Page 57 of Badd Ass
“Oh, stop,” I said, laughing. “It wasn’tthatbad of an injury.”
He faked a shocked expression. “I’m barely able to walk, doc. I may never be the same again.”
I rolled my eyes. “Oh, please. It was, what, thirty stitches? You’ll be fine.”
“Thirty-one, actually, and I’ve got orders from the doctor to take it easy for a while.” He lifted his chin at me. “I never got a chance to properly thank you, though. You jumped in and saved the day, and possibly my football career. So…thanks.”
I shrugged. “I was a combat medic. It’s second nature.”
“Still, thank you.”
I smiled at him. “Of course, Bax.” A moment of silence passes between us. “So, for real though, will the injury affect your career?”
He shrugged. “Probably not. I’m staying in Ketchikan for at least the year, so I’m not sure what I’m going to do about football long term, anyway. But physically, I’ll be okay. It’ll take time to heal, but time is one thing I’ve got, I guess.” He stayed to chat with me for a few more minutes and then left, and I was alone in the booth again…at least until the next twins slid in.
The twins were a force of nature. Like all the Badd brothers, they were tall, standing six-three, but the twins were built more like Brock, Xavier, and Lucian, tall and lean rather than tall and built like Greek gods. Canaan had shoulder length hair, the same rich brown as all the brothers. When he was working, Canaan kept his hair in a ponytail, but the rest of the time he left it down and loose, usually hanging in his eyes and half-obscuring his features. Corin was edgy, more hipster-punk-rock star, he wore his hair with buzzed sides and the long, wavy top dyed neon blue at the tips. Canaan wore a beard, which made him look a little older, while Corin was clean-shaven. They both had the same vivid brown Badd eyes, and had a tendency to finish each other’s sentences and speak in unison.
They dressed like rock stars, too, even while working, with tight, low-slung jeans stuffed into half-unlaced combat boots and obscure band concert T-shirts, full sleeve tattoos, lots of heavy silver rings, pierced ears, and Canaan had a ring through the center of his lower lip while Corin had a septum piercing and gauged earlobes.
They never showed up alone, always together, and they were fiercely energetic, voluble, prone to rapid-fire, back-and-forth spats of wildly eclectic conversation. They’d bicker over best 70s-era bassists, and weird indie art movies and then get into an argument over Britney versus Madonna versus Beyoncé, all within the space of fifteen minutes, and you just had to kind of try to keep up.
Lucian was the hardest to read and, for me, the most impossible to understand. Taciturn would be a generous term, and that’s putting it lightly. He spent as much time in my booth that week as the rest of the brothers, but he was silent for the most part, content to sip beer and share cheesy french fries and read his book while I read mine. I once got him to list his five favorite books:The Foundation Trilogyby Isaac Asimov—he counted that as a single favorite rather than three books;A Brief History of Timeby Stephen Hawking,Fahrenheit 451by Ray Bradbury;A Farewell to Armsby Ernest Hemingway; andJubal Sackettby Louis L’Amour. I’d asked him what his favorite book was, and he’d stared over my shoulder in thought for a solid five minutes, and then listed those books in that order, with no explanation, and then had gone back to reading an Anne Rice novel.
Lucian was like the twins and Xavier, built like a razor blade, tall, lean, hard, and rangy. If Canaan’s hair was long at shoulder-length, Lucian’s was something else entirely, bound low at his nape and dangling past mid-spine in a thick brown queue; Lucian had a habit of wrapping the long ponytail in his fist while he read and yanking on it absently, and I’d never once seen him with it unbound.
And then there was Xavier. Possibly my favorite brother—except for Zane, obviously. Xavier was sweet, quirky, cute, and eclectic in the extreme. He’d set up at the booth across from me, a stack of thick textbooks in front of him, his laptop beside them, and a bin of assorted robotics parts on the seat next to him, each part organized by type in little compartments. He’d read and build his robots, and then take a few minutes to talk to me, usually about whatever he was reading at the time.
Mostly I had no clue what he was going on about, but he was fascinating to listen to, being articulate to the point of eloquence, and given to using archaic turns of phrase. He could wax on easily and at length on just about any subject, literature, physics, philosophy, sociology, history…anything except pop culture, about which he was hopelessly and comically uninformed. He didn’t look the part of a robot building, super-science, math-wizard über-genius, though. He was tall and lean, and he looked the least like the rest of his brothers, with brown hair that was nearly black, and was the only Badd brother with bright green eyes. He had triple-pierced ears and an intricate series of geometric, math symbols tattooed on his forearms. His hair was cut a lot like Corin’s and Bax’s, short on the sides and long and wavy and loose on top. He had an air about him that said he had no idea how sexy or gorgeous he was, and even less of a clue about how endearing his eccentricity and intelligence was.
If I learned one thing over the week, it was that I could definitely understand why the Badd brothers had a reputation in this town, because they were all stupidly, absurdly, incredibly gorgeous men, each with their own unique, vibrant, potent personalities and styles. They were rough and sometimes vulgar, always entertaining, always warm and welcoming, and always sweet toward me.
No wonder the bar was as busy as it was, since at any given time there would be at least two of the delicious Badd brothers at work, one behind the bar and one on the floor, and another one, usually Xavier or Lucian, in the kitchen, with Zane, Brock, the twins, taking turns working the bar and waiting tables, with Bax usually set up in a chair by the entrance acting as a bouncer and ID-checker, since he was supposed to stay off his feet as much as possible.
The clientele was predominantly female, whether young and looking to party, or single women in their thirties on the prowl, or married women just there for the fun, good drinks, and eye-candy. The men in attendance were almost exclusively single men hoping to take advantage of the unending parade of single women—all of this meant the bar was raking in cash hand over fist from open to close.
When Zane wasn’t working, we spent a lot of time hiking the trails outside Ketchikan, an activity I’d had no idea I would enjoy as much as I did. He’d pack a bunch of food in his rucksack, and we’d take the truck the brothers owned up to a trailhead—Zane had convinced his brothers to all chip in on a new Silverado 2500 that they could all share, as they rarely needed to be anywhere they couldn’t walk to.
When we weren’t hiking or at the bar, we were at my room in the B&B, fucking like teenagers who’d just discovered sex. And, except that one time in his bed, we always used protection. I couldn’t bring myself to regret that indiscretion, though, because it was a memory seared deep into my soul. We’d created something, that morning, with each other. Crossed some boundary where union of body became union of soul. Sex after that was always emotionally intense, almost always fierce and wild, sometimes slow and gentle. I discovered that he liked it best when we started out missionary and switched to me riding him for the finish, and that I liked it best when we started out reverse cowgirl and finished doggy style, so he could let go with all the full and furious force of his powerful body. Whatever the position, though, there was always an element of vulnerability, a sense of depth between us.
And we…talked. A lot. About everything. Those day-long hikes were always spent talking to each other, taking selfies, laughing, teasing each other…I think I learned more about Zane in that week than I knew about everyone else in my life combined. And I learned about myself. He had a way of getting me to talk, getting me to open up in ways I’d never thought possible.
And then, all too soon, it was Wednesday night and I was dreading the morning in a way I’d never felt before. My flight for San Francisco left at ten, and I had to check out of the B&B by nine, since the Kingsley’s had a couple arriving who wanted to check in early. I opted to check out Wednesday night, and had Zane bring the truck so I could haul my suitcases to the bar, and leave them stacked just inside the stairwell.
I’d already done an online check-in for my return flight and had the boarding pass loaded into the browser on my cell phone. I also had a change of clothes for the morning folded into my carry-on…
And I was full out panicking.
Zane was working until nine p.m., which only gave us a handful of hours left together. I was sitting in my booth near the service bar, sipping a pint of stout and nibbling on some nachos. The twins were on the floor serving tables and doing their best singing waiter impressions, getting the crowd howling along as they sang bar band favorites like “Sweet Caroline”, “Free Bird”, and “What Do You Do With a Drunken Sailor”, going back and forth on the verses and singing in harmony for the chorus, all while dancing around the floor with trays full of drinks or punching in orders at the computer.
Lucian was in the kitchen with Xavier, and Zane was behind the bar, with Bax carding at the front door.
And me, alone in the booth, hopelessly watching Zane shake martinis and cosmos, pull pints, pour shots, uncork wine, and sling mixers. Wishing I didn’t have to go. Wishing he’d ask me to stay. Wishing I knew what the fuck to do. Because, god, it’d be crazy if I just stayed, right? Like, I’ve known the guy a week. It’s infatuation. And even if it was something more, I’ve known hima week.Seven days. Seven magical, glorious days. Six nights—and five mornings—of the most incredible sex of my entire life. One week, and I was gaga on this guy.
But I had a job back in SF, and a possible new job lined up in Seattle working with Claire, not to mention an apartment with a lease through October. My life was in San Francisco. I had friends there. I had memories there. Dad had visited me there before he got busted and sent to the federal penitentiary in Terra Haute, Indiana. Mom spent every Christmas with me in San Francisco. It was home.
Although, lately the idea of moving to Seattle sounded nice, being with Claire again, a new job, a new city….
But Ketchikan?
