Badd Apple (The Badd Brothers #20)

Badd Apple (The Badd Brothers #20)

By Jasinda Wilder

1. Delia

CHAPTER 1

delia

I ignored Preston's hopeful gaze on my ass as I tugged, shimmied, and stuffed myself back into my stretchy gray T-shirt material romper.

"You're sure you have to go?" he said, flopping across the bed to run a finger over the curve of my ass cheek. "I can rustle up something to eat and we can watch something and then go again."

I batted his hand away and then ran my fingers under the elastic around my thighs and under my booty cheeks. "Yes, Preston, I have to go. I have work to do."

He shifted so he was sitting on the edge of the bed behind me, running his hands up my torso toward my boobs. "Awww, c'mon, Dee-Dee. I didn't see you all break."

I batted his hands away—the first time, I did so gently and almost playfully, darting out of his reach; when he followed me and tried to cop a feel anyway, I gave him a sharp wrist block followed by a palm-strike shove.

He stumbled backward, rubbing his chest. "What the hell was that, Dee-Dee?"

I whirled on him, letting him see the full force of my fury. "That was a warning, Preston. I've trained in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, MMA, and kickboxing with my Uncle Bax since I was a toddler. Don't fuck with me."

He shook his head. "Dee-Dee, c'mon. I was just playing."

"No, you weren’t,” I snapped. “I told you no. You grabbed me again anyway, and I knocked your hand away. I'd have thought that was a pretty clear signal that we're done. Yet, even after I moved out of your reach, you tried to grope me again."

He gave me a perplexed frown that somehow managed to come across as whiny. "You're my girlfriend, Dee-Dee. It's not groping. Jesus."

And cue the ick.

I stepped into his space, letting my temper seethe out of me just a little bit—I keep that monster on a tight leash, but it seems my about-to-be-ex-boyfriend needs to see a hint of the beast that lies within.

“ Any unwanted touching is groping, Preston. I made it clear I didn't want you to touch me. Boyfriend, fiance, husband, stranger— any unwanted touching is considered sexual assault. The next time you push my boundaries like that, you'll wind up in the ER with a broken bone." I glared up at him, starting to wonder what I'd ever seen in him. "That's number one."

"Dee-Dee, I'm—"

I cut in over him. "Save it, Preston. Your apology doesn't mean dick in a bag. Number two, I've told you roughly a hundred times, I hate it when you call me Dee-Dee. I hate it. I mother fucking hate it. Like, stab-you-in-the-eyeball-with-a-rusty-fork hate it. We clear on that?"

"Yeah, got it, but—"

"Save the buts for your boyfriend," I snapped, earning a hurt wince from him. "I'm not interested in anything you have to say at this point."

"What the hell is going on, Delia?" he asked. "Where is this coming from? I come back from spring break in Hawaii with my family, you show up unannounced at seven in the goddamn morning, fuck my brains out, and then the second you come, you roll out of bed and start dressing. And then you don't let me touch you, and now you’re acting like you hate me. Sorry, but I’m not following."

I inhaled deeply, held it—rolling my eyes when his gaze cut down to my breasts as they swelled with the breath—and then turned away and let it out, summoning patience. "Okay, buddy, I'll break it down for you."

"Buddy?" he said, more confused than ever.

"Yeah— buddy . Here's what's going on since you’re clearly too dense to follow, and don’t worry, I'll use very small words."

He shook his head. "Now you're just being mean."

“You disrespected my boundaries and then tried to play it off. When a woman stops you from touching her, that's it. You keep your slimy mitts to yourself, fucktard."

"Jesus, Delia, I'm sorry, I—"

"I said, save the fucking apology. I was planning on breaking up with you anyway, to start off with. And then you went to Hawaii for the entire month of March without telling me at any point that that’s what was happening.” He opened his mouth, and I held up a hand to forestall him. “Still talking, shut the fuck up. As I said, I was planning on breaking up with you anyway, but you ghosted me before I could. The reason I was going to break up with you was because you started acting weird. If you weren’t frantically and surreptitiously texting someone, you were hiding your phone—taking it into the bathroom with you to take a shower, changing your passcode, and disappearing to make mysterious phone calls. You were gone a lot with vague and thinner-than-tissue paper explanations—not just once or twice, but regularly. And when you were gone on these mysterious outings, you didn’t text, didn’t call, and didn’t answer my calls or texts.” I shrug and hold out my hands at my sides, palms up. “To me—shit, to anyone —that says you’re cheating. Or being dishonest in some way. And honestly, I don’t care. I don’t want to know if and who you were fucking on the side or if you were just…I don’t know, gambling or…or whatever. I don't know, and I don't care. You act sus, you're done. My last boyfriend did the exact same thing, and he was cheating on me, and I swore I’d never let that shit slide again. Therefore, you’re fucking done.”

"Delia, I swear to god I wasn't cheating."

I shook my head. "I don't care. And that's the problem, Preston. I don't. I genuinely don't care . I'm apathetic to whether you were screwing someone else.”

I let out a breath and push the temper-beast back into its cage, forcing myself to soften a little bit. I squeezed my eyes shut, wincing as I realized how harsh I'd just been.

I sighed again and looked at him—Preston isn’t a bad guy. He's really not. He's decently attractive, in a boy-next-door sort of way, with wavy sandy-blond hair and puppy dog brown eyes, and the tight, hard, lean body of a twenty-one-year-old lacrosse star.

"Look, Preston.” I took his hands and gave him full eye contact. "We were never going to be anything but a few months of fun and companionship. I thought you understood that. I’m not in love with you. I never was and never will be. And I don't think you're in love with me either."

He blinked, sighing and thinking. “No, I’m not. But I do really like you. I’m sorry I ghosted you over break. It’s just that my parents have rules and expectations for us when we’re all together like that. I had to leave my phone in the room. And then I just…" he did a weird head-roll-shake thing of frustration. "Got caught up and…I didn't forget about you, I just…"

"I get it," I said. "I didn't call or text either. At first, I was waiting for you, but then things got busy. So it's not entirely on you." I took my hands back and rubbed my face. "I was a bitch just now. I'm sorry. I've enjoyed our time together, and I guess my instinct was to make it easier on me to break up with you by being a raging bitch-hole. That wasn't fair to you, and I am sorry."

He nodded. "I get it… It's cool. So…this is it?"

“Yeah, this is it." I shrugged. "Sorry?"

He laughed. "Don't be sorry. I just…okay, two things. One, I wasn’t cheating. I want you to know that. My friend, who is a girl, was going through something and was leaning on me to get through it. We’re just friends, and we’ve never hooked up, and we never will. But I felt weird and guilty about it, and instead of talking to you about it, I made it weird. I can show you the texts if you don't believe me."

"Thanks—I do appreciate the truth. And for the sake of your future girlfriends, next time, just be honest. I would have understood. I'm not jealous. I mean, I am —but only if I need to be. If you have a friend who's going through something and you tell me you’re just talking to her and helping her, I’d have been cool with it. Lying and being sus never gets anyone anywhere good."

He winced, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I know, and I'm sorry. Lesson learned, not that it makes a difference here, with us."

"And number two?" I asked.

"If you were going to break up with me, why sleep with me first?" He asked.

I grinned—a cheesy, apologetic, all-teeth, simpering grin. "I didn't get laid all of March. I figured once more for old time’s sake can’t hurt." I sighed, passing my hand through my long auburn hair. "And, honestly, I guess I was seeing if there was anything there to hold on to."

"I can respect both reasons," he said. "And I assume, obviously, there isn't?"

I shrugged. "No, not really. I mean, it's nothing personal. You’re good in bed, Preston. Truly. We had fun. And you’re a good dude. You’re sweet and cute. I dunno…I guess whatever it was we had has run its course."

He nodded. "I can't say I'm surprised." A little laugh burst from him. "I guess I always expected it. You're out of my league, Delia. Shit, you're out of everyone's league. Everyone in Ketchikan, at least. I always did my best to keep up with you, but fuck, man, you're a lot , and I say that with every ounce of respect I have."

I couldn't help but laugh. "Yeah, you know, you're not wrong. I mean, I don't know about being out of your league, but I know I'm a lot. I guess that's where some of my frustration comes from. I feel like I always have to hold back or…or something. I dunno."

"Someday, some guy is gonna come along and he’s gonna know exactly how to handle everything that you are.” He took my hands. “But until then, just promise me you won’t put yourself in a box for anyone. Okay? Don’t hold back. Hold out for the guy who can handle you.” He leaned in and kissed my cheek. “And I’m sorry about disrespecting your boundary earlier."

I shook my head. "Nah, it's okay. I mean, you did, but I sort of went from zero to a hundred on you, so it's not entirely your fault. It's not unrealistic to think you're allowed to touch me five minutes after we boned."

He nodded, letting go and stepping back. "So. Now what? What's next for the great Delia Badd?"

I shrugged. "Fuck if I know. For right now, finish getting dressed and go to work. You?"

He rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, actually, I got an offer from Johns Hopkins to come there and play lacrosse. The scholarship beats the shit out of what I've got going on here, plus that ties in nicely with my plans of going to med school, so…I'm transferring there."

"Hey, that's awesome, Preston, congratulations. You've worked your ass off for that. Good for you." I crossed over to him and hugged him. "I am happy for you. You deserve it."

He smiled at me. "Thanks, Dee. Sorry—Delia. I will miss you."

I winked at him. "Nah, you'll just miss my lack of a gag reflex."

He blushed, the li'l cutie. "Well, yeah. That and the thing you do when you're on top—"

I held up both hands. "Aaaand enough. I'll miss you too." I glanced at his alarm clock. "Shit, I really have to go. I'm gonna finish getting ready in your bathroom, okay?"

He nodded. "Sure. I'll put some coffee on and you can take it with you."

“You're sweet, thanks."

I took my clothes into his bathroom and dressed, ran my fingers through my hair, and put on a touch of makeup. Examined myself in the mirror.

I'm five-eight and run to extra curvy, thanks to a double helping of parental genes. Dad's side of the family, while all male, tends to be beefy, which I assume plays a hand in my build. Mom is curvy as hell, and always has been, and I take after her—to the point that when we’re out together, people question if we’re mother-daughter or sisters. Mostly, I’m happy with myself. Sometimes, usually in the spring when I first start trying on bikinis, I get down on myself for the inevitable winter surplus, but I just wheedle Uncle Bax into whipping my ass, literally, back into shape. I have Mom’s hair—dark red, auburn, whatever you want to call it. Depends on the lighting, really. Indoors, it’s more brownish-red, but outside in full sun, it’s more reddish-brown. I have bright blue eyes and a few freckles across the bridge of my nose and cheekbones.

I should go home and change, but I only wore this outfit for a couple of hours yesterday and then this morning, so I see no point in changing it. Plus, I look cute AF. Dark blue jeans so tight they fit like leggings and do quasi-miraculous things for my admittedly rather large ass, with my gray romper under a blue-and-black plaid flannel. The romper isn't exactly a bra, so the girls are all but hanging out, with the flannel buttoned up just enough to keep them from playing swing low sweet chariots in the Alaskan sunshine.

I hate bras. I'll wear a sports bra to work out, and if an outfit absolutely demands one, I'll wear it, but only for as long as I have to. Otherwise, fuck those titty-prisons. A lot of people, Mom especially, like to tell me my boobs are way too big to be running around without one, but I don't give a shit. So they sag when I’m older—if I'm ever lucky enough to find the kind of love Mom and Dad have, my man will love me even if my tits hang to my knees later in life…and he'll appreciate the view in the meantime. As for what people around me think? Who gives a fuck? Not me. Yeah, I have big, thick, prominent nipples that like to play headlights no matter what I'm wearing or not wearing. Don't like seeing my nipples? Don't look. Not my problem.

One last glance in the mirror—hair looks decent, makeup is decent, boobs are even. Good enough.

I exited Preston's bathroom and shouldered my purse, a Louis Vuitton Neverfull that was a gift from Auntie Eva. It's vintage, in mint condition, worth a small fortune, and my prized possession. Plus, it fits a change of clothes, a full makeup set, my wallet, charger, a water bottle, phone, keys, and all the other shit a woman has floating around in the bottom of a big purse.

Preston, true to his word, had a U-of-A Southeast to-go tumbler full of freshly brewed coffee ready for me, just the way I like it—black with two packets of Splenda. "Here you go."

I accepted it and lifted on my toes to hug him. "Thanks. I can run this by after work." I lifted the tumbler.

He waved me off. "Don’t worry about it. I have like four of them. They give them out for free all over campus every year during orientation."

An awkward silence ensued. I flapped my free hand out. "So…bye?"

He hugged me again. "Bye, Delia."

"When do you transfer?" I asked.

"Working on it now. I start at Johns Hopkins next week."

"Oh, well…I guess I probably won't see you again anytime soon, huh?" I bit my lower lip. "So this is goodbye for real."

"Nah, probably not." He opened his apartment door and ushered me out. "It's been real, Delia Badd."

I gave him a saucy two-finger salute and tromped down the stairs to the exit, my calf-height leather boots noisy on the uncarpeted stairs. My car was at the Kitty—I parked it there this morning and walked to Preston's place. I made the short walk back to work. It was only just now nine—I called Preston at seven, was at his place by seven-thirty, and we were naked by seven-thirty-five.

The one thing I can say about Preston’s bedroom abilities is that he’s not quick. Our last romp in the sack was a good long one, resulting in a pretty decent little O for me. Which isn’t easy to accomplish—I don’t come easily, and sometimes not at all. I’m used to that and don’t expect to come every time I have sex. I still enjoy the fun, but it’s always a nice bonus if I do get an O out of the process. Preston, to his credit, always understood that. He didn’t take it personally if I couldn’t get there, but always did his best to make sure I did, and if I didn't, he made sure I felt damn good along the way. He understood that I like to play—not just a quick wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am penetration session. I liked to think I taught him a few things, honestly.

I let myself in through the rear door into the kitchen, lock it behind me, and set about opening. We don’t open till eleven, but I like to have the front of the house ready to go first, and then get the back of the house prepped for the opening crew, and then I start on the office work.

I lost myself in the familiar process of opening, but my mind was still whirling in the background.

I felt bad for how cunty I was to Preston. I mean, I did wake him up for a booty call, and I did give him an O he wouldn’t forget any time soon, so I don't feel that bad, but I did go full bitch on him for no reason. I mean, not no reason, but it was an over-the-top reaction that he didn’t deserve. It's just easier to break up with someone when you're pissed off.

What I'm stuck on, though, was his statement that I'm a lot, that he felt like I was out of his league. What? I hate that shit. There are no leagues. Dating is not a sport. And he's a good dude. Good looking. Funny. Athletic. Popular. Decent in every way. I knew going in I was never going to be in love with him, which meant the whole thing always had an expiration date, and we both knew it. But I don’t like the idea that he felt like I was out of his league. I don't know what to do with that.

Once the FOH and BOH were both good to go, I went into the office and called Emerson, my best friend and adoptive sister. It rang and went to voicemail. I left a two-word voicemail: "Call me."

I went through last night's receipts, counted the cash, got the deposit ready, and balanced the drawers. I was just getting started on the paper stock inventory when Emerson called me back.

"Hey, bitch," I said, putting it on speaker and setting it on the rack as I kept counting. "How's soccer camp?"

She was out of breath. "Kicking my ass, but good. I only have like ten minutes, though, so what's up?"

"I broke up with Preston."

Silence greeted this. "I thought you already did?" she said, finally.

"No, he was in Hawaii with his family, I guess. I booty-called him this morning, and we ended up breaking up afterward."

She snorted. "Only you, Delia. So…you're just calling me to tell me, or there's something else?"

I sighed. "He told me he always thought I was out of his league, and that's bugging me."

“You are,” she said, pausing to guzzle water noisily, causing me to frown at the phone in disgust—I have a pretty gnarly case of misophonia.

"He said I was out of everyone in Ketchikan's league."

"You are. Why do you think no boyfriend lasts for more than a few months?" She laughed. "Delia, honey-buns, you're a handful and a half. You're sexy as hell, you have the sex drive of a teenage boy, you're an actual, factual boss of a whole bar, you can kick ass in three martial arts disciplines, and you're funny as fuck."

"But…"I sighed, annoyed. "I'm not trying to be in any league or out of a league. And who determines the league? Preston is a good guy. I just…” I moved the phone to the next rack and flipped the page of my inventory. “I dunno. It was an offhand comment on his part, but I’m stuck on it. He said I’m a lot. And that someday, some guy is going to come along who knows how to handle me."

Em snorted. "Ohhhh, honey. You are a lot. And yeah, Preston is a good dude. But he's…he's a puppy dog and you’re a she-wolf. He can run around after you and all, but at the end of the day, you’re not gonna end up with a cute little golden lab; you're gonna end up with a big alpha wolf."

"You're just calling me a bitch, aren't you?" I teased.

"Oh, absolutely. But you're my bitch." She yelled something muffled and then addressed me again. "I gotta go. But babe, Preston was right. And I know you're not asking, but if you were to ask me, my advice would be to spend a bit of time not dating or anything. If you have to get your rocks off, I dunno…maybe Preston will let you booty call him again. But just wait for the right guy to come along. I truly believe that the Badd Family Love Charm has its sights on you next."

I faked a gag. "Don't make me nauseous."

"Oh, shut up with that. You're a romantic, deep down. You're just prickly and defensive about it because the idea of falling in love scares those giant tits right off of you."

"You're mean," I groused.

"But not wro-o-o-o-ng!" She sing-songed. "Okay, gotta go kick ass. Love you bye!" She was gone before I could get another word in.

“Yeah, bye to you too, bitch," I mumbled under my breath. "Bad Family Love Charm my big fat ass. It's not real and it's not coming for me."

I wasn't sure who I was trying to convince: myself, or the Badd Family Love Charm that I pretended not to but totally did believe in, and was absolutely scared shitless of.

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