Baxter

Dude. This chick, man. She’s fine as fuck. But the East Coast, old money, wealthy kind of classy fine. Not, like, bar honey, ring bunny sexy, or even model hot, or movie star gorgeous, or porn star fuckable. She’s…one in a million. An actual factual motherfuckin’ angel from heaven.

Evangeline du Maurier is…god, I don’t have the words. She’s a lady. Not a chick, not a honey, not a babe, or a dame, or any of that vaguely condescending, objectifying terminology. She’s a goddamn lady.

I suppose a thorough description is in order.

Five-eight, five-seven. A true hourglass shape, as in she probably has a literal set of 36-24-36 measurements—I feel compelled, for the sake of honesty, to point out here that measurements and sizes and whatever else don’t define a woman to me. I’m just saying, those are Evangeline’s measurements by my estimation, and she fuckin’ rocks the look so hard it makes me dizzy. Her hair is jet black, so black it shimmers and glints and gleams, thick and long and loose, pulled around the back of her neck to hang down her left shoulder. Green eyes, the shade of a maple leaf in the summer sun. Tanned skin, but naturally tan, not fake or spray tan. A combination of a lot of time in the sun and a natural caramel hint to her skin.

Sharp, exotic, symmetrical facial features, plump lips in a perfect cupid’s bow. Not a lot of makeup as far as I can tell, nor a lot of jewelry. A pair of round diamond studs in her ears, a full carat at least, a bracelet with little charms and shit dangling from it, and a fine platinum chain with a tiny key pendant, a single chocolate diamond in the center of the head of the key. Her clothes look expensive, and I’m pretty sure her purse and shoes should be insured.

Money.

But understated money, not flashy look how rich I am money.

And right now, she’s just barely on her feet, leaned back against the wall of a closed bakery a block from the bar, gasping for breath, hyperventilating. She’s got blood spattered across her face and clumping in her hair, there’s blood dotting her forehead and hairline and down across her nose and chin. It’s all a result of that punch I threw to lay out McDermott. An asshole move, I admit; I punched the fucker that way on purpose, knowing the splatter would hit her. I mean, it was obvious she’d wandered into the wrong end of town by accident, but she was staring at me like she’d never seen a real man before, and looked disgusted at what she’d probably term a vulgar display of brutality or some fancy, Hah-vahd educated highfalutin bullshit like that. She’s got a bit of an East Coast lilt to her voice. Arch, crisp, educated, and formal.

She’s a good girl.

A virgin even, maybe.

But then again, the way she looked at me? Maybe not. I don’t know. I can usually sniff out and avoid virgins as if I’m a bloodhound, but this woman is so far outside my realm of understanding that I don’t even know how to read her.

Her shirt is all bloody. It’s ivory or cream colored—words for not-quite white, but almost, in my understanding—and it’s sexy as fuck. Figure-hugging silk, a deep V-neck exposing a good bit of cleavage, sleeveless. Again, classy and sexy, expensive looking without being in-your-face. Her hands are shaking, trembling like crazy. There are dirty handprints on her shirt, from those fuckin’ assholes. I really do hope brother Zane takes care of them properly, as they deserve.

I still have her hand in mine. I just kissed the back of her hand, like a storybook knight. Felt stupid doing it, but it got her eyes on mine, and her teeth caught at her lower lip, and her struggle to breathe seemed to intensify momentarily, and then she sucked in a sharp breath and yanked her eyes away from mine.

She’d said she trusted me; time to make good on that. I take her other hand in mine and lift her to her feet. “Come on. Let’s get you that drink.”

She nodded, and let me guide her into a walk. Not quite a full block later, we arrived at the front door of Badd’s Bar and Grill. At one in the morning it was still crowded with people spilling out the door, which was propped open by a chair, on which sat Bast, my oldest brother. His burly, tattooed forearms crossed over his chest as he closely scrutinized the IDs of a quartet of college-age girls waiting to be admitted. He jerked his head toward the interior of the bar, indicating the girls could go in, and then his eyes cut to mine, and Evangeline.

“Jesus, Bax. The fuck did you do now?” He left the chair and took a step toward us. “Honey, is this ugly gorilla bothering you? Say the word and I’ll break his legs for you.”

Evangeline shrank away from Bast, which was understandable. He’s taller than any of us at six-four, and he’s built like a brick shithouse. He’s covered in tattoos, and he’s a surly, intimidating bastard. I may be big and beefy and scary looking, but I make up for it by having a winning personality, a show-stopping, panty-melting grin, and enough charm to knock an entire sorority house on their collective, PINK sweatpants-clad asses. Bast is just scary, because he comes across pretty much like the surly, intimidating bastard that he is—unless you’re his wife Dru, around whom he melts into this tail-wagging, golden retriever puppy dog-eyed soppy mush basket.

“I didn’t do anything, you oversized cock waffle,” I snap. “I helped, as a matter of fact.”

“You’re telling me you’re not responsible for the blood all over her?” Bast asked, an eyebrow wryly arched.

I rolled my eyes and sighed. “That’s irrelevant.” I shoved him away. “Your wifey awake?”

He nodded “Probably. Why?”

I shrug. “Evangeline needs to clean up and change.”

Bast waved. “Yeah, she’s up there. You’re gonna catch hell for this, though. You know that, right?”

“For what? I’m helping a damsel in distress.”

Bast snorted. “Okay, Sir Galahad.” He addressed Evangeline. “If he gets out of hand, let me know. Okay? I’m serious.”

Evangeline just stared at Bast with an unreadable, blank expression on her face, and then she looked at me. “You promised me a drink, a shower, and some clean clothes, not amusing banter.”

“She means a shower alone, Bax,” Bast said, smirking. “Keep that in mind, yeah?”

“No shit, you ugly oaf. I am capable of chivalry, you know.” I made sure that comment was the last word between us and then led Evangeline through the crowded bar, keeping a tight grip on her hand as we wove between clumps and clusters of sweaty, boozing, dancing customers.

The twins were on stage tonight, doing an acoustic set, with Canaan playing an acoustic guitar and Corin sitting on one of those box-drum things, which he slapped with his hands to create a rolling percussive rhythm. They were both singing, doing that eerily perfect harmony only those two can manage.

Evangeline tugged at my hand to slow me down just as we were reaching the locked doorway behind which was the stairs to the apartment over the bar.

“I recognize those guys,” she said into my ear. “Either it’s an amazing cover act, or that’s actually Bishop’s Pawn.”

I laughed. “That’s actually Bishop’s Pawn,” I answered.

She eyed me in amazement. “No way! I saw them in Germany last year. They’re amazing! What are they doing playing in this dingy dive bar?”

Apparently she hadn’t put two and two together yet. “Well, sweetheart, that’s a kind of complicated question to answer.”

I dug into my hoodie pocket and produced my keys, unlocked the door, which was marked “private access only” as a joke. Usually doors like that say something like “No access,” or just “Private” or “employee access only”, but Cane and Cor apparently thought it would be funny to put “private access only” on the door, and so there it is. I led her up the stairs and into the apartment, letting go of her hand reluctantly as we entered. I say reluctantly, because I’d been holding her hand for ten or fifteen minutes at that point and her hand in mine felt really nice. Like, just holding her hand felt tingly and exciting. Made me feel like a twelve-year-old kid again, sitting at the high school football game with my crush, having just gotten up the courage to grab her hand. Now, as then, I didn’t want to let go.

Which was stupid.

For a lot of reasons, none of which I was quite ready to examine.

Dru was on the couch watching TV, a fleece throw blanket on her legs, a giant glass of red wine in one hand, a bowl of popcorn on her lap. Copper hair currently in a sloppy, frizzy braid, bright cornflower-blue eyes, creamy skin, and a fierce Irish temper, Dru was the closest in build to Evangeline of any of my brothers’ women. They were similar in height, and they both had mouthwatering hourglass figures. Yeah, I don’t mind admitting Bast’s wife is hot as fuck, but she’s my brother’s wife and my sister-in-law, and all I’ll ever do is appreciate what God made. Point is, their similar builds means Dru probably had clothes that will fit Evangeline. Which is why I’m bringing her here as opposed to the apartment over the twins’ music studio a few doors down, where I actually live.

She shot a cursory glance at me as I entered; Evangeline was still hidden behind me. “Hey, Bax. Win your fight?”

“Obviously. McDermott is a puny little bitch. He didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell.”

“What are you doing up here?” Dru asked, her eyes on the TV. “I’m not cooking for you.”

“Can I borrow a change of clothes from you?” I asked, setting down my gear bag.

She turned her head toward me, exaggeratedly slowly. “Even if you did take up cross-dressing, I don’t think my clothes are going to—HOLY SHIT.” She shot to her feet when Evangeline appeared from behind me, tossing her blanket aside and setting the popcorn and wine on the coffee table as she hurried over to us. “What the hell did you do to this poor girl, Bax?”

I slapped my forehead with a snarl of irritation. “Why does everyone always assume the worst about me? Jesus.” I gestured at Evangeline. “Dru, this is Evangeline. Evangeline, this is my sister-in-law, Dru. Now. Dru—would it be possible for Evangeline to clean up and get a change of clean clothes from you?”

“Of course! Come on.” Dru took Evangeline by the arm and dragged her through the living room and into the hall bathroom, where she sat the shell-shocked and confused Evangeline down onto the closed toilet lid. “Sit. Relax. Let me get this blood off you. Are you hurt? What did Bax do?”

I remained in the kitchen, where I fixed Evangeline a vodka cranberry. “I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING TO HER!” I hollered.

“Then whose blood is this?” Dru shouted back. “And shut up. Claire is sleeping.”

A door opened. “Not anymore, assholes.” Claire shuffled out of her and Brock’s room, blinking sleepily, wearing a T-shirt of Brock’s and probably nothing else. “Who’s this?—who are you? And why are we shouting at Bax?”

“We’re not shouting at Bax,” I said, bringing the drink to the bathroom.

I squeezed past Claire and into the bathroom, then slid behind Dru and sat on the lip of the tub, handing Evangeline the drink. “You seemed like a vodka cranberry type.”

She took it and sipped at it. “Whoa. Heavy on the vodka, much?”

I shrugged. “That was a shitty situation. Figured if I promised you a stiff drink I’d better make it hella stiff.”

“Does anyone actually even say ‘hella’ anymore?” Claire asked, from the hall outside the bathroom. “And will someone please explain to me what’s going on?”

Dru—who had a package of makeup wipes in her hand was gingerly wiping at the blood on Evangeline’s face—shot me a meaningful glare. “Bax? Care to explain?”

I sighed. “Well, Evangeline here wandered by mistake into the warehouse where my fight was happening. I noticed her but she seemed out of place, and then she left. On the way home I happened to walk past an alley near the warehouse. I saw these four fucking asswipes with their hands all over Evangeline, so I stopped them, and I brought her here to get her cleaned up.”

Evangeline snorted, a somehow ladylike sound of derisive disbelief. She stood up, taking a wipe from the package in Dru’s hand, and faced the mirror, wiping at her face vigorously. “You’re leaving out a few things, I believe.” She plucked at a strand of her hair, peeling away a clump of dried blood with her fingernails, grimacing in disgust. “Such as, for example, the way you punched that guy in the ring so hard his blood sprayed all over me—and I’m fairly certain you did it on purpose.”

“You distracted me. What can I say?” I shrugged and crossed my arms over my chest. “But you’re right, I did do that on purpose. It was kind of a dick move, and I apologize.”

She eyed me sidelong, glaring. “I…distracted you? You demolished that poor man in a matter of seconds.”

“Exactly!” I said. “I was planning on drawing it out a little bit, giving the audience a bit more of a show. Then you strutted in looking as lost as a poodle at a pit bull fight, and I forgot.”

Evangeline stopped what she was doing entirely. “There are so many things wrong with that statement I don’t even know where to start.” She took a drink from her vodka cranberry and then ticked off items on her fingers as she listed them. “First, what do you mean by more of a show? Letting him rough you up a little before beating him half to death? Toying with him like a cat with a mouse? Secondly, a poodle? Of all the dogs you could compare me to, you choose a poodle? A yipping, obnoxious, useless little lapdog? Is that what you think I am, too? And third, pit bull fighting is vile and despicable. Those poor animals have no choice in those brutal fights. You have a choice. You choose to fight for money. All they get is hurt and abused.”

I held up both hands. “Whoa there, Eva, slow your roll, honey.” I stood up and moved a little closer, ignoring the way both Claire and Dru were following this conversation with unabashed interest. “First, yeah, I meant toy with him like a cat with a mouse— let him hit me a few times, make him and the audience think he’s got half a chance against me. And also, I didn’t beat him half to death. Even those fuckin’ dickless cunt-holes who tried to rape you got off easy. I hurt ’em pretty bad, yeah, but not anywhere near as bad as they deserved, and not half to death. If you’ve never seen someone literally beaten so badly they’re in danger of dying, then you can’t possibly understand the difference.”

I leveled her a look with all the hardened, world-weary bitterness I had inside me, just so she knew I wasn’t kidding. “Second, I wasn’t comparing you to a poodle. It was…a situational comparison. You, wandering into an illegal underground MMA fight is relatable to an innocent little mini poodle trotting unaware into the ring with a pair of pit bulls. If I was going to compare you to an animal, it sure as fuck wouldn’t be an ugly-ass, stupid little goddamn poodle—more like a swan or something elegant like that. Third, you’re right, pit bull fighting is bullshit and I hate it. I once beat the shit out of a guy for kicking his dog, so we’re in agreement there. I choose to fight, because I’m good at it and I enjoy it.”

She poked me in the chest with a manicured finger. “I’ve told you several times already, my name is Evangeline, not Eva. Get it right, you muscle-bound meathead.” She went back to wiping at her face, scraping a dot of blood off her perfect little chin. “Now. If it’s still all right with whomever lives here, I would be very grateful if I could take a quick shower.”

Dru grabbed my wrist, digging her thumbnail into a pressure point, and hauled me out of the bathroom. “Out, Bax. Out. Let the girl get cleaned up.” To Evangeline, then. “You’re welcome here for as long as you need. Give me ten seconds and I’ll have a change of clothes for you. Take as long a shower as you want.”

Dru vanished and then reappeared with a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, and a pair of pink Gap flip flops, setting everything on the counter, and then I was shoved out of the bathroom and down the hallway into the living room, Claire following behind us.

Dru did some kind of twist and pivot move on me, and my right arm and wrist were bent wrong, so one false move on my part would have me eating left handed for a few months—just goes to show that even the biggest and baddest aren’t invincible. I mean, I could power through the pain, chop out a kick, and have Dru on her ass in half a second…probably. But number one, she’s my sister-in-law and I love her, because she’s good for Bast and she’s just a cool-ass chick, and number two, I’m not entirely certain I could take her. She’s a bad bitch, and I mean that with every ounce of respect I’ve got.

“What the fuck, Dru?” I held still and didn’t fight against the hold.

“You tell me what the fuck, Bax. She’s wearing earrings that have to be at least fifteen thousand dollars, and I’m pretty sure that’s a Hermes blouse, thousand dollar Manolo flats, and a Prada purse.”

“I don’t know what any of that means.” I tested her hold, and she let go. “And so what if she’s got money? What does that have anything to do with fuckin’ anything, Dru?”

“Not to be mean, Bax, but women like her don’t really tend to go for guys like you.” She moved to take the opposite end of the couch from me, where she’d been curled up when we arrived.

I snort. “Well no shit, sis. Think I don’t know that?” I shrugged out of my hoodie, leaving me bare-chested with my bloodstained tape on my hands and wrists; I sat on the couch and started peeling the tape off. “This ain’t that, Dru. I told the truth, okay? She wandered into the fight by accident, I still don’t know how or why. She got right up against the barrier, and sort of got a little blood on her. And yeah, I hit the guy on purpose so she’d get sprayed.

“She was staring at me, looking all disgusted and fascinated at the same time, and it pissed me off and made me all…I dunno…crazy, I guess. I’ve never been looked at like that before. Like I was…like I was a lion in a cage at the zoo, and she was fascinated by me but wasn’t sure she wanted to get too close. So I hit McDermott and she got splattered. Dick move, my bad, what-the-fuck-ever. Thought that was that.”

I tossed the tape from my right hand in a pile on the coffee table, and started on my left hand. “Then I take my cash and head out, pass an alley, and I hear noises. Guys talking shit, a girl’s voice sounding upset. Peeked into the alley, and saw four guys holding down one girl, and having trouble with her. One guy had a knife and was talkin’ mean. They were gonna rape her, all four of ’em, and that shit does not fly with me. So I kicked the motherfuckin’ shit out of all four of ’em. And, let me add, I would have done the same for any woman, rich as hell or not.”

The door opened, then, and Zane swaggered in. He was meticulously clean, except for a spray of blood down one cheek. “Bax, bro, we gotta talk.”

“I am talkin’, Zane. Filling the girls in on what happened.”

“Well, there’s more filling in to do, if you know what I mean.” He sat down on the love seat kitty corner to the couch where I was perched.

Dru and Claire both stared at Zane suspiciously, and then I saw concern flicker across Dru’s face.

“No. No—tell me you didn’t, Zane,” Dru murmured.

He kept his face admirably blank. “Didn’t what, Dru?”

She eyed me, then him. “The fight Bax got in tonight, in the alley. Were you there?”

Zane’s gaze didn’t waver. “At the end, yeah. I wasn’t in on the fun part, though.”

“The fun part?” Dru flicked an eyebrow up. “Would that be the part where four guys almost raped a woman? Or the part where Bax put the hurt on them?”

He held up his hands palms out. “It’s just an expression, Jesus.”

The door opened again, and a massively pregnant Mara stormed in. “Zane, you fucking asshole! It’s two thirty in the fucking morning and I expected you home forty-five minutes ago! I’ve texted you sixteen times, called you four, and you’re sitting here with your brother like it’s no big deal?”

I surged off the couch and moved to intercept. “Mara, babe, cool off. It’s not his fault. He was helping me.”

“Don’t tell me to cool off, Baxter, you fucking cave troll!” She halted, her gaze going from me to Zane, to the pile of bloody tape, to the girls, and then to the unfamiliar Prada purse sitting on the half wall separating the kitchen from the living room, and then to the sound of the shower in the bathroom. “Wait. Helping you with what? Whose pimp-ass Prada purse is that? Who’s in the shower? Because if Brock comes out buck naked again with that dick of his swinging around and I gotta see it again, I’m gonna be pissed.”

Claire snickered. “We should all be so lucky. But no, he’s downstairs behind the bar. You’d have seen him had you not been storming through on the warpath.”

“When Zane ignores me, I get pissed. I’m about to have a baby any day, and he needs to answer me if I’m trying to get a hold of him.”

Zane was off the couch and grabbing Mara, holding her tight against him. “I’m sorry, babe. I wasn’t ignoring you. I just…couldn’t answer right then.”

“And why is that, Zane, pray tell?” Dru asked, her voice heavily inflected with sarcasm.

I eyed my brother. “This may not be the best moment for this discussion.”

Zane shook his head incrementally. “It’s…not like that. Not like you’re thinking.”

We certainly didn’t need the trouble, so just for that reason I hoped I was reading him right. “It’s not?”

“Nope.”

“You two macho fucksticks need to quit talking in riddles and start coming out with explanations,” Dru snapped. “Now.”

Zane sighed, and sat back down, pulling Mara onto his lap. “Okay, here’s the truth. Those four assholes who tried to rape that girl in the fancy clothes—what was her name? Eve? Eva? Something like that. Well…I felt like they needed to be taught more of a lesson than Bax put on them. I didn’t personally do anything to them, though. All I did was make a phone call to a buddy who happens to be in the area on…ah…vacation, let’s say. This buddy of mine specializes in teaching what you might call unforgettable lessons, and in such a way as to make sure none of it ever comes back to any of us.” He waved a hand. “And that’s all any of you need to know, or ever will know.” He said this last part with a finality none of us dared to challenge, even Mara.

“That girl in the fancy clothes is named Evangeline,” I put in. “And she’s here, in the shower.”

A fact I’ve been trying like hell not to think about. Unsuccessfully. I mean, that body? Goddamn. I’d sell a kidney for a single glimpse at that body of hers naked and dripping wet. Her long black hair, soaked and sticking to her tan skin? Those tits and that ass, with water sliding over her lush curves? Those eyes, wide and green and staring up at me as I—

Fuck. No, no, no, nope. Can’t go there.

Down boy, Baxter.

I don’t think Zane missed the way my eyes glazed over, just then.

“Is she, now?” he drawled, smirking. “Interesting.”

“Shut the fuck up, Zane,” I snarled.

“Testy much, Bax?” He chuckled. “Sorry to say, kid, but I think she’s out of your league.”

“There’s no league. It’s not like that,” I insisted. “She needed help, and I helped her. That’s it. Quit riding my dick about it.”

The bathroom door opened, and Evangeline wandered out. Her hair was damp, and blacker than ever, reflecting the light. She had a brush in one hand, and was running it through her hair. I clenched my jaw and curled my hands into fists, because I was about to moan out loud from raw, unbridled lust.

The sweatpants were faded gray, tight around her hips and butt, loose through the legs, and tight around her calves, tugged up to just beneath her knees. The T-shirt was a green, white, and blue Seahawks raglan shirt, and it was cut to fit snug, but it was too small for her, and she wasn’t wearing a bra and this apartment was a little chilly at the moment, and she had tits for fuckin’ days, and I couldn’t breathe because all the blood was flowing to my cock.

Because…

Jesus tits.

Girl had Jesus Tits. Capital letters. Wait, that’s not good enough. All caps: JESUS TITS.

I mean…damn. The Hermes shirt and whatever bullshit bra she’d been wearing before did NOT do her rack justice. I could see them perfectly behind the cotton, their beautiful teardrop shape, heavy and natural and jiggling tantalizingly with each step she took, and her nipples were so hard and sharp they could just about poke straight through the thin cotton. It was an old shirt, well worn, and the cotton was so thin I could almost see the color of her skin, and the pink of her nips…

I was staring like a hormonal teenager at a titty club for the first time. I wrenched my eyes away, but not before meeting hers, and I realized she’d caught me staring. She shifted uncomfortably, pivoting away, her shoulders curling in, as if she was self-conscious, and then she straightened in defiance, her chin lifting, and she turned back to face the room, and me. It took a supreme effort of will to keep my eyes firmly fixed on her eyes as I addressed her.

“Hey, Evangeline. Feeling any better?” I asked.

She nodded, leaning against the wall in the entry of the hallway. “A shower does work wonders.” She eyed the crowd in the living room, which had grown substantially since she got in the shower, now that Mara and Zane had joined Claire, Dru, and me. “What’s…what’s going on?”

“This is an intervention,” I joked. “We’re all here because we’re concerned about you, Evangeline. This is a circle of trust, okay? You can talk to us without judgment.”

She smirked. “I wish I could laugh, but I’ve been on the receiving end of an intervention that started almost verbatim like that.”

I guffawed. “You? Hell, nah. What could you have been into that you needed an intervention?”

She shrugged, keeping a straight face. “You’d be surprised. What if I’m not as straight-laced and fancy as you assume?”

“Ohhhhh-kay, sure. Whatever you say, honey.” I heaped sarcasm into the words.

She couldn’t keep the straight face. “Okay, fine. It was to do with my friends in high school. I was hanging out with some kids from a different group, and my friends held an intervention to remind me of the importance and responsibility of my social standing. It wasn’t seemly for me to be associating with…the unsavory sort.”

“Bet you wish they could get a load of me, then, huh? We could really shock ’em.”

She laughed. “Oh my, they would faint dead away, I think. I doubt they’ve changed much since high school. They still flit around the same town they all grew up in, driving their husband’s cars instead of Daddy’s, spending money and judging people.”

“Sounds like a wonderful bunch of bitches.”

“God, they’re awful. They all nearly fainted the first time I told them I’d refused Thomas’s proposal—” she cut herself off, blushing. “But that’s not important.” She glanced around the room. “I’m Evangeline du Maurier.”

Claire, perched on the arm of the couch near me, slapped my arm. “You’re a mannerless barbarian, Baxter. Seriously. Introductions, maybe?”

I whacked her shoulder back, but gently and playfully, because Claire was all of five feet five inches and weighed maybe one-ten, one-twenty fully clothed and soaking wet and holding a ten-pound bowling ball, and if I smacked her too hard she might go flying through the wall and into the bay, the tiny, svelte, slender little thing that she was. Delicate looking, but fierce and ferocious in personality.

“Yep, mannerless barbarian. That’s me.” I gestured at Evangeline. “Well, like she said, her name is Evangeline du Maurier. Eva, you’ve met Dru, and I know I introduced you properly. The little blonde pixie here by my arm is Claire. Zane is the ugly fucker you’ve already met, back in the alley, my brother. The angry pregnant lady is Mara.

“For reference, Dru is married to Sebastian, the surly cock waffle with all the tats who was guarding the door when we came in. He’s the oldest Badd brother. Zane and Mara are together, and thank god because he knocked her fine ass up real good. Claire is with Brock, who you may or may not have noticed slinging drinks behind the bar, he was the pretty, GQ-looking motherfucker. He’s the next brother older than me, after Zane, who’s in between Brock and Bast—which is short for Sebastian.”

Evangeline looked like her head was spinning. “Wait. There are four of you? And you all look like…that?”

Dru laughed, a genuine belly laugh. “Oh god, Evangeline, honey: there’s eight of them, and yes, they all look like that.”

Evangeline boggled, her mouth opening and closing, no sound coming out. “No way. Nuh-uh. Not possible.”

Dru tugged a slim silver cell phone out of her bra, opened it, tapped a few times, and then handed Evangeline the phone.

Evangeline eyed me, then the phone, and then moved to sit beside me, squishing in between Dru and me. “Who’s who?” she asked, addressing me.

The photo was of the eight of us brothers standing in a line abreast by age with Bast on the far left and Xavier on the far right, our arms around each other from end to end. We’d closed the bar down on a Monday a month or so ago, rented a boat and took a trip to some island or another that Brock and Claire knew about, and we horsed around on the beach and swam in the ball-shrivelingly cold water and made a bonfire. And at some point, the girls had insisted we get a picture of all of us brothers together.

I ignored the way my whole right side was tingling from where her body was brushed up against mine, and tried to keep my eyes on the phone and off her tits; I started on the left and pointed at each of us in turn. “In order from oldest to youngest you’ve got Bast, Zane, Brock, me, Canaan, Corin, Lucian, and Xavier.”

Evangeline just stared for a moment. And then I saw the penny drop. “Wait. Canaan and Corin—Bishop’s Pawn…they’re your brothers?”

I nodded, grinning. “Yep. Talented boys, ain’t they?”

She glanced around the apartment, and then at the door to the downstairs. “So the, um, dingy dive bar they’re playing in?”

“Badd’s Bar and Grill. Family owned and operated since nineteen eighty…um…four? Five? Hell if I know.” I winked at her expression. “We’re the Badd brothers, spelled B-A-double-D.”

“Oh.” Evangeline just shook her head and handed the phone back to Dru. “Well that’s just ridiculous. Nobody needs that much male perfection in one family.”

Claire giggled. “Honey, you ain’t seen male perfection until you’ve seen a Badd boy’s big ol’—” SMACK.

That would be the sound of an issue of ELLE magazine flying through the air, courtesy of Mara, and hitting Claire straight in the face.

“CLAIRE. SHUT—THE FUCK—UP,” Mara said, managing to snap the phrase through grinding teeth. “We just met poor Evangeline. Let’s not shock her all at once, shall we?”

Evangeline was blushing so hard it was a wonder she had any blood left in her body, her cheeks were so red. “I, um. Wow. Okay.”

“Awww, she’s blushing.” Claire grinned, a predatory gleam of her teeth. “I like her. I can have fun with this.”

Mara sighed. “No, Claire. Just…no. Don’t go there. Do not scare the new girl.”

Evangeline eyed them both, and then looked to me for an answer. “What are they talking about?”

I winked at her. “Penises.”

Claire threw the magazine at me, catching me on the jaw with the spine. “Baxter! Don’t shock the new girl! She blushes easily.”

And, indeed, Evangeline was blushing even harder, if that was possible. “This conversation has devolved rather swiftly, I must say.”

I just laughed. “Babe, this conversation hasn’t even gotten started.”

Her perfectly arched eyebrows lifted. “That sounds…worrisome.”

I laughed even harder, because it didn’t seem as if she was trying to be funny, but rather she really was just that…conservative, shall we say. “You have no idea. We’re not very politically correct around here. We’re wildly inappropriate as a rule, we drop F-bombs with horrifying frequency, we drink a shitload of booze on the regular, and we make fun of each other as a lifestyle. If you’re easily embarrassed or shocked…well, babe…you’re in for a hell of wild ride if you’re gonna hang with us.”

“I just…I wasn’t trying to impose or…” she trailed off. “Become the new girl, or anything. It all just happened so fast. I don’t even remember where the B and B I’m staying at is located. It’s been a heck of a long day, and I’m still a little shaken up by what happened, and…”

Dru poured a healthy measure of red wine into the glass she’d been drinking from when we arrived. “The Badd brothers have a way of sucking us poor, innocent, unsuspecting good girls into their dark and dirty orbit. Just how they are. You’re here, you’ve had our booze, you’re wearing my clothes—you’re in the gang now, babe. Better buckle up.” She handed the glass to Evangeline and gently nudged her back down onto the couch. “Don’t worry, between Mara, Claire, and me, we’ll take care of you.”

Evangeline took a big sip from the wine. “This is overwhelming.”

“Isn’t it? And this isn’t even everyone. Bast, Brock, the twins, Luce, and Xavier are all still downstairs working the bar.” Claire reached across me and stole the glass of wine from Evangeline, took a sip, and handed it back. “So. Evangeline. What brings you to Ketchikan?”

She tipped her head to one side. “Well…honestly, I needed to get away from…ah…everything, I guess. Ketchikan was recommended to me by one of my father’s drivers as a remote but nice getaway, and it’s certainly far away from anywhere my father or Thomas might look, so…” She shrugged. “Here I am. As far away from Father and Thomas as I can get, on short notice.”

“So you’re running away?” Claire asked.

Evangeline blinked, hesitating. “Sort of?”

“Fair enough,” Claire said. “Can we go back to you turning down some kind of proposal from this guy Thomas? That sounded like a fun story.”

Evangeline let out a breath. “It’s really not.”

“That sigh says differently,” Claire says. “I’ll trade you stories, if you want. How Brock and I met, for the dish on you and Thomas.”

Another of those sighs, during which Evangeline stared into the ruby liquid in the glass. “Fine. But you go first. I need more wine if I’m going to talk about Thomas.”

Dru tipped the rest of the bottle into the glass, and then glanced at Claire. “There’s another bottle over the fridge. And some whiskey for the boys. Since we’re having an impromptu party in my living room, we might as well make it a proper party.”

In short order, glasses of wine and whiskey were passed around, except for Mara, who sipped on sparkling water.

Evangeline kicked her feet up on the coffee table, crossed her arms over her breasts, keeping her wine clutched in one hand as if holding on to it for dear life. Her thigh and hip were touching mine, and she was slowly leaning into me, letting her shoulder rest against mine. I held still and let her decide on contact, because I didn’t want to read into anything, and I sure as fuck wasn’t going to try anything so soon after what she’d been through. I did like the way it felt to have her this close, though. She smelled amazing, like vanilla and flowers and shampoo; she smelled fuckin’ delicious, is how she smelled, and I wanted to take a little taste of her. Start at the luscious, tanned column of her throat and devour my way downward, inch by inch, until I was between her thighs, and had her screaming my name.

And…fuck—I just gave myself a hard-on. Wonderful. She was sitting right next to me, with my sister-in-law on the other side, and I had a hard-on trying to unfurl behind my fighting trunks, which didn’t do much to hide anything, especially since I’d taken off my cup and jockstrap and was rocking my junk commando.

I tried to casually rest my hands with my glass of whiskey over myself to hide things, but judging by the way Evangeline was blushing and studiously staring into her wine and not looking at me, I think it’s safe to say she noticed.

Claire was talking, and I was mostly listening. I shot a sideways glance at Evangeline, and noticed her gaze sliding, inching, and creeping from her wineglass over to me. I moved my hands away, just a little bit, letting the outline of my cock show, just a hint. And yep, her gaze went right to it. Her knuckles whitened as she gripped her wineglass with one hand and her own forearm with the other.

Her eyes flicked away and up to mine, as if realizing she was staring—which she had been—and I caught and held her gaze.

And then I winked, and her breath stuttered.

This could be fun. I’d have to be cautious, but my interested-female radar was pinging like crazy. Didn’t have to mean anything, and wouldn’t, but it could be fun. If there’s anything I’m good at besides fighting and football, it’s corrupting good girls.

And Evangeline du Maurier seemed like the hottest, sweetest, and most innocent of all good girls.