few bills for her trouble and she shrugs, letting us go.

“I don’t feel very good,” Susie mutters, clinging to me for support.

“Shh, I know luv,” I soothe, leading her out onto the street where I hail a taxi.

It’s a bit of a comedy of errors, me trying to carefully pick through her bag and wallet without prying into her personal things to find her address and give it to the cabbie.

Susie’s no help, she just wants to go home and keeps insisting that we take her there, without giving us any more information.

We finally manage to get it sorted and after a brief jaunt to another part of the city, I’m helping her pour out of the cab and into the rickety lift in her building.

“We’re almost there, sweetheart,” I say to her gently. She’s nestled against my chest, half-asleep on her feet, muttering incoherent nonsense.

I’ve got one arm around her slender body with her stupid shoes in my hand while I try to sort through the mass of keys and keychains she’s got in order to unlock the door to her flat.

“Susie, darling, which key is it?”

“The key! Life is the key to happiness!” She frowns, “No, that’s not right…”

No help there. I need to get her into bed pronto.

Generally, that phrase would have so many illicit connotations in my mind, but I’m surprised to find that I only care about her well-being at the moment.

If
that
isn’t worrisome, then I don’t know what is.

Susie slumps against the door and knocks — a fruitless endeavor, I think, until the peephole darkens — and the door swings open to reveal a sleepy dark-skinned girl in tight little boyshorts and a high school t-shirt.

“Suze, what are you—” she rubs the sleep from her eyes and they quadruple in size, “You’re… you’re— I mean—”

“Yes, yes,” I say, pushing past her, “I’m sure you’re as astonished to find me here as I am to be here. I presume you’re Suzette’s flatmate?”

“I— Uh, I mean, yeah. Is she…?”

“Utterly pissed? Yes, could you be so kind as to lead me to her bedroom?” I say, having now scooped the nearly-unconscious Susie into my arms, carrying her as she clings to my neck.

“Right through there,” the girl points and I nod my head and carry Susie through to her room, nudging the door closed behind me with my heel.

With a sweeping gesture I pull back the predictably feminine duvet and lay her gently on the mattress.

In different circumstances, I’d do anything to have Susie laid out before me, but for once, there’s nothing sexual about this moment.

I’m pulling the blankets up around her when there’s a timid knock from behind and Susie’s door opens.

“Hey, I just feel like I should make sure you’re not in here like…”

“Defiling her?” I offer, with a smirk.

Her eyes stick to the floor, “Well… You know…”

Susie stirs and her eyes open, ensnaring me in an instant, “Jasper?” she says, blinking, “Why are you in my bedroom?”

I come up with a hundred different taunts, but now isn’t the time to deploy them, “I just wanted to make sure you made it home alright, luv.”

The other girl has since managed to venture to the kitchen and returns now with a glass of water and a couple of headache tablets.

“Here, Suze, you’re gonna want these.”

Susie beams, “You’re the best, Al.”

“Alright, we’re going to leave you to get some rest, alright?” I say, patting her on the arm when I desperately want to kiss her goodnight.

Fucking tequila
.

“Jasper?” She calls, reaching out for me.

“Hm?” My heart leaps, wondering if she, too, wants that kiss goodnight.

Damn it all.

She waves her arm in a haphazard flailing motion, “Told you there’s no lace,” she says, sounding victorious.

I take a look around, “And only
two
teddy bears. Dear me, Suzette, you
are
a
badarse
.”

She grins and curls up with a pillow, her eyes drifting closed, “And don’t you forget it.”

Not a chance.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Susie

T
he first time I try to open my eyes, I quickly shut them again, wincing at the harsh daylight streaming through my blinds.

The second time I open my eyes, I nearly jump out of my skin when I realize I’m not alone.

“Jesus christ, Al, you scared the shit out of me,” I mumble, throwing an arm over my eyes.

Why the hell is she just sitting on the end of my bed like a creeper?

I’m trying to remember the previous day and why my head feels like there’s a piano crushing it.

Alisha hands me a steaming mug of coffee and gives me her patented ‘you know exactly what you did’ look.

The only problem is… I don’t.

“Thanks,” I say, taking the coffee and just inhaling the strong aroma.

After half a mug, my brain seems to be slowly waking up, coming to life, and memories of the previous night trickle in.

“Oh god,” I groan, dropping my head into my hand.

Alisha just laughs, “I can’t believe you. Showing up at one in the morning, totally
hammered
with a fucking celebrity carrying you to bed. Why was I not invited on this wild night out?”

I shake my head and instantly regret it for the sloshing thundering pain that accompanies the motion.

“It wasn’t supposed to be… It just got out of hand.” My eyes flick to the door and my chest tightens, “Is he… I mean, did we…” I can’t even get the fucking words out for the embarrassment burning my face.

Alisha pats my knee, “Nah, he tucked you in and went home. I offered to let him stay. Told him there was plenty of room in my bed,” she laughs.

“Oh god, please tell me you’re joking.”

She shrugs with this little sly smile as she takes a pull from her coffee.

“Al!” I screech, tossing a pillow at her head. She ducks and it lands on the floor harmlessly.

“What, are you calling dibs?” she asks, an eyebrow arched in expectation.

“I… No. I mean… That’s not professional and…”

“And having him carry you home was?”

I know she’s right and I know I have nothing to retort so I end up pursing my lips together in what I’m sure looks a lot like pouting.

Alisha nudges my knee, “Hey, I’m just fucking with you, Suze. No way would I make a move on him. He seems pretty smitten with you anyway.”

And just like that, there’s lava burning in my face again, a warm trickle of excitement pouring towards my core and that tiny hopeful voice that insists on saying ‘what if?’

“You’re wrong,” I say, my voice sounding a little hollow and empty even to myself, “Jasper’s just… like that.”

“Mhm,” Alisha says, but before I can muster up more unconvincing arguments, her phone buzzes.

“Oh! It’s time!” She claps her hands together and crawls over me to grab my TV remote, turning it on and sliding under the covers next to me like we’ve done since middle school.

“Time for what?”

I don’t have to wait for an answer, though because she flips the channel and then there he is.

Ladies and gentleman, Jasper Wild!!
The audience on screen goes nuts, jumping to their feet and he’s walking out on the set, smiling and waving.

Jasper
.

“What’s he—”

“Shh!” Alisha hisses, turning up the volume on the TV.

Jasper’s on “Wake up, America!” looking for all the world to be thoroughly rested and not at all hungover like me.

In fact, he looks
great —
he’s wearing a crisply ironed chef coat, black chef pants and that easy smile that makes something deep inside me melt. Every. Single. Time.

“I don’t think the camera does him justice,” Al says, sipping her coffee.

She’s right. TV can’t quite capture the pure masculine confidence that
pours
off of Jasper. He looks charming and confident, sexy as hell and comfortable in front of the audience.

But something’s missing.

The fire in his eyes when he stares at me, maybe. Or the way a quirk of his lips can make my knees quiver and my insides turn to jelly?

The camera loses that effect. Thankfully, or I’d be even more of a mess than I already am.

“So, Chef Wild, you’ve been taking the culinary world by storm the past few years, is there anything you attribute to your success?”

“You mean other than my devilish good looks and sexy accent?” he jibes.

The audience laughs. The hostess laughs and bats her eyes at him in such an obvious move that I want to lunge through the screen and claw her eyes out.

That’s gotta be the hangover talking
.

“I think I’ve been very fortunate to be able to put out things that are true to me and everyone has been exceptionally receptive to that,” he says with a touch of humility.

I’ve never seen that side of Jasper. He’s always been swaggering, cocky and infuriating around me.

“So I understand you have a new restaurant opening up in a few months and you want to share something from your menu with us?”

Jasper smiles, “Yes. And this one is for the lads out there. Pay close attention and make this for your woman and she won’t be able to tear herself away from you.”

The camera pans to the audience full of women who are now all tittering excitedly in their seats, mooning over Jasper like he’s the second fucking coming of Jesus.

“Alright, when we come back, a dessert that will lead straight to the bedroom with Chef Wild!”

The audience roars again and the show cuts to commercial.

I don’t know why seeing him on television has me so angry. He never told me he had this planned — though it was probably on the schedule Elliot gave me.

What’s worse is that he goes on TV and answers all of
their
questions with smiles and charm. Where’s that cooperation with me?

I look all over my nightstand for my cellphone before spotting my purse sitting inelegantly on top of the dresser, contents half spilled across the usually-tidy surface.

Alisha watches me as I get out of bed — still wearing my clothes from the night before, I finally realize — and fish my phone off the dresser to fire off an angry text.

You didn’t tell me you were going to be on WUA.

“I’m going to take a shower,” I say, plugging my phone in before I start to strip.

“You’re going to miss his cooking segment!” Alisha protests.

I shrug, losing the button-down blouse as I do, “I think I’ll live, Al.”

And before she can make another disappointed face or whine another objection, I slip into my bathroom and turn the shower all the way to hot.

I’m hoping to burn away the memory of his fingers trailing up my thighs, his lips pressed against mine and just the barest touch against where I crave it most.

Instead of having the desired effect, remembering all of those things brings my own fingers trailing over my body, teasing my flesh, pinching my nipples as hot water steams the room around me.

I imagine it’s Jasper’s fingers moving inside me as I rock my hips against my hand, breaths coming in short quick gasps. He’s whispering into my ear, his breath warm, his words
hot
. I roll a nipple between my fingers and find my clit with my thumb before I shudder with a quiet — and wholly unsatisfying — release.

No matter how much I imagine it, my fingers will never be Jasper’s and his are the ones I want.

So much for professional.

When I get out of the shower and walk back into my bedroom, Jasper is still on the television and my phone is lit up with a text message.

Keep watching
.

I’m not sure what to make of the text and then I hear the cheery hostess say “So Chef, you’ve got to tell me — you seem to have a certain way with the ladies, is there anyone special in your life right now?”

Jasper drizzles this gorgeous thick caramel over the cake he’s made and I think about licking it off of him; my mouth waters.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say any
one,
Julie.”

“So the rumors of your vast conquests are true?” Julie presses, her eyes alight with a hunger I recognize all too well — she’s not looking at the cake, afterall.

Jasper shrugs, “At home I’ve got a drawer full of knickers; women will just come up to me and hand them over. It’s inexplicable, really.” He looks up at the camera and
winks
.

Right at me.

Maybe that seems crazy, but I just
know
he’s talking about me. About last night.

I try to look at Alisha out of the corner of my eye. I hope to god that she didn’t pick up on that.

She turns to me with a suspicious frown, but when I don’t offer any explanation she rolls her eyes and gets out of my bed.

Before she walks through the door she turns back and gives me a withering look, a hand on her hip, “I’d never keep something super juicy from you, you know.” She’s not even trying to hide the disappointment on her face.

“Al, I’m not. There’s nothing to—”

She holds up a hand, “Save it. Maybe we’re just past all that ‘braiding each other’s hair and sharing secrets’ bullshit. Gotta grow up sometime, right?” She shrugs and leaves before I can say anything.

Not that I have anything to say.

What
can
I say?

There’s nothing between Jasper and I other than the same flirtation he engages every other female on the planet with.

Right?

Right.

He’s still just trying to get a rise out of me.

Before I know it, I’ve whipped out my phone again, typing another response with harder presses on the screen than are really necessary.

You asshole. Now Alisha is pissed at me. She thinks I’m keeping something between us secret.

His response comes back in moments,
Aren’t you?

There’s nothing to keep secret!
I fire off, wondering why my fingers are trembling so much.

I think I need food. All that tequila on an empty stomach and now coffee, too. I’m just jittery and peckish. That’s all.

So you’ve told her how I nearly made you cum in one of the city’s hottest restaurants?

Fuck. That text is enough to send a warm flush through me. I read it again and again, imagining the words in Jasper’s husky tones.

Almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. Like I said: nothing to tell.

I’m feeling a little proud of my response. Even if he’s all I seem to be able to think about, I don’t want
him
to know that he’s gotten under my skin.

Then he answers and I’m instantly deflated.

I’ll be sure to remedy that next time.

I type out my response without even thinking,
Next time?

;)
 

What the hell is
that
supposed to mean?

There is no ‘next time’.

My phone lights up with an incoming call and I nearly drop it, fumbling it in surprise as Jasper’s grinning face appears.

I don’t remember putting that picture in there. He looks drunk — did he take a selfie for my phone? I can’t remember.

After staring at the phone in shock for a solid twenty seconds, I manage to actually answer it.

“Hello,” I say with as little enthusiasm as I can muster.

“Good morning, luv. Feeling alright this morning? Did you enjoy my telly appearance?”

“What do you
want
, Jasper? I’m hungover and not in the mood at all.”

He clicks his tongue in a disappointed way, “You always seem to be in the mood around me, Susie.”

God help me, I wish it didn’t, but my pulse quickens with those words. My breathing goes shallow and I have to resist the urge to close my eyes and picture him there.

Fuck you, Jasper Wild,
I think.

“Okay, I’m hanging up now,” I say.

“Wait wait wait, don’t be so hasty, luv.”

“What do you
want
Jasper?”

He sighs, “Dinner tonight, I’ll answer one of your questions.”

“I’m not playing this game, Jasper…”

“That’s not how a negotiation works at all, Susie. I say, ‘dinner, one question’, you counter with ‘coffee, three questions’ and then I’ll say ‘lunch, one yes or no question and one open ended question, final offer’.”

I realize I’m grinding my teeth when a sharp pain shoots through my jaw. This man is going to be the end of me.

“And why in the world would I go through all of that just for a couple of questions?”

I swear I can
hear
the smile in his voice when he says, “What would you like to hear, luv? The wholesome answer? Because you need me to advance your career and write for the big newspaper like you’ve always dreamed.”