Badd to the bone, p.1
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       Badd to the Bone, p.1

         Part #3 of Badd Brothers series by Jasinda Wilder
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Badd to the Bone

  Badd to the Bone

  Jasinda Wilder


  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13


  Also by Jasinda Wilder

  Chapter 1


  My brothers and I were shooting the shit, hanging out at the bar, slinging drinks, and keeping the patrons happy. Business was so good these days that all of us needed to be here pretty much all the time. For the hundredth time, I wondered how Bast had managed to run this place all on his own after Dad passed away--even with seven brothers on hand, it was all we could do to keep the bar stocked and the food coming. Much to our collective surprise, it turned out that we were pretty good at it; although, it shouldn't have been that much of a surprise, since we'd all grown up in this bar, and we'd all taken turns helping out over the years.

  Bast had just announced last call, and I was about to take a break to call Claire when I heard a loud crash on the stairs leading up to the apartment. Bast and I both ducked under the service bar and went running to investigate--we'd only gotten halfway from the kitchen to the stairs when there was another crash followed by a loud volley of drunken cursing. Bast yanked open the door and we saw our brother Baxter lying upside down on the stairs, his feet facing up, his head facing down. There were several holes in the plaster on either side of the stairwell, presumably from his fists and elbows. He was a bloody mess, barefoot and shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of gym shorts. He had a bottle in his hand, a fifth of shitty tequila which was virtually empty.

  Jesus. What now?

  "Goddammit, Bax," Bast snarled. "The fuck, dude?"

  Bax just moaned, writhing helplessly, and then the bottle went clattering down the stairs, the remains of the tequila glugging out onto the steps.

  Bast shot me a rueful grin. "We're a fucked-up bunch of dudes, ain't we, Brock?"

  I laughed and nodded. "Sure are. Wonder what the deal is here?"

  "Hell if I know. If he's like the rest of us, it could be anything. Who the hell knows what secrets Bax is hiding?" He gestured at Bax with a sigh. "Grab his feet."

  Bast trotted down the stairs, kicked the bottle away and grabbed Bax by the armpits. I hefted his feet over my shoulders and braced his legs, lifting and backing up the stairs in an awkward shuffle.

  "He's fucking heavy, man. Jesus." Bast grunted under the weight of Bax's upper body.

  "He's a monster, all right," I agreed.

  We laid him on the couch upstairs, and then we both stood up, panting like girls.

  "Goddamn, Bax," Bast breathed as he got a good look at him. "What did you get into, brother?"

  Baxter was black and blue from clavicle to ribcage; a mass of gnarly fresh bruises on his abs, chest, and sides. His nose had been broken and never set, his cheekbone was cut open, and he had another cut on his eyebrow. His hands were taped from knuckles to past his wrists, and the tape was fraying and stained rust-colored over his knuckles.

  "He was fighting," I said.

  "No shit." Bast reached forward to grab one of Bax's hands, which was clenched closed into a fist.

  Bax shot upright, swinging his fists in wild haymakers. "FUCK OFF! GET OFF ME! LEGGO!"

  His breath was potent enough that you could probably get drunk from a single whiff at fifty paces, which led me to assume the bottle of tequila on the stairs probably wasn't the only one he'd downed, considering what we all knew of his tolerance--which, in a word, was inhuman. His fist, the one he had clenched closed, connected with my jaw, and I grabbed his wrist in a Judo hold, spinning him and then pinning him face down on the couch.

  "Bax, it's us, it's your brothers," I said. "It's Brock and Sebastian, man. Cool it."

  He went limp, and I let him go as he slowly and laboriously flipped over onto his back. "Duuuudes. Whassup?"

  Bast wasn't amused. "What the hell, Baxter?"

  Bax held up his hand and released his fist, letting a rain of hundred dollar bills flutter onto his chest. "Two words, bitch: prize...fighting."

  "Oh, Christ no," Bast snarled. "You have got to be kidding me."

  "Oh, Christ yes," Bax said with a laugh. "And I'm mothafuckin' unstoppable, yo. I pulled down two G's tonight, baby."

  "Why?" I asked, genuinely baffled as to why anyone would voluntarily have the shit beaten out of them for a couple of grand.

  His glare was dark and furious. "You wouldn't understand." His gaze flicked to Bast. "Neither would you. Nobody would."

  "Try us," Bast growled.

  "How 'bout I don't?" Bax attempted to stand up, but flopped back down. "I just need to crash."

  "You're a fucking mess," Dru said, standing behind the couch and eyeing him, having obviously heard the commotion. "We should get Mara over here to look you over."

  Bax waved a hand dismissively. "Bah. Cuts and bruises. I've gotten hurt worse during practice. It fuckin' tickles, okay?" He scraped up his cash, wadded it in his fist, and rested his forearm on his eyes. "How about we skip the part where you fuckers act like my mommy and just let me sleep."

  Dru sighed and tugged a blanket up to Bax's neck. "You can crash, but you better be nice to me. Don't forget what I'm capable of, asshole."

  Bax eyed her from underneath his thick forearm. "Yes ma'am, madam badass."

  Bast just shook his head and left to go back downstairs.

  I joined Sebastian down in the bar; he had cleaned up the tequila and thrown away the bottle. Thank god it was late enough that Xavier, Luce, and the twins had closed the kitchen and the bar while Bast and I dealt with Bax; Bast cut the others loose and he and I sat at the bar drinking beer.

  "Underground prize fighting? For real?" Bast shook his head again, sighing in frustration.

  "He's always had a violent streak," I said. "He just channeled it into football."

  "And now that's gone." Bast nodded. "So he needs an outlet for whatever's eating at him."

  "We've all got shit to deal with, but this seems extreme."

  "What do we do?" Bast asked, eyeing me. "You know he's gonna keep doing it, and there ain't shit we can do to stop him."

  I shrugged. "Someone's gotta go with him. Have his back."

  "We take turns, maybe? We can all hold our own."

  "I mean, I know you can, and I know I can, and obviously Zane can. Do we need to involve the others, you think?"

  Bast chuckled. "I wouldn't want to meet Lucian in a dark alley, I can tell you that much."

  I frowned. "What do you mean?"

  "That dude who owned the fishing boat Luce worked on? He was this wiry old Brazilian dude. Hard as fuck, man. Like, he was just one of those truly hard, weathered dudes who you just knew would live to be a thousand years old. I was out for a ride on my bike once, back before I sold it. I saw Luce and the old guy on the deck of the boat, doing...what's that gymnastics kickboxing shit? Where they do the upside spinning and stuff?"

  "Capoeira?" I suggested.

  "Yeah, that shit." Bast shrugged. "Plus, Lucian's been all over the world, and I get the feeling he's been in some less than savory situations. Luce can take care of himself, brother. And then some, I'm betting."

  "I had no idea."

  Bast chuckled. "Yeah, well, like I said, it seems all of us have our secrets."

  "What about the twins and Xavier?"

  Bast shook his head. "I dunno about them. I wouldn't put it past Xavier to have secretly mastered ninjutsu or something, you know? He's the type who would do that, just de
cide to take up some obscure martial art just because it sounded cool."

  "And the twins have spent enough time in dive bars that they're probably pretty decent with their fists."

  Another hearty laugh from Bast. "Dude, we're the Badd brothers. We were born shaking our fists at the world. Yeah, those two pretty boys can throw down, I guarantee it."

  "I guess I was less interested in their ability to fight as much as whether or not we need to involve them in this business with Bax."

  Bast tipped his head to one side. "Ahh. That is a different question." He mulled it over. "I think you're right. Let's just pull Zane into this, and go from there, keep it between us four for now."

  Zane pushed through the door at that exact moment. "Pull me into what?" Zane examined the holes in the drywall. "And how the hell did this happen, anyway?"

  "The questions are one and the same," I said. "It seems our dear idiot brother Baxter has decided to try his hand at underground prizefighting."

  Zane slid onto a stool beside me. "He what?"

  Bast took over the explanation. "He stumbled in about thirty minutes ago, crashed all over the stairs, leaving those awesome holes you're fixing. He was fuckin' colossally obliterated, bruised from head to toe and covered in blood, with a fistful of hundreds in his hands."

  Zane blew out a shocked breath. "Damn."

  "Yeah," Bast said.

  "Well, one of us will have to be with him whenever he fights," Zane said. "He needs backup. That shit can get out of hand real fast."

  "You sound like you're talking from experience," I pointed out.

  Zane shrugged. "Spent some time in Thailand between deployments. Me and my squad ended up in this warehouse in the truly abysmal end of Bangkok, watching these Muay Thai guys beat the holy fuck out of each other. Let's just say that when the wrong guy loses, shit can go sideways in a fuckin' hurry."

  "He's not gonna like this," I pointed out. "I can hear him now. 'I don't need you fuckers to babysit me,'" I said, in deep growl meant to mimic Bax's rough, gravelly voice.

  "Tough shit," Zane said. "He ain't got a choice. He wants to fight, he does it with us at his back."

  "Do we tell the girls?" Bast asked. "I mean, Dru already knows, and I'm guessing she'll put up a fuss about also wanting to have his back."

  Zane chuckled. "Not a half bad idea, actually. That woman is truly frightening when she decides to throw down."

  Bast laughed with him. "I wouldn't want her to be at a prize fight like that, but if she gets it in her head to be there, I won't be the one to stand in her way." He laughed again, more ruefully. "I sound like I'm pussy-whipped, but shit, you know as well as I do that Dru can hold her own in just about any situation."

  Zane nodded. "That's not pussy-whipped, that's knowing your woman's skills. She can kick ass with the best of them, and I say that speaking as a trained killer." He lifted a shoulder. "Mara's pregnant, so she ain't getting within ten miles of a prize fight, but I'll tell her what I'm doing. Those girls are all so tight that if I don't tell Mara first she'll be super pissed at me."

  Sebastian turned to me. "Are you going to tell Claire about this?"

  "I want to but, to be honest, with this trip to Michigan coming up, I'm not sure the timing is right. It was all I could do to get her to agree to go and see her dad one last time in the first place. He sounds like a class-A jackass, honestly. I can't help but think that Claire will regret it if she doesn't go and try to make peace with him, though."

  "Well, I don't envy you," Zane said. "You guys have basically just met and this is a shitty thing to have to manage. Just know we're here for you, bro."

  "Absolutely," added Bast. "Say the word and we'll do whatever we can to help."

  "Thanks. I'll only be away for a few days--what could happen in less than a week?"

  Chapter 2


  I watched as Brock stood in front of the mirror, shaving, a white hotel towel cinched low around his waist. His whole jaw was slathered with shaving cream, and he was dragging a big, bulky, expensive-looking razor down his cheek and across his jawline in slow, careful lines.

  The man is a fucking god. For real. Six-one, one-ninety-five and all of it toned muscle. I'm not super attracted to the macho bodybuilder types, which works, because while Brock works out, eats right, and generally stays fit and sexy, he's not a gym rat, and certainly isn't anywhere near as ripped and jacked as his brothers Zane, Bast, and Bax; those boys are true monsters, especially Bax, which is fine for them, and for those who like that look. Bax is hot, don't get me wrong, but that look just isn't for me.

  But Brock? He is truly, deeply, intensely beautiful. Sculpted, chiseled features, brown eyes the exact color of creamy milk chocolate, with thick wavy brown hair that he keeps cut in a classic side part, so a few strands tend to dangle in front of those chocolate eyes. One look at Brock, just from the neck up, and I get a case of the dropsies--as in oops, I drop to my knees. If he takes off his shirt, I get all sweaty and my pussy gets super moist. Once his pants are off and his dick is brought into the picture, all bets are off. I am a goner. He could ask me for anything, do anything to me, and I'd let him. He has complete and total control over me once he is naked.

  But ssshhhh--I haven't exactly told him that yet. Let him figure it out on his own.

  So yeah, I watch Brock shave, and entertain fantasies of ripping that towel off and blowing him while he shaves. I mean, yeah, we did just finish fucking, and he'd already showered and so had I, and I was supposed to be getting dressed because we were going to William Beaumont Hospital in Royal Oak, visit my dad. Who is dying.

  I didn't want to go.

  I wanted to stay in this hotel and fuck Brock.

  I wanted to be back in Ketchikan, with him and his brothers and my BFF Mara, or in Seattle working.

  Anywhere, essentially, but here in Oakland fucking County, Michigan, preparing to visit my dying father, who had disowned me for having a miscarriage.

  I felt the knot of tension and anger and sadness boil up inside me, but I shut that line of thought right down. Brock was going to drag me to the fucking hospital no matter what. He insisted I'd regret it if Dad died before I got a chance to at least try to see him. I wasn't so sure myself. Brock hadn't met the sorry bastard, and I couldn't imagine that he'd changed one iota since I last saw him.

  I let out an irritated breath, and Brock glanced at me, his face half-shaved, the other still white with cream. "What's up, babe?"

  "Oh, you know, the usual." I shrugged. "I don't like this, I wanna go home, I don't care if the old goat dies, yada-yada-yada. Same old, same old."

  Brock rinsed the razor and brought it to his skin for another pass, twisting his face in one of those weird shaving-man grimaces. Even while shaving, he was so damn pretty my ovaries applauded God for creating him. "We've had this discussion a dozen times, Claire. You know deep down this is the right thing to do."

  "It's the sucky, shitty, horrible, painful, stupid thing to do."

  "And the right thing."

  "Have you even met me, Brock? I'm not exactly aiming for sainthood here."

  Brock just snorted gently and kept shaving. I stood up, wearing nothing but an orange thong, and sidled up behind him. He stilled, watching me in the mirror, the razor frozen at his cheekbone.

  "Claire...what are you doing?"

  I slowly pulled the end of the towel free from where he'd tucked it in, and it fell to the floor in a heap of damp, heavy white cotton. "Nothin'."

  He'd just blown his load less than thirty minutes ago, but all I had to do was look at his cock and he'd start hardening. "Claire. Seriously. We've gotta get going."

  I leaned up against him, pressing my tits--such as they were--against his back, and slid my palms under his arms, caressing his chest, and then his stomach, and then down his thighs. He was well and truly erect at this point. The sink and counter came to just below his navel, and his cock stood hard and glorious, a thick, straight marvel of manhood. Brock
was perfect. Big enough that he filled me and stretched me and made my eyes bug out in shock every time he drilled into me, yet not so big it actually hurt.

  I wrapped my hand around his perfect penis and stroked him gently, peering around his sculpted-from-marble bicep in the mirror, watching my tiny pale little hand slide up and down his huge golden cock. "This is better, isn't it?"

  "Claire, damn it."

  "Is that like goddammit?" I asked.

  He heaved a deep breath and attempted to pretend I wasn't doing anything; he drew the razor carefully down his cheek, rinsed it, and scraped down once more. Then he tilted his head to one side and pulled the razor upward from his neck toward his ear.

  "Yes," he grated through gritted teeth. "Claire-damn-it. You can't weasel your way out of this."

  "I'm not weaseling." I brought my other arm around his body and did the thing he liked best: hand over hand, slowly, each hand gliding in a tight, slow squeeze from tip to root, one hand and then the other in a rolling continuous stroke. "Does this feel like weaseling?"

  "It feels like you trying to distract me."

  "Maybe," I admitted. "Is it working?"

  "No." He went back to shaving, and he was taking more time with each stroke now, because he had to focus harder. "Not working."

  Time to switch tactics. I cupped his balls in one hand and used my middle finger to massage his taint, worming my way toward his prostate. He wouldn't let me really massage his prostate yet, but I was working on it. I could get my finger close, but then he'd chicken out before I could manage insertion. Someday, though. For now, a nice firm taint-massage would do the trick. One hand gliding up and down his lovely cock, my boobs rubbing against his back, all happening in the mirror where he could watch? Oh yeah.

  Hot. Really hot.

  Shit, it was hot to me, and I was only doing this to try to get out of having to go to the damned hospital.

  "Shit!" Brock snapped, and my gaze lifted to his.

  He'd cut himself underneath the jaw, a thin red line beginning to appear. He reached over and ripped a square of toilet paper free and dabbed the spot. "You made me cut myself. Happy now?"

  I lifted up on my tiptoes, grabbed his neck to pull him down, and kissed the spot, all without missing a beat in my stroking of his cock. "I'd never be happy about you getting hurt."

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