Badd Baby (The Badd Brothers #21)

1. Duncan

Chapter One

Duncan

O h, shit.

My mouth has gotten me into in more trouble than I'd like to admit.

I've gotten in fistfights, been slapped on numerous occasions, thrown out of bars and clubs, arrested…

all because I'm pathologically incapable of installing a filter between my idiot monkey brain and the runaway train that is my mouth.

I'm about to get slapped, I think.

The girl's eyes blazed blue fire, wrath and ire erupting with volcanic heat. Warning bells rang in my head— danger! danger!

"Never mind," she snarled. "You were hot…until you opened your mouth."

I blatantly checked her out while I racked my brain for a way out of this.

And she was, in a word, a smokeshow. Five-seven or -eight, with glossy, thick, jet-black hair left loose in a wild storm cloud around her slender shoulders.

Blue eyes, although to call them merely blue is a deep injustice.

They're not just blue . They were twin sapphires, a deep, dark, vivid shade that captured my attention and refused to let go.

I only caught a glimpse of her body before she sat down at the bar, and that was a quick glance through the crowd. I'm not a betting man, but I'd bet she's got goddess curves for fucking days.

Right now, she had her arms crossed over her chest, her eyes sparking and spitting. "Nothing to say, huh?

"What's a week from tomorrow, and what's it got to do with me?" I said, after another few seconds of searching for a witty repartee and coming up empty.

"Nothing," she muttered, taking a sip of her drink—Seven-Up and white wine.

“It sounded like you need a date." I turned and snatched the ticket out of the printer, scooped ice into highballs, and started pouring well vodka for the six vodka Red Bulls for Tina's table of popped-collar golf bro douches at table sixteen.

"I don’t,” she snapped. “It was a moment of verbal diarrhea—it’s a condition and I'm off my meds."

I cackled at this, shooting her an amused smirk. "Hey, guess what? I have that same condition."

She gave me a droll glare that said I might be getting somewhere with her. Not necessarily anywhere good , but somewhere. "Well, you need to up your dosage, then."

I waved a hand, blowing a raspberry. "Tina! Order up for sixteen!" To her, then. "I'm self-medicated."

"It's not working." She was killing that drink like it was the only thing saving her life.

I mixed another for her and switched it with her empty the second she set it down. "On the house."

"Is that your way of apologizing?" She sipped this one more slowly.

"Nope. I'm hoping if I keep you drinking, you'll tell me where we're going a week from tomorrow." Another ticket spat out and I scanned it, sighing— more goddamned Pina Coladas. Fucking frozen drink bullshit.

I couldn’t spare any attention for the blue-eyed goddess with the sharp tongue as I set about making all the stupid Pina Coladas.

All fucking eight of them. And I only have one blender, which only makes three—four if I stretch it, but if I stretch it, they complain there's not enough alcohol in them.

I was on my second batch when Elin tapped on the service bar with her book. "Dunc! My table is asking about their tequila shots."

I hold up the blender. "Sorry, Elin, one sec. I'm just making eight fucking Pina Coladas, Arizona ."

Arizona, who put in the order, looked like she was about to cry—she's new, the Kitty was hopping, and she has the worst section, the poor thing. "I'm sorry , Duncan! What was I supposed to do? Tell them 'Sorry, you can't have those because my bartender doesn't like making them?'"

I hustled through the last batch and helped Arizona tray them. Her eyes were watery and red; I reached through the service bar to grab her wrist. "Hey, Ari, I was just fucking with you. You're cool. Just breathe, okay? You're doing great."

She nodded, sniffling. "Thanks, Dunc, I just…ugh. I'm about to have my period, and my hormones are whacked the fuck out."

I blinked at the overshare. "Um…yeah. No worries. And hey, remember, don’t let customers take drinks from your tray again. They'll upset the balance and make you drop everything."

“The guy at fifteen just now took it before I could stop him.” She winced. "I found that out the hard way at my last job."

I grinned. "I feel like there's a story in there."

She sighed a laugh. "Oh, there is. It involves a very wet US senator and a tray full of Irish coffees."

My eyes widened. "Oh. Oh fuck."

She widened her eyes back. "Yeah. However bad you’re imagining it, it was way worse.” She bent at the knees and lifted the tray. “I gotta drop these to my bachelorette table."

"Oh god, a bachelorette party?" I winced in sympathy. "Go with god, my friend." I faked a pious expression and crossed myself, kissed my fingers, and did a stupid waving gesture that was meant to evoke the pope but was more like Miss America.

This got me a snicker from Smokeshow. "So fuck Pina Coladas, huh? And bachelorette parties."

I took an order from a walk-up and pulled his beer while I answered her. "I've told Dad and Delia a million times the frozen drinks need to get cut. They just take too much time. So yeah, fuck Pina Coladas and every other frozen slushie bullshit drink."

"Dad and Delia?"

I tapped the logo over my left pec. "Badd?"

She shrugged. "I'm not from around here."

I'm tempted to point out that we have over a million followers on IG and another million on TikTok, but I don't. "It's a family business.

My grandfather established the first and original Badd's bar over forty years ago.

My dad took over when my grandfather died, and now my older sister is about to take the reins. "

"So the name Badd Kitty…?" she prompted.

"Was named, in a fit of rash but inspired creativity, by my Uncle Rome, for the woman who later became my aunt. Who is named…wait for it…Kitty."

"So, your uncle, who I assume possesses the last name Badd, named this bar after a girl? And then married her? Not, like, the other way around?”

"Yup."

"So her name is Kitty Badd."

"Yup."

"And this place is Badd Kitty."

"Yup."

"Weird."

"Well, Uncle Rome is…"I laughed. "He's just Uncle Rome. It’s the kind of thing he'd do. His identical triplet brothers weren't happy about it, I'm told. He didn't consult them, he just had the sign made and put it up without so much as a how-do-you-do to them.”

"So you're following in your family's footsteps as a bartender."

I nodded. "Yep. Well, I feel compelled to point out that I'm not just the bartender. I’m the GM."

She coughed in shock, spluttering. "Wait, what? You're the general manager ? Of a whole bar? By yourself? You can't be any older than I am."

I snorted. "Not taking the bait on that one, Smokeshow. I'm twenty-three."

"Smokeshow?" she asked, with a cute-sexy frown.

How can a frown be cute and sexy at the same time? Sorcery, I tell you.

"You haven’t told me your name," I said.

"You first."

I extended my hand to hers. "Duncan Badd, at your service."

She took my hand, but instead of shaking it like a normal human being, some idiotic instinct made me bow over her hand and kiss the back of it as if I was in a fucking Shakespeare play or some shit.

For several long, awkward moments, the gorgeous girl just stared at me and then at her hand in mine, as if trying to figure out how she felt about what I just did.

TBH, same.

She twisted our joined hands to a normal handshake orientation. "A regular old handshake would have sufficed, Lord Bridgerton."

I grinned at her. "Which brother am I?"

Her frown was surprised. "You've seen it?"

"I have a mother, a sister, and a shitload of female cousins. My family hosted watch parties. As in, Mom and Delia made actual tea and crumpets and little weird sandwiches with cucumbers and shit. I still don’t even know what the fuck a crumpet is, honestly. But yeah, I watched it."

“And when you say you have a shitload of female cousins…?" she prompted.

I sighed. "My extended family is…let’s go with fucking colossal.

It doesn’t quite cover it, but it’s close.

” I pulled beers and mixed drinks while I talked.

"My dad is one of eight brothers. All eight of them are married with at least one kid, although most have two or three.

So just from my dad's brothers, I have twenty-three cousins. "

She spluttered in shock. "Holy fuck."

I laughed. "I'm not done, though, so hold on to your tits, Smokeshow.

The Uncle Rome I mentioned? He's not actually my uncle, technically.” I frowned.

"I…wait, what is he? First cousin once removed, maybe?” I waved a hand.

“Who the fuck cares? Point is, he's my Dad's cousin—my dad's grandfather had a twin brother, Lucas.

Great-Uncle Lucas, who we all call Papa Lucas, has triplet sons, Roman, Remington, and Ramsey.

Uncle Rome and Aunt Kitty have six kids, Uncle Remy and Aunt Juneau have two, and Uncle Ram and Aunt Izzy have one, so that's another nine cousins.”

"Oh my fucking god."

I held up a finger. "But wait, there's more!"

She blinked at me. "No. There’s more? You're kidding!”

"Nope. So Papa Lucas and Mama Livvie got married late, like, second marriages for both of them kind of thing.

" I waved a hand. "The details don’t matter. Point is, Mama Livvie has five daughters, who we—meaning the cousins—call our aunts even though, again technically, they’re not actually aunts.

They all got married and had kids, and between the five sisters and their husbands, I have another…

shit, gotta think about this one…um? One, two, three…

uhhh…fourteen cousins. Or what we call cousins, regardless of the actual technical relationship. "

"And you, like, see all these people?" she asked. "Regularly?"

I nodded. "Absolutely. Uncle Xavier and Aunt Low don't live here in Ketchikan full-time, but we see them several times a year at least, depending on Aunt Low's shooting schedule and what Uncle Xavier is up to."