On the Run with the Bad Boy

By Breezy Spring

Inspiration comes in many forms. For Gail Summer, it takes the form of Derek Kyle, Bad Boy.

The introverted Gail Summer deals in fantasies, writing 'bad boy' books under the name Tempest Winter. But it's only fantasy – all from her imagination – until she meets Derek. Then it becomes all too real as giving this 'bad boy' a lift leads to a wild ride where Gail submerges herself in her lustier, more outgoing alter ego, Tempest, in order to survive.

As she learns more about Derek, Tempest finds herself torn between wanting to stay with a man who makes her feel like a whole woman, and running from a man in his line of work. It appears that her only chance at happiness is to turn him from his path.

Derek wants Tempest from the first moment he sees her. He takes her for what she has to offer at the moment, intending to send her packing when she outlives her usefulness. A growing desire for her makes that more difficult than he expected. However, keeping her will jeopardize a mission he has vowed to complete.

With conflicting goals, only one can win – and only through betrayal of the other. Love can survive terrible trials, but rarely betrayal. Should they survive, will Derek and Tempest find the strength to overcome this?

"On The Run With The Bad Boy": a standalone, full-length 80,000 word Romance novel with an HEA. Has mature content.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Deltonian
• Release date: Sep 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9781516344079

Book preview

1 TEMPEST

Despite what I write, I’ve come to the conclusion that there are no real men out there, men who will force me to feel what I want to feel, who will push past boundaries that I don’t even know I’ve placed, until I’m just a mass of goo in their hands. I dream of it, but I’ve pretty much given up on even the hope of it happening. So, I just do the next best thing: I use my imagination to create the men of my dreams – of so many women’s dreams. And now I needed to invent another one and write him into my next Bad Boy book. It isn’t as easy as it sounds.

My name is Winter, Tempest Winter. Yes, that Winter, the one who became an overnight sensation on the self-publishing e-book market two years ago. My latest Bad Boy book, Bad Boy from Ipanema, has begun rocketing up the sales charts. It’s hot, sexy, and sexy hot. Oh, and well written ... did I mention that? So, what could I possibly need? Yeah, you got it: a man.

No, not a real man – didn’t you read the previous paragraph? – but one of the imagination. And my imagination has let me down. I need inspiration – a face, a picture, a phrase – something to make him come to life. Hell, anything. And then I’m good to go. Once I can see the character in my mind – or in a photo – all the rest seems to come organically.

I sighed over my coffee, and stared at the blank screen of my small notebook computer that stared mockingly back at me. I glanced around to the other patrons of the corner café where I often wrote, but none of them showed any interest in me at all – and why should they? Really, I’m nobody. A Romance writer who lives alone, works alone, and has a social circle of three people – all women. I stared at my computer screen. A Romance writer who can’t find a way to start her new book.

Call me Tempest – hey, it worked for Melville, didn’t it?

I glared at the empty page. I needed inspiration, damn it. Nothing came. I sighed, and looked out the window. My breath caught.

My God, there he stood! A Bad Boy, if ever I saw one. Tall, built, with longish black hair, and with eyes that would melt the ice on a frozen woman’s heart, on my heart. More than that, he stood motionless, looking through the window at me. I gasped. I wanted this man. Too many months had passed since anyone had graced my bed, since my last fulfillment. Then his face went expressionless. Is it me? Is there something about me that he doesn’t like?

But no, he whirled around, and I lost the tunnel vision that he had caused. I saw three men approaching him, and I didn’t like the look of them. Without my being consciously aware of it, I closed my laptop, put it in my shoulder bag that served as both purse and computer carrying case, and clutched that to my not-so-insignificant bosom. Eyes wide, I watched as the man of my imagination stood stalwart as he waited for those three hard-faced villains to come to him.

I leapt to my feet when my guy stepped forward and struck villain number one, on the left. The others cursed – I could hear it even through the window – and jumped forward. I started backing up from my window table, backing towards the door. I wanted no part of this – not even as spectator, safe inside the café.

One of the villains got behind him and grabbed my man around the chest, pinning his arms to his side. I gasped. But Bad Boy used him for a support, lifted both feet, and struck villain number three. That miscreant did a backwards somersault and ended up on his face. The recoil drove villain number two crashing into the window over the table where I had sat just moments earlier. The window shook, but didn’t break. However, the thug lost his grip, and Bad Boy spun around and hit him something fierce in the stomach. The thug doubled over.

Something touched me in the middle of my back, and I jumped, letting out an involuntary little shriek. I gave an embarrassed half-laugh as I realized I’d merely backed into the handle on the door. Escape. I pushed it open, heart pounding, needing to get away. No one else in the café had moved. They watched the action, rapt.

Right outside my place, they’re still there, still fighting, I heard Sam, the proprietor, say into the phone. He gave the address. Yes, hurry, please.

I backed out the door into the sauna that called itself a Toronto summer. I don’t know what possessed me, but I stuck my head around the corner and saw the three villains on the ground with Bad Boy seeming hardly out of breath. In the distance I heard sirens.

I didn’t want to be a witness, so began walking towards where I had parked my car – quickly. I heard footsteps behind me, and sped up a little more, not daring to look around. My beautiful white Smart Fortwo sat at the curb. I walked around it and opened the driver’s door.

Can you give me a lift?

I jumped at his words, and looked up, across the roof of my car. His eyes, those melt-my-heart (and other places) brown eyes twisted something in me.

He tilted his head slightly to the side and gave me a little grin, which did nothing to help my equilibrium. The police are coming, and I’d rather not get involved in an argument about who did what, when.

I heard the words, but my mind only half-listened to them, the other half looking at the strong jaw, the stubble – just like most of my models on the covers of my books wore.

I ... I ... I,  I stammered, shock taking away my ability to speak.

He smiled at me, and my heart pounded, even as my stomach jumped. Tempest would have no problem here. She’d invite him in. I wasn’t Tempest.

Please? he said, and his tone, backed by his smile and those eyes, had me making what would probably turn out to be the biggest mistake of my life.

Get in, I said. I entered and unlocked the other door.

Moments later, he sat in the passenger seat. He looked back as I pulled out into the street. He didn’t even hunch down as, a block later, the cops sped past us towards the coffee shop.

You probably shouldn’t have done it, he said, his voice melting the last tendrils of ice that his eyes had missed. Something in the way he spoke, in the tone, in the rhythm of his words made me think that he didn’t come from around here. One of them saw us, might have gotten your licence plate number. I’m sorry.

I can let you off, I offered reluctantly. Now that I actually had this inspiration-inspiring man in my car, I wanted in no way, shape, or form to do this, to lose the unformed ideas that had started percolating. Always, before, it had come from my imagination, from a picture. This time it was real, he was real. At least I thought he was real and not something my imagination and the heat had cooked up. Impulsively, acting before I thought, I reached over and gave his thigh a little pinch.

He chuckled. I thought you were supposed to pinch yourself.

Not as much fun, I admitted, flushing, not believing what I had just done. His eyes left my face and wandered down. I knew what attracted them. Little bumps showed through my blouse. Were I writing this, his hands – hands that wore no rings, I noticed – would have already moved to claim that which his eyes so desired. Alas, my will alone, though more than sufficient to allow me to reign as absolute dictator over my characters, who obeyed my every whim, could not make this Bad Boy do anything at all. And, as much as Tempest might like that, even the thought of it scared me.

No, it’s too late for that.

Too late for what? My mind had churned far on ahead of whatever conversation he thought we were having. My imagination already had us back at my place! Yes, and there I could use the heat to advantage. He’d have to undress at least a little; I’d have to do so, also – a most reasonable reaction – even if not the real reason for it. Then he could...

Too late for you to let me off. You’ll have to come with me.

Yes! I wanted nothing more than to come with him. Simultaneous orgasm with this hunk sitting next to me sounded like more than a mere possibility, though I’d never experienced it before. I nodded eagerly.

It’s the only way to keep you safe.

Safe? What was he talking about? Condoms? I was on the Pill. Oh, right. Safe. I didn’t want safe. I’d lived my whole life safe. My only excitement came from the words I wrote on the page. They weren’t enough. I wanted to live one of my stories, to play the heroine. Was that Tempest talking or Gail? An amalgam?

Or, I suppose I could— he began.

No! I interrupted, not wanting the dream to end. We’d better stick together. Yes. Stick. Together. Let life imitate art for a change. When I realized what I had just said, I wondered what in blazes I was doing.

He nodded, presumably at the wisdom of my decision.

Okay, he said, looking all the while like a man planning the next year of my life, then we’re on the run. Together.

And it hit me: the title for my next book: On the Run with the Bad Boy. My fans would love it. And reality? Reality would bite them as it now bit me. I knew I had another hit on my hands!

I turned left at the next street, making a list in my mind of the things I’d need if I were to stay with this hunk for the next few days – for research purposes, only. The clothes I’d packed in my little airline travel case wouldn’t cut it. I needed sexy, not practical.

Hey, where do you think you’re going? he asked.

Home. I need some things – we can even stay there the night if you want, throw them off your trail. Yes, and given the extreme heat in the apartment, throw off his clothes and mine, too. And then we could throw off a quicky. What? How had Tempest taken control?

Stop the car, he said.

When I didn’t, he reached over and turned off the ignition. My eyes went wide open. I fought the steering wheel, and pulled over to the curb, where I stopped. I turned to him, to see those melt-your-panties eyes suddenly cold.

What do you think—?

Yes, he interrupted, That’s just it; I think. He pulled the keys from the ignition. Get out.

I had just saved his life, and now he wanted to carjack me? My face fell. My car, my beautiful car, the one that I had dreamed of for so long while sweating over a keyboard, writing, editing, rewriting, polishing, proofing my first several novels – the ones that never made it anywhere. Then came Bad Boys Unlimited, and suddenly I had followers, fans, people actually willing to pay money for my works. I recalled when that first cheque from the on-line book publisher came in. Two hundred and fifty dollars! Real dollars. I paid off a small debt with that one ... and bought myself a hazelnut chocolate bar, an expensive one.

The cheques became bigger and bigger, and soon I had almost paid back my student loans – trust me, a degree in Ancient History doesn’t pay. But they had some hubba-hubba cute bad boys back then! And they served as models for some of my alpha males.

Out! he ordered, breaking my train of thought.

You can’t; it’s not quite paid for, yet. Tears started to form at the corners of my eyes. Couldn’t he see?

But one look at his now stone-cold eyes had me reaching for the handle. I got out, crushed at the thought of my new car – gone. This was reality. And reality bit with sharp teeth. The past few minutes were little more than a fever dream. And now the bastard, the one I’d aided, had decided to steal my car. I’d even lose my travel case. But not my computer. I grabbed my shoulder bag before he could do anything to stop me.

He came around to my side, slipped in the driver’s seat and closed the door, leaving me standing there, shattered. He looked up through the open window.

Well? he asked. Are you getting in, or not?

He gave me the little grin that made my heart beat like a trip-hammer. I ran around the car, only now noticing that he’d left the passenger door open. He’d never intended anything other than changing places with me. I felt like a fool.

The car started moving even as I pulled the door closed. And, at that point I realized I was a fool. Better to have let him just take the car. I could take mass transit until I could afford to buy another one, or insurance paid up.

We can’t risk your place, he told me. Not for the night, not even for five minutes.

Why not? I felt whipsawed between imagination and reality, between what Gail would do and what Tempest wanted. Oh, if you’re wondering, Tempest Winter is my Nom de Plume – my Pen Name for those who don’t speak French. She has her name on the Bad Boy books I write and publish as e-books on Amazon and other e-book retailers. We – she – had just published our latest, The Bad Boy From Ipanema. Another success. Not a surprise, since Tempest had quite a following. They liked the hot, sexy way that Tempest wrote.

Me, I’m Gail. Abigail Summer. Great Aunt Abigail had helped my parents out during the early part of their married life, and they did me the honour of naming me after her. I’d not yet forgiven them for that.

Bad Boy broke into my thoughts.

One of those guys might have gotten your licence plate number. They might arrive there even before we do.

My mouth went dry. That meant they were official – or had an in to the Ministry of Transportation’s motor vehicle files. In either case, that meant real trouble. Now, I just wanted him gone. I didn’t need any more reality. I’d get out the next time the car stopped. But my Bad Boy put his hand over mine the first time I reached for the seat belt release. He shook his head.

No. You stay.

I wanted to argue, but fear had me by the throat – even if he didn’t. I sat paralyzed as he drove out of the city. I didn’t even know where we were. I’d never left Toronto before by car – at least not since my father had died. Grown up and lived there all my life. And I hadn’t seen anything, gone anywhere, done much since I set out on my own. No money. Not until recently. And I’d done little with it besides making plans – like the holiday I hadn’t taken to British Columbia a year ago. And that brought up something else I didn’t want to think about.

I stared at the dash, thinking what a waste my life had been. Twenty-five and probably never to see twenty-six. A writer of Romance novels whose own romances had fallen short, who wrote her fantasies.

It all seemed so little – besides making it possible for me to pay off most of my accumulated student – and other – debts. Just another job, and one that I did alone. I shook my head as I looked up to see unfamiliar streets go by, then looked down again, wondering how I could have been so stupid. For Romance.

But the man sitting next to me, taking me God only knew where, might be that inspiration I’d been searching for.

And, that’s what had brought me to my favourite coffee shop on a muggy Toronto afternoon. Well, that and the fact that the heating/cooling system in my apartment had gone all wonky, and boosted the temperature to over 95 degrees – according to the thermometer on my writing desk. It claimed to tell the temperature in Fahrenheit, but I had a sneaking suspicion that it had switched to Celsius. As I didn’t want to end up Broiled Tempest Steak, I picked up my laptop and hit the street.

I could afford a few days in a hotel, now. Fame and Fortune had brought me that, but the fame and fortune hadn’t brought me what I found missing in my life: a man. And not just any man, but someone who would blow my socks off – and then work his way up.

Yeah, keep talking Tempest, I said sadly to myself. It might all be over soon. Bad Boy remained intent on his driving, leaving me to my thoughts.

My last thoughts? I considered them. Who was I kidding? That was Tempest speaking, her thoughts. She’s the gutsy daredevil, who always knows what she wants, and will go out and get it. Nothing fazes her, and that’s why she’s my super-heroine alter ego. I’m just plain Gail.

As for a man who would blow my socks off? Heck, I’d settle for a man who I could wake up next to, someone who wouldn’t look down on the fact that I love to read and write Romance. In truth, I’ve given up on my dreams; I’d become ready to give fractured reality another chance. Sometimes I even thought of calling up Michael – my ex (with whom I’d planned that vacation to BC, but who had left me long before we were to leave) – to see if he wanted to get back together. But every time my hand reached for the phone, my better sense intervened. I didn’t need that sort of fractured reality again.

I gave a humourless snort. He’d probably come back, now that my writing had started to make me good money – but I doubted that he would accept either that, or the fact that I now brought in a fair bit more than he does in his real job. Real job? As opposed to my fake one?

I looked up and over to the Bad Boy driving my car. My inspiration might just have cost me more than I could afford: everything.

Where are we going? I ventured.

Out of the city, he said curtly.

I could see that. In fact, during my introspection, the city had pretty much disappeared. Bad Boy, however, still looked grim, and I feared to ask another question. I wondered at my stupidity yet again, and looked back down, not wanting to see outside.

A hotel had seemed the ideal solution to the problem of my over-heated apartment. But I had left in the late morning, and didn’t want to have to pay an extra day’s accommodation by checking in this early. So, on my way there I had stopped at the corner café, where I decided to wait until check-in time, and hopefully get some idea of what to write. I had thousands of romance-starved fans counting on me, but no ideas.

What might excite them? I considered those fans. They continually wrote me emails, asking for details about my next Bad Boy book, asking for hints on how to get a Bad Boy for themselves, and asking for my measurements ... and a photo of me, preferably nude.

Those last ones come from men – mostly. I don’t respond to them. Not that I have anything to be ashamed of, but Tempest Winter, as I said, is merely a pen name. And she will remain faceless, anonymous. I don’t want my face – or body – on her books. Let the male readers among my fans – I think they only pick up my books for the sex scenes their girlfriends have told them about – imagine what they will. For some of them, I’m a voluptuous 38D – and I have the emails to prove it – while for others I’m a petite little thing that they could easily lift up, only to lower me down onto their monstrous erections  – I have those emails, too. In reality, I have – as Michael put it – a nice rack. I enjoyed the enthusiasm with which he said it at the beginning of our relationship, but that’s about the only memory of him that I enjoy.

I didn’t want to think of Michael. I thought of my Bad Boys instead. I’ve imagined so many, written their innermost cravings and depraved lusts down on the page, played with their bodies and minds – but only on the page. Now, I needed a new one. Someone not quite like the others, though in the same vein. I felt sure the man next to me could be him. But would I live to be able to use him as the model?

I looked up and saw we were driving out in the middle of nowhere, travelling on back roads that had more than their fair share of potholes. I cringed every time my precious car hit one and jolted us. An old farmhouse came into view, and my Bad Boy turned up the lane that led to it. We stopped in front of a once-red, but now faded and worn, barn. Bad Boy got out and opened the barn door, and then he drove my baby in and turned off the engine.

We got out. The heat didn’t seem so bad in here, but dust motes hung in the air, glimmering in the shafts of light which came through cracks in the walls. It looked like no one had used the place in years. I swallowed. That meant that no one might find my body in years, either.

In the dim light, I saw an old, metallic-blue Chevy. A monster next to my Fortwo. About twice as long and a fair bit wider. Well, it had to be longer – it had a back seat – but this was ridiculous.

Your choice, he said.

Choice?

We can change cars here, and leave yours for you to pick up ... when things get better. He had almost said if instead of when. Or we take a chance and just change licence plates.

I breathed a sigh of relief. He had said ‘we’, had said I could pick up my car later. I’d have to remain among the living in order to do that. I looked at the Chevy – which appeared in excellent condition for something so old – then back to my new Smart Fortwo. I couldn’t make up my mind. If I left the Fortwo, it would stay safe – until someone else found and stole it; if we kept on driving the Fortwo, it might get damaged or confiscated, or something.

I licked my lips. A mistake – or a savvy ploy that I had made unknowingly. His eyes snapped to my face from the cars. He turned, a wicked smile on his lips.

But first, something I’ve wanted to do since I first saw you sitting in that coffee shop.

He took two quick steps towards me; I took a half-step away, but then his arms came around me, trapping me. He bent down and captured my now-moistened lips with his own. I shuddered in both fear and ecstasy. It had happened! I might have written his lines myself.

He nuzzled at my neck, and I tilted my head to the side to give him more room. He accepted it as his due, and began to drive me crazy. I tried