Bad Boys for Hire_Nick Page 3

  “Whoa, hold it,” Nick said. “No offense, but I’m not going to the police academy, and I’m not going to play Santa at any nursing home.”

  “Whatever.” His brother clamped his shoulder. “You have until February to find a place to live.”

  That was when the baby would arrive, and Nick’s room would turn into the nursery.

  “Baby’s kicking up a storm,” Heather exclaimed, dropping her knitting.

  Both men rushed to her side and palmed their hands over her belly. The baby rolled and poked, kicked and stretched.

  “Feels like a linebacker in there,” Sam said.

  “Or a hockey forward,” Nick countered.

  “She’s a black belt in karate.” Heather made a chopping motion.

  Sam bent over and kissed the top of Heather’s belly. “Definitely, football.”

  Nick couldn’t help noticing the smile on his brother’s face and the love he had for his wife and baby.

  Sam always knew what he’d wanted to do. Sam was the traditional one. The eldest son, steadfast and reliable, and Sam was a family man.

  Not so Nick. If Sam was the good sheep, Nick was the bad.

  That woman in the wheelchair had had him pegged: arrogant, overly masculine, extreme hunkoid, testosterone pumped, sex stud. So fine on the outside, and not the least bit nice on the inside.

  Carol drove herself home in her modified minivan which was fitted with hand controls. When she’d told Marisa she was skipping out, her stepsister hadn’t volunteered to go home with her. Not that she needed her.

  Marisa wanted to join the Bumblebees, and whenever Carol was around, she felt obligated to hover near her. On the surface, she’d told all the relatives that she was staying with Carol to help her with her day-to-day activities.

  In reality, Marisa wanted a place to live while she hunted for a boyfriend. As soon as she found one who was willing to let her move in, she would be gone, and Carol would have her privacy back.

  Her stepsister was the daughter of her stepfather, so they didn’t grow up together, but were only acquainted from the few vacations and holidays when she spent it with her dad. Carol would definitely not miss her if she moved out.

  Carol picked up the mail and sorted through them. Mostly bills, advertisements, and a few Christmas cards and newsletters. She smiled as she read the updates from her friends from college.

  Natalie had climbed to the Mt. Everest base camp.

  Lauren did the Inca trail to Machu Picchu.

  Wendy was having her second baby.

  Serena had gone scuba diving in Thailand.

  Gina was engaged and wanted her to be in the bridal party.

  Carol shoved the letter aside and picked through the junk mail, tossing them into the bin. Gina was her college roommate, and she couldn’t turn her down, but at the same time, everyone would be staring at her in her wheelchair, and she’d ruin the wedding pictures.

  At least she hadn’t asked her to be maid of honor.

  Carol was both relieved and disappointed. Back in the day, they’d made a pinkie promise to be each other’s maids or matrons of honor.

  Back then, everything had seemed possible.

  Carol picked up Natalie’s newsletter and scanned the photos. Everest base camp was still a significant accomplishment, and she planned to scale the summit next year.

  I miss you, Natalie wrote. When the season opens again, I’m dedicating my climb to you.

  Carol’s fist tightened as a pang of jealousy boiled deep in her belly. Dedicating her climb to me. How dare she?

  They were supposed to have done it together. Training with lesser peaks and saving money for the ultimate climb.

  She stared at Natalie’s beaming face as she stood on top of a peak. She should be happy for her friend. Proud of her for making it to the base camp. It was an accomplishment, and if anyone deserved to make the summit, it was Natalie.

  Carol flipped through the cards and letters and hated herself for being petty and jealous. It wasn’t her friends’ fault she was now stuck in a wheelchair. Their lives went on, and she should be happy for them.

  What kind of monster was she to let her first emotion be envy and jealousy? Resentment of their successes.

  Gina was getting married. It was wonderful news.

  She should wish Wendy an uneventful pregnancy and a healthy baby.

  Lauren had fulfilled a dream to see Machu Picchu. Serena had gotten her diving certification.

  Good news. All good news, and that was what any normal person would have wanted to hear from her friends.

  Carol pressed on a smile and forced herself to read the letters, hating that she felt a twinge of satisfaction when Lauren reported that her boyfriend had broken up with her.

  She closed her eyes and clutched her heart. “What is wrong with me? Just because my life is fucked up and miserable doesn’t mean I should be glad someone else is screwed.”

  The apartment door clicked and footsteps approached her.

  Carol startled and opened her eyes. Her brother, Ken, stood in front of her. Here was another paragon of youth and health. Blond, fit and tanned, able-bodied enough to carry her up Half Dome and take her surfing on his back. And happy as a lark, being newly wed with a baby on the way.

  Unfair.

  “You okay?” He put his hand on her shoulder. “I came to check on you.”

  “I’m fine.” Carol slipped the letter into its envelope. “Just a little tired from the rehearsal.”

  “Too tired to have dinner with us?”

  “I’m not very hungry.” Carol wheeled herself toward the kitchen. “I can fix myself a salad.”

  “I know you can.” Ken followed her. “But Jolie said you had some kind of run in with the Santa Bad Boy, and I want to know what he did to you.”

  “He didn’t do anything.” She opened the refrigerator and extracted a bag of prewashed greens. “I just want some peace and quiet.”

  “Since when?” Ken parked himself in front of her. “You’re the life of the party. I know how much you were looking forward to planning every detail of the toy drive. If that Santa insulted you, just hire another one.”

  “I have to use the coupon before it expires,” Carol said. “Besides, he’ll do. Marisa likes him, and so do the other girls. If you’ll excuse me, I want to eat dinner by myself and retire to my room. I’ve had a long day.”

  “Okay, sis. Anytime you need me, just holler.” Ken bent over and kissed the top of her head.

  She hated him kissing the top of her head, but she looked up and beamed him a smile. “Sure. Thanks for coming by. You’re the best.”

  “So are you.” He grinned and waved, then walked out the door.

  And that was the way it always was. Faking it until someday, she hoped, she’d finally make it.

  Although what it was she hoped to “make” was beyond her grasp. She couldn’t undo what had happened. She would never live a normal life again. Ever.

  Five

  The afternoon of the party was hectic, as Carol supervised the decorations for the toy drive. The Club Rachelle was a biker bar in Foster City owned by the notorious Axe Salvadori, a secretive guy with mysterious friends.

  Carol hadn’t been gung-ho on having the children from her adaptive sports program, Wheelympics, at the biker bar, but Axe was buddies with Ryker Slade, Terri’s husband, and he allowed them to have the venue for no charge, other than cleanup.

  Besides, what could go wrong? The bar was usually closed all day Sunday, so none of the usual crowd would be hanging around.

  Carol maneuvered around the black leather covered barstools and approached the curved chrome bar where Sherelle was setting out trays of finger foods, snacks, and nonalcoholic drinks.

  “Make sure you have the gluten-free snacks at the end of the bar,” Carol reminded. She hated that she had to crane her neck to talk to everyone, and from her vantage point, she couldn’t see the bar top. “You’re sure there are no peanuts or tree nuts?”

&nbs
p; “I’ve got it.” Sherelle rolled her eyes. “I’ve been buddies with Jolie since before kindergarten. I’m sure none of the kids have more allergies than her.”

  “They’re all on various medications to help their conditions,” Carol replied, not wanting to go into the slew of medications a person with a spinal cord injury depended on to regulate vital bodily functions.

  “Aye, aye, Captain.” Sherelle saluted. “Everything’s the way you specified. By the way, if you need a date to the Bumblebee Christmas Gala, I’ve got the perfect guy. He’s a software engineer, too. You two will like each other.”

  The Christmas Gala was going to be held at Jolie’s parents’ country club, and was all the Bumblebees had been talking about. It was the culmination of the fundraising the Bumblebees had done throughout the year, where they would present their chosen charity with the funds. Carol hoped it would be Wheelympics, but there were other worthwhile contenders.

  “I’ll bring a date only if you do.” Carol wagged her finger. “And don’t try and set me up with Gage. He’s your best friend. Why don’t you date him?”

  “Date my best friend?” Sherelle’s nose pinched. “That would be like kissing my own brother. Ewee.”

  “Gage doesn’t look at you like a brother does, that’s for sure.” Carol couldn’t believe how oblivious Sherelle was. Gage Swanson was not only a computer whiz, but moonlighted as an exotic dancer. Which, she supposed, was reason enough for a sensible woman like Sherelle to keep him at arm’s length.

  “Just because he’s white and I’m black doesn’t mean we’re not tight like brother and sister,” Sherelle said. “Gage and I go all the way back to the crib. Our mothers were college roommates. We danced together in diapers, and there’s even a video to prove it. We had chickenpox together, and I know every embarrassing thing about him. Trust me. There’s no chemistry. No spark. No magic, when you’ve known a guy since he was in diapers.”

  Sherelle protested too vehemently, and Carol kept her chuckles to herself. “Now that I have the image of Gage in diapers, I don’t think I can ever take him seriously either.”

  Gage was hot, but not what Carol was looking for. But then again, what was she looking for, or even had the hope for?

  Before she was injured, Carol had several men she dated off and on—possibilities and bed partners. Unfortunately, things got awkward after she found herself paralyzed, and she lost touch with the group she hung around with—climbers, mountain bikers, and downhill skiers—all the extreme sports types where she being in a wheelchair was a constant reminder of how easily life could snap in two.

  “Oh, look, there’s the Santa guy,” Sherelle said, glancing over Carol’s shoulder toward the door.

  No way was Carol going to turn around and look. That would be stupid and make the man even more arrogant.

  “Is he wearing his costume?” she muttered to Sherelle.

  “Nope, he’s half naked. Mmm, mmm, mmm.” Sherelle made an exaggerated sweep of the man’s body. “Aren’t you going to look?”

  Carol gritted her teeth and kept her head turned toward Sherelle. Her shoulders tingled, and she could feel him bearing down on her. A bar stool squeaked as he shoved it out of his way, and his steps were steadily getting closer.

  Sweat tingled on the tip of Carol’s nose, but she wasn’t going to give the oversized hunkorama beefcake any sense of satisfaction that she cared one way or the other that he was half naked.

  “Which half?” she whispered under her breath.

  Sherelle cackled, bending over and slapped her thighs. “Which half? Look at you. Just remember he’s an ass, and way below you in intellect. He’s an entertainer. One step above a male prostitute. Which half? Ha, ha, ha.”

  “Glad you’re so entertained.” Carol jolted when a hot, firm hand clasped her shoulder.

  “Boss lady.” Nick’s deep voice drew shivers over the back of her neck. “I had a bit of a problem with the beard. No one has yak’s belly hair in stock. Everyone from Hobbits to Gandalf to Chewbacca to all the bearded costumes for Game of Thrones characters have used up the world’s supply of yak’s belly hair.”

  Slowly, Carol turned her face toward the insolent Santa. What the eff?

  He was sporting a dark five o’clock shadow and a smirk as wide as the Mississippi. He wore a tight fitting stretch tank, and his right shoulder was inked with a politically incorrect tattoo of a Native American chief in full eagle feather headdress.

  “Are you for real?” Her voice rose shrill and critical. “You look nothing like Santa Claus.”

  “Try Sexy Claus.” Nick’s eyebrows wiggled. “I can’t help it if the beard’s on backorder.”

  By now, the rest of the Bumblebees had gathered around. Terri dragged a garland of holly while Leanna abandoned the sheet cake on the reception table. Jolie waved a makeup brush, and Nikki was busy snapping photos of the scene.

  “Santa Claus has to have a beard,” Jolie said. “He won’t be real without one.”

  “Who says?” Nick put his hands on his hips and glared at her. “I’m a Native American Santa. I don’t need a beard.”

  “I’m the boss, and I say you need a beard.” Carol jutted her chin at the troublemaker.

  “He’s got a point,” Nikki said, taking a picture of Carol. “Who says Santa has to be a stereotypical old, fat, white man with a full white beard?”

  “Who says?” Carol’s blood pressure rose. “I say, because that’s what the children are expecting. This gig isn’t about you or me. It’s for the children. Most of them are newly injured. This is their first Christmas in a wheelchair. Do you want to ruin it for them?”

  “Okay, okay, just saying,” Nikki pointed the camera lens at Nick. “I love that tattoo. Ancestor?”

  “Chief Joseph Running Wolf, my great-grandfather.” Nick proudly displayed his ink.

  The Bumblebees, minus Carol, ohhed and ahhed, and crowded around Nick. Leanna had the gall to touch and stroke his tattoo while pretending to admire the artwork.

  Carol was left out. Her chair was so bulky that there was no way she could unobtrusively sidle up to Nick and run her fingers over the eagle feathers in the name of art appreciation, not that she was appreciating his insolence and attitude.

  “Tell me something, Nick Wolff,” she snapped. “Why do you have an extra ‘f’ at the end of your name?”

  “Easy. My father left the reservation and never looked back. My mom’s family is German, so adding the ‘f’ let us blend in better.” Nick shrugged and beamed his dark brown eyes at her. “Any other questions?”

  “You’re fired, unless you come back with a white beard.” Carol narrowed her gaze and glared at him.

  “Is that all you can say? You’re fired. You’re fired,” Nick muttered. “Whose apprentice are you?”

  Why that disrespectful son of a …

  “Maybe we can figure something out.” Leanna got between Carol and Nick. “How about if I squirt frosting on his face?”

  She pointed her pastry bag at Nick’s generous mouth and painted a line over his upper lip.

  Every woman’s thoughts turned to licking, as their tongues darted across their lips—including Carol’s.

  Mesmerized, she watched Nick’s long tongue clear the white frosting off his surly upper lip. He made sure to smack his lips well and good.

  “Oh … let me try that again,” Leanna said, reaching up with her pastry bag.

  “Stop playing around,” Carol shouted, bumping Leanna with her wheelchair. “The kids will be here any minute now, and we have to do something that works.”

  “I don’t suppose pasting white carnations would do the trick,” Terri, the florist, said.

  “How about cotton balls?” Jolie, the makeup artist, said. “I have a load of them in my kit.”

  “Do you have glue?” Carol latched onto the idea quickly.

  “Sure, false eyelash glue.” Jolie grabbed Nick by the arm. “Let’s go to the storeroom and get you fixed up.”

  “Wait, I’m not
wearing a cotton ball beard.” Nick jerked his hand from Jolie. “This is nuts.”

  Carol’s heart leapt at Nick’s refusing Jolie. No one could miss the large rock her brother had given his bride. Nope. If anyone were putting cotton balls on Nick, it would be Carol, who was not only single and unattached, but also the boss of this shindig.

  “No beard, no job,” Carol said. “Since I’m the boss, I will stick the cotton balls on your face. Jolie, get the balls and glue, and meet me in the storeroom.”

  “I should do it,” Jolie said. “I’m the makeup artist. Once I’m done, no one will be able to tell what kind of beard he has.”

  ”You’re busy doing stage makeup for the dancers.” Carol butted into Jolie with the rim of her wheel. Didn’t she remember she was married to Ken? Why should she get the fun of sticking balls onto Nick’s face when she’d already snagged her man?

  “I’ll do it,” Terri said. “Carol has so much to keep track of.”

  “I can help,” Leanna chimed in. “Nikki too. Many hands make short work.”

  “Whoa, ladies.” Nick held out his hand to fend off his attackers. “I am not a short work, not by a long shot, and I think it’s best if Miss Cassidy helps me.”

  Carol jerked her head to face the dastardly demon. Why would he want her help? Did he think to pull a fast one over her because she couldn’t use her legs?

  Nick gave her a slow wink and put his hand on the back of her wheelchair. “Show me where the cotton balls and glue are, and let’s get this over with.”

  Six

  Nick had the hardest time keeping a straight face as he watched Carol’s eyes pop out with shock and awe at him volunteering to allow her to glue cotton balls onto his face. That woman was so attracted to him, she would lick the floor he walked on. At the same time, she tried too hard to hide it.

  As for her friends, they meant well, but it seemed as if no one thought Carol could do such a simple task. Gluing cotton balls to his face didn’t require functioning legs.