Bad Boy 3

  Bad Boy: Naughty at Night

  Part 3

  Note: This is Book #3 in the Naughty at Night Series. To read the first book, go here: http://bitly.com/JAMIELAKEBOOKS

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  CHAPTER 1

  “What do you mean, you’ve ‘gotta go’? You just got here. We were going to watch the game,” Tony asked, clearly agitated, his tone sour and his face twisting into a scowl. Sitting up in his private hospital bed, he glared at Peter. His face had drained of color and he seemed feeble with the oxygen tube at his nose. Still, he his eyes glittered with the same leonine power and authority that sent chills down Peter’s spine.

  “Listen Tony, if you need me, I’ll come right back, I promise,” Peter lied, hoping Tony would believe him. “I just have to take care of something tonight, and besides, I’m really exhausted. I’ve got to work. You know they won’t let me sleep here with you.”

  Peter tried to remain calm, and tried not to sound as though he were making excuses to get away from Tony, but the truth was, he was already late to his evening with Chip. And the very thought of disappointing Chip made guilt curdle the contents of his stomach. Coupled with the antiseptic smell of the waxed floor, Peter felt time slow down as his anxiety and nausea reached a crescendo. The medical equipment beeped. Peter waited for a response as if he were asking Daddy for permission.

  Tony looked at him as if he were reading whether or not he believed him. He ran his tongue over his teeth and cocked his head, weighing what the younger man had said. His eyes narrowed, and the older man literally growled: or was he just clearing his throat? It unsettled Peter, and he shifted on his feet, a chill going through him. It was like Tony could see right through him, right into his heart and head. It was almost as if he knew Peter was lying, but was just letting him do it. Peter wondered why.

  “You’re not going to see that Chip guy, are you?” Tony's voice held a warning edge that made Peter even more nervous. For a moment, he wanted to drop to his knees, beg forgiveness, and tell him the truth. He hated lying and was decidedly not very good at it, but his fear of the consequences of Tony's frightening temper kept him from doing so. Instead, Peter stood stiffly, twisting his hands behind his back.

  “N-n-no, of course not,” Peter stuttered, hoping he wasn’t giving anything away, although he was sure he was, what with his stuttering. Who was he kidding? He couldn't meet Tony's razor-sharp gaze.

  “You’re not lying to me are you?” Tony asked, his eyes narrowing dangerously. It wasn’t a question, but a statement. “I’m not joking when I say I will break both his legs if I spot him together with you again.”

  “I swear,” Peter said, his voice going up an octave. He only hoped he could convince him. He had to convince him. Never mind about himself; he was worried for Chip and what Tony might do to him if he found out the truth. It was unbearable: the idea of anything bad happening to Chip or his adorable son, Johnny. The longer Peter knew Tony, the more and more he realized that his similarity to The Godfather was deeper than just an East Coast Italian American accent and a love of marinara, cigars, and Sambuca. Tony was a kingpin. And although Chip was a strong, agile young police officer, the cops in most towns, let alone Vegas, were powerless against big money. Much less Tony’s big money. Tony was a casino mogul with powers that stretched into both legitimate authority as a community icon, but also into the dark and seedy underbelly of Las Vegas.

  Peter could imagine Tony calling some horrible cousin with gold chains and chest hair: a dark-skinned Italian in blue sweats. Or perhaps he’d call a Native American hit man in a blue mechanic’s jumpsuit, or some Russian guy who murdered people with sports equipment. God forbid, Peter thought, but it could actually happen: that Tony’s threat could be carried out, and some horrific “accident” could happen to Chip.

  Tony wouldn’t stop looking at him, his gaze piercing as if he could see right through him and all the flimsy excuses he was making. But then he leaned back in his hospital bed and let a pleasant smile spread over his face. “All right. I believe you. When will I see you again?” That smile of Tony's was curved, boyish, and charming. The prince of darkness himself couldn’t have been more terrifying and seductive at the same time.

  Relieved, Peter smiled too, letting out the breath he'd been holding. “Tomorrow, after school,” he promised, trying his best to sound earnest.

  “After school? You know, what we ought to do is get you to quit that little teaching job of yours and be with me full-time.” He sounded so sure of himself, so arrogant and cocky. Peter scowled and tried to fight down a surge of indignant anger at Tony's flippant remark.

  The very thought made Peter cringe. Teaching kindergarten was his love and his joy. If Tony really cared about him, he wouldn't ask him to give it up. He'd support him. He'd encourage him to follow his dreams.

  Peter just smiled and said, “Good night, Tony. Enjoy the game and sleep well.” His voice sounded sweet despite how much it wobbled. He hoped he didn’t notice, but something about the sharp way Tony's smile cut across his face made Peter wonder.

  “All right,” Tony said, as Peter tapped twice on the side of the door and exited.

  “Motherfucker,” Peter said under his breath, unshielding his rage as he picked up steam and left the room. He couldn’t wait to get the fuck out of there. He wanted to run; he wanted to run away so far that no one would ever find him, especially Tony, but he knew he couldn’t do that, not at all. He had too many responsibilities. He was a teacher upon whom so many disadvantaged kindergarten students depended. He was finally getting to know someone he truly liked and who truly liked him, and yet, he was faced with this dilemma. It made his heart ache and his stomach turn. The set of Peter's shoulders was tense. Stress was eating him alive.

  The lobby was full of heavy-set people staring at the news, their faces lined with fatigue and stress. A nurse lazily pushed an IV rack along the hall as an older woman in a hospital gown struggled along behind her with a walker.

  He could keep doing what he was doing, erotic massages at night to support himself, or give it all up and be faced with the possibility that his life as he knew it could be ruined. Either way, it seemed inevitable. His life would never be the same. Sooner or later he was going to have to come clean. It was like a hurricane he could see coming in the distance. The truth was coming whether he liked it or not.

  There was just no way around it.

  But now he had bigger fish to fry. It wasn’t just that he was angry that Tony was trying to stop him from seeing the one person who truly cared about him: it was that he threatened that man’s life. Maybe it was just an idle threat, but somehow, Peter doubted it. The way Tony said it with a hard, steely glint in his eye told him that Tony meant business.

  The parking lot was dry and the asphalt radiated heat. The inside of his car was like a circle of hell. His seatbelt burned his skin through his shirt and he couldn’t even touch the top of the steering wheel.

  As he got on the road, another beep came through on his cell, and he knew it was yet another text or call from Chip. He knew he would have to answer it. It would be rude and mean not to do so. After all, Chip hadn't done anything wrong. He was supposed to be at Chip’s house for dinner over an hour ago. It just wasn’t his style to flake. Peter prided himself on being dependable.

  The phone rang and Peter knew he was going to have to answer it. His finger hovered over the button to pick up the call. He hesitated. He waited until the fourth beeping ring to answer.

  “Hello,” Peter said, putting on a smile, hoping it reflected in his voice. He didn't feel like smiling.

  “Hey,” Chip said, sounding disappointed, “You all right?” Threaded in the disappointment was worry. That alone made tears well up in Peter’s eyes. He was such a sweet
, sweet man. Why did all this terrible drama have to happen just when Peter had finally met the best possible romance of his life?

  “Yeah, I … I’m sorry I got so caught up in ... what time is it?” Peter tried not to stammer too much, but he did anyway. Guilt gnawed at him. He wished he could tell Chip the truth. His mouth was dry and his hands were sweaty on the steering wheel.

  “You’re an hour late,” Chip said sternly.

  “Look, I … I’m on my way, I just got stuck in traffic and ...”

  “Then why didn’t you call to let me know?” Chip inquired, interrupting him. It made Peter frown. He hated being accused of dishonesty, even though this time, he deserved it.

  “Yeah, that I … just horrible reception here, but ...” Peter started to say, his thumb sliding up and down the steering wheel.

  Chip sighed audibly, cutting him off again. Peter knew he didn’t believe him. He never was that great of a liar. He’d always been more of an honest person, and this whole hiding and twisting things was just not something that came naturally to him. Not that he wanted to be good at being dishonest, but it sure would make his life a little easier right now.

  “Sure. Well, maybe some other night then?” he asked. Peter could tell he was trying to remain civil about the situation, but it was clear he was angry and hurting. And Peter couldn't blame him. If he'd gone to a lot of trouble making a night special for Chip and he basically stood him up, he'd be upset too.

  If only Peter could tell him the truth, he thought again for the thousandth time. He wanted to tell Chip about the threat to his life: that he’d gotten himself caught up in a tangle of thread moonlighting as an erotic masseuse while teaching kindergarten during the day; that he was only trying to protect Chip and his son Johnny; that he really did want to see him; to progress with their relationship.

  “So, I guess not … no other not,” Chip said, after Peter hesitated to answer. He could hear the hurt in Chip’s voice, although he tried to mask it.

  Peter knew he had to answer: he couldn't just leave the question hanging in the air, and before he knew it, he heard himself say, “I’m on my way. Give me 15 minutes.”

  “You better hurry,” Chip said with a sigh. “And be ready for your just desserts.”

  “What? What does that mean?” Peter asked. It didn’t just seem like a play on words ... Chip really sounded cold. First, Tony’s insanity, now what?

  “It means you’re about to get what’s coming to you.”

  CHAPTER 2

  What the hell he was doing outside Chip’s door knocking, Peter didn’t know, but he couldn’t help himself. He felt drawn to the man, like a moth to a flame. He desired and craved his company above all others, and if this was the end, he owed it to Chip or at least himself to do the right thing and to say so in person.

  The house was a single-level adobe one in the suburbs; it had a great rock garden, with healthy looking cacti growing in the yard, and a big bronze sundial by the porch. Sweet-smelling lavender and succulent aloe shot up in pots by the door. Peter knocked hesitantly, and waited, with his heart pounding.

  Chip opened the door with such a gust of wind that it almost blew him back. Peter startled and then tried to smile, but it felt wobbly and died shortly after he attempted the gesture.

  “Hey,” Chip said, looking hot and gorgeous as ever in his tucked-in polo shirt and hair slicked back. He had an apron wrapped around his trim waist and an oven mitt in one hand. His shirt was open so that one of his collarbones was exposed, smooth and tan and pronounced. His cut jaw had just a day of strawberry blonde stubble on it, and that, along with his even cheekbones and strong brow, gave Peter the typical head rush he felt upon seeing Chip. Even his name, Chip, was perfect. Like he was a piece of heaven that broke off and fell to earth. Stark ginger hair, broad-shouldered, a piece with tight buttocks and big muscular thighs and pearly white teeth who belonged on a news anchor. He looked amazing, and Peter would be lying to himself if he didn’t say that his heart skipped a beat.

  “Hey,” Peter smiled back, more genuine this time. Chip looked him up and down, as if eating him alive, although he tried to hide his attraction behind his glum expression. He motioned for him to enter, stepping aside.

  “Come on in,” Chip said, and Peter stepped inside. He was immediately overwhelmed by the aroma of Mexican food and not in a bad way. It was like a feast for the nostrils: cilantro and other exotic spices. It almost smelled like cheesy enchiladas, which was one of his favorite foods.

  “Smells delicious,” Peter said warmly, wanting to break the awkward, tense silence with something, anything.

  “It was starting to get cold,” Chip said, clearing his throat. His voice was tinged not with irritation but with a clear and undeniable sadness. Peter could tell Chip was hurt and he never meant to treat him like that. He never meant to ruin this special evening. It made him even more angry with Tony. But there wasn't anything he could do about it. He felt so helpless and cornered.

  “Mr. Vanderbilt!!!” Chip’s son Johnny said, running up to him and throwing his little arms around his legs. He had his father’s big blue eyes and a shaggy bowl cut of dark hair. He was wearing footie pajamas that make him look like Tigger from Winnie the Pooh. Simply adorable, but to Peter, it was strange seeing him outside of the classroom.

  “Hey Johnny,” Peter smiled. It was good to see him even if he did get his fill of him every day in kindergarten class.

  “You’re here!” the little boy exclaimed with delighted bewilderment. “Now, we can eat!”

  “Yep, I’m here,” Peter said. He turned to Chip with an apologetic look on his face. “I’m so sorry,” he said earnestly. His tone was pleading, soft. He silently begged Chip, hoping the other man noted the sincere, pained look in his eyes.

  “Son, go to the bathroom and wash up for dinner.” Chip was stern with his son, but with every interaction was warmth. He was a good dad: no, a great dad. It was something Peter really admired about him. It was something that made him all the more attractive; not just sexy, but heroic. Beautiful. Rare as a gem.

  “Yes, sir,” Johnny answered, skipping all the way to the other side of the house.

  Chip studied him as if scanning for sincerity. Was his apology just a polite utterance? No. Clearly sensing that Peter meant what he said, he looked Peter up and down, deliciously, possessively. There was a cold glint in his eye.

  “Don’t worry, you’ll make up for it,” Chip said, teasing laced in his tone. His hand slid down from Peter’s shoulders to the small of his back. His touch was gentle, yet firm. It, too, was possessive and immediately, Peter felt aroused. But not just aroused: safe as well. He felt like he'd come home.

  “How’s that?” Peter asked flirtatiously, but low enough so that Johnny couldn’t hear.

  “Seems to me like you like to test the waters,” Chip said. His low voice made Peter excited, and made his heart beat just a little faster. He could feel the warmth of a flush flood his cheeks.

  What waters? Peter thought. What on earth could that mean besides sexual waters?

  “Maybe, just a little bit,” Peter said, as his eyes intuitively trailed down to Chip’s crotch. He didn't mean to be so brazen: he just couldn't help himself. Chip was a feast for the eyes. In shape, handsome, and clearly well-hung. Peter had been fantasizing about what was behind that curvaceous zippered bulge since they first met. No matter how reserved he tried to be, or how awkward the situation between them became, he would be powerless if Chip triggered the crackling sexual tension between them.

  Chip lead Peter by the hand into the kitchen where he saw the most delicious display of food in front of him, each dish more scrumptious than the next. It was a magnificent spread. There were enchiladas and stuffed peppers oozing with cheddar cheese. The salsa looked fresh and homemade, and he could smell the earthy, heady scent of cilantro. Everything was colorful and garnished with parsley and fresh salsa. A big pot of green beans with chopped bacon simmered on the stove, lending a smoky, meaty aroma to
the air. It was all so beautiful, and Peter was touched by all the effort Chip had clearly put into making this meal for him. Guilt stung him again, and he lowered his head, swallowing around the sudden lump in his throat.

  Chip turned him around to face him, with his hands around Peter’s waist. “You’re my little troublemaker, huh? My little bad boy?” His tone was teasing again, but there was a firm command there. He felt like a naughty child who was about to be punished. The idea of being under Chip's control excited him beyond measure, and his heart began to race again.

  Peter liked the way he said it. He loved the way the words rolled off of Chip's tongue. He gave him a seductive smile. “That’s me.”

  “Well you know, bad boys get disciplined. Don’t push your luck.” He gave Peter a deadly serious look, and a sharp slap on the ass to let him know he was playing around.

  Peter couldn’t help but get aroused at the thought of it. His eyes danced as they looked Peter in his. His eyes were so gorgeous, so sexy, so searching, that Peter’s mind trailed. How he wanted to be nowhere else but here: but at the same time, he knew he was going to have to end it, sooner rather than later. And that thought made his heart sink down to his shoes.

  Chip pulled him closer. “Hey, are you alright?” Chip's embrace was so warm, so welcoming. Peter could get lost in it, in the look in his eyes. He sighed heavily and leaned into him.

  Peter started to answer him when Johnny came rushing into the kitchen, his wet hands in the air and a big grin on his face.

  “I’m back!” he said, and Chip released Peter.

  “Son, did you dry your hands?” Chip arched an eyebrow down at his son.

  “Kind of!” Johnny said, showing his father his shining, wet hands.

  “Either you did or you didn't. And clearly, you didn't. Now, get back in the bathroom,” Chip said, chasing after him, “Excuse me for a second.” Peter watched Chip chase his son, the air full of happy laughter. It warmed him and made him forget about how the first part of the night had gone. It helped him feel less guilt over nearly missing the dinner.