Home > Wintertime Bad Boy(6)

Wintertime Bad Boy(6)
Author: Emelia Blair

I change into my street clothes and make my way to the parking lot to meet Jen. People know that we’re friends but I don’t like to advertise our relationship that much.

She’s warming up the car and grins at me, throwing open the passenger door. “Let’s get drunk!”

My lips curve of their own volition at the cheer in her voice and I look forward to getting buzzed. My shift starts late tomorrow so I don’t have to get up at six in the morning.

The bar we end up at is a high end one and I lounge in the comfortable sofa type seat, grinning like a loon, already on my third beer, the stress of the day having melted away.

“And then—” I wave my glass around, laughing. “He went and threw up all over Dennis and Den-Dennis—” I’m laughing so hard that I’m wheezing, and Jen is waving her hand at me, gasping at me to shut up because she can’t breathe due to laughing. “Dennis just stares at him and goes ‘I thought you were dead, Mr. Hensen’ and then he started screaming and—and—”

Jen slips out of her seat, clutching her stomach. “Oh, God. Just stop. I can’t—I can’t.”

Her cheeks are flushed and I try to calm myself down but I just end up snickering. “The look on his face. And then Mr. Hensen started screaming. Oh, God. You should have seen it.”

Jen pulls herself back into her seat. “Oh, man. I wish I had.” As she begins to calm down, she takes a swig of her beer. “I heard through the grapevine you got asked out today.”

I roll my eyes. “Lawrence, the paramedic guy. He’s cute, but I don’t think he’s really my type.”

Jen leans back against the sofa, waggling her brows. “Yeah? And what’s your type?”

A pair of wild green eyes and a lazy smirk flash into my mind and my breath hitches making me lower my eyes as I trace the condensation on my glass with my finger. “He’s too soft.”

“Soft?” Jen echoes, sounding baffled. “I thought you liked the gentle kind.”

I shake my head, blushing now. “I do—I mean—”

Jen blinks and then a smirk crosses her faces, as she says in an accusing tone, “You like someone.”

I immediately go into denial mode. “No, no, of course not!”

“Liar!” she calls me out, gleefully. “You have a crush on someone!”

“I don’t,” I wail, finding myself cornered.

“You do, too!” she says in a singsong voice. “Who is it? Tell me!”

I never intended to tell her about the mugging incident from two days ago because then she will go into her Mom-mode and force me to move in with her. So, I gloss over the details.

“He kissed you?”

I feel nervous as she sits there, watching me intently. “It was after he gave me back my ID.”

“Was it hot?”

I sink my teeth into my lower lip. “I think I had a wet dream—”

She lets out a sound between a squeal and a shout, making people turn around to stare at us. “Alex!”

My entire face is red now and I run my hands through my hair in a quick agitated movement. “Don’t make too much of it.”

“Oh, honey, how can I not?” She looks entirely too excited. “Was it a French kiss?”

I give her a baleful look, “Shouldn’t you be more concerned that a random stranger grabbed me and kissed me rather than whether he slipped me his tongue or not?”

She snorts. “You’re the one having the wet dreams about him. Kinky much?”

I flush. “In my defense, that’s the most action I’ve seen in over a year. Should’ve maced him though. Out of principle.”

She chuckles.

We stay there for another hour or so before leaving. I decline her offer to drive me home because it’s not that late and there are still people on the street. Besides, her apartment is in the opposite direction and she’s insisted on driving.

“Call me as soon as you get home,” I order her. Unlike me, she’s not had much to drink but the way her cheeks are red, it seems she’s slightly tipsy. But she discards all my pleas of ordering her a taxi.

I start the trek home. It’s a fifteen-minute walk and the frosty air wakes me up, making me much more alert.

Couples are out and about, celebrating the beginning of the weekend. Christmas is in two months and I haven’t decided how to spend it yet. I have a feeling that Jen will invite me to her parents’ home in Florida but I don’t think I’m ready to be around anyone this Christmas. I should get roaring drunk on cheap whiskey and stay drunk throughout the entire week, to numb the memories.

I shove my hands deeper into my pockets thinking of how Dad would have disapproved of this.

You should make the most of life, kid. You only get one.

“Then you should have stayed,” I mutter, my eyes burning.

Lost in thought, I walk past an alley, about to round it, to reach my street when I hear a groan.

I still upon hearing the pain-filled sound.

I turn my head, common sense telling me to keep walking but my instincts are telling me that someone is injured.

The alley is dark but I can make out a dumpster and a few cardboard boxes. Hesitant, I take out my mace, cursing myself for being stupid even as I ask, “Hello? Are you okay?”

Another groan and then a low curse. “Merde.”

I took enough French in high school to recognize the word. The voice and accent slips into my head just as a man staggers out from behind the dumpster. It takes me a second to recognize him and my heart nearly stops. His clothes are torn and he’s bloodied, bruises blooming under his tattered shirt.

“Mon petit ange,” he whispers in a ragged tone, that hint of flirtatiousness still there and before I can think, as I watch him stumble, my body is moving of its own accord and I slip his arm around my shoulder. “What happened to you?”

He looks dazed—with the pain, perhaps—and doesn’t answer me.

I reach for my phone. “I’ll call an ambulance—”

That gets his attention. “No!” He shakes his head, as if trying to clear it. “N-No hospital. Can you patch me up?”

“You need medical attention,” I argue and despite the obvious pain he is in, he manages to give me an amused look. “I’m not going to die from a few bruises, ma chérie. I’ve had worse than these.”

I’m torn between obeying my instincts and listening to him. He seems to sense my inner battle and his voice is rough. “There’s a reason I can’t go to the hospital. Trust me.”

I clench my teeth and make the decision in a split second. “I live just around the corner.”

His eyes brighten at that in relief and I help him to my building, ignoring the stares that we get. But this is New York. Nobody is going to step in. We face another challenge at the bottom of the stairs.

“I’m sorry,” I apologize, uselessly. “The elevator is broken, we’re gonna have to take the stairs.”

“Which floor?” he asks, his tone tired.

“Seventh,” I wince.

His face turns pale but I have to admire his resilience as he gives me a ghost of a smile. “Then what are we waiting for?”

It takes us double the time and while I’m out of breath, his hands are trembling with the exertion and as I hold him, he lets out a hiss. “Not there.”

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