Wife Me Bad Boy

  Wife Me Bad Boy

  Chance Carter

  Copyright © 2015 Chance Carter

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  This work is presented by the author.

  To get in touch please contact: chance@chancecarter.com

  ISBN 978‐1‐927947‐53‐1

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Quote

  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

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Bonus Book - Bad Boy Daddy

  Back Matter

  *

  “EVERY ATOM OF YOUR FLESH IS AS DEAR TO ME AS MY OWN: IN PAIN AND SICKNESS IT WOULD STILL BE DEAR.”

  Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre

  *

  “EACH TIME YOU HAPPEN TO ME ALL OVER AGAIN.”

  Edith Wharton, The Age of Innocence

  *

  “I WANT TO DO WITH YOU WHAT SPRING DOES WITH THE CHERRY TREES.”

  Pablo Neruda, Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair

  *

  “TO LOVE OR HAVE LOVED, THAT IS ENOUGH. ASK NOTHING FURTHER. THERE IS NO OTHER PEARL IN THE DARK FOLDS OF LIFE.”

  Victor Hugo, Les Misérables

  *

  “ONE IS LOVED BECAUSE ONE IS LOVED. NO REASON IS NEEDED FOR LOVING.”

  Paulo Coelho, The Alchemist

  *

  “I LOVE YOU LIKE A MAN LOVES A WOMAN HE NEVER TOUCHES, ONLY WRITES TO, KEEPS LITTLE PHOTOGRAPHS OF.”

  Charles Bukowski, Love is a Dog from Hell

  *

  “IT DOESN’T MATTER WHO YOU ARE OR WHAT YOU LOOK LIKE, SO LONG AS SOMEBODY LOVES YOU.”

  Roald Dahl, The Witches

  *

  Chapter 1

  Grant

  YOU WANT TO KNOW THE TRUTH ABOUT MEN? You want to know what we really think?

  All right, I’ll tell you, but you might not like it.

  Men hate weddings.

  There, I said it.

  I feel bad, I know it’s a really special day for every girl that ever dreamed of being a bride, but it’s the truth, and you’re better off hearing it from me now than some other guy later.

  Men despise weddings the way women despise breakups, or being cheated on, or growing old. Weddings go against everything we stand for, threaten our very view of the world, and our place within it.

  I’m not just speaking for myself. It’s not just me who thinks this way. It’s all men. Every last one of us hates weddings. It’s practically a requirement for being a man.

  Think about it.

  How do we like to view ourselves? How do we really like to imagine the way the world sees us?

  A sailor, coasting into the sunset. A pirate on the High Seas, just us and our ship against everything the ocean has to throw at us. A cowboy, alone on our horse, riding into town and every women in it looking our way. A biker, cruising the open road, the wind in our hair and the sun on our face.

  It probably sounds stupid, but it’s the truth. We’re simple creatures. We like simple things.

  Just me and my horse and my gun, baby. Just me and my ship and my compass. Just me and my bike and a tank of gas. Hell, you don’t even have to get that fancy. Just me and my truck and my dog, baby. How’s that?

  It’s the way we’re built. We’re strong. We’re rugged. We stand alone.

  Rocks. Islands. Mountains.

  That’s how we see ourselves. And there’s no room in there for flower arrangements and party favors and violin music.

  Hell. A wedding comes along, dresses you in a goofy suit, sticks a flower on your lapel, puts a ring on your finger. It’s like having your nuts cut off with a blunt razor.

  It’s literally painful to watch, even when you’re not the one on the chopping block. We watch our buddies getting married and we shake our heads. “Never me,” we say. “You won’t catch me going down without a fight. I’m the lone fucking ranger. It would be a crime to hang up these spurs.”

  We watch our friends get married like they’re volunteering to be neutered. And we’re all thinking the same thing. How can he do it? How can he give up so much life, so much adventure, just to be someone’s husband? Has he lost his mind?

  And I know what you’re going to say. I’ve heard it all before.

  It’s love. Love overcomes everything. Love conquers the world. Love makes you want to spend your whole life with that one special someone, that one woman who lights up your world like a Christmas tree.

  Maybe I just don’t get it. Maybe it’s me. I mean, you see other men getting married every day and they seem happy enough. They seem to be going along willingly.

  Maybe I’m just a big, fat, stinking idiot. It wouldn’t be the worst thing someone called me. But if being an idiot is the price for maintaining my freedom, I’ll pay it. I’ll pay that price any day of the week.

  So mark these words. I, Grant Lucas, will never get married. You will never see me standing at the altar, a cheesy grin on my face, a violin wailing in the background, saying “I do”.

  I Do Not.

  How’s that for being clear?

  And if you ever see me about to tie the knot, do me a huge favor. Do me this one, almighty solid.

  Shoot me in the face.

  Chapter 2

  Grant

  BUT MAYBE THERE’S SOMETHING I’M missing, because even though I’m a sworn bachelor, every once in a while I get a glimpse of a different world. A place that’s warm, and safe, and tender, and full of love.

  And I know I’ve said my share about weddings, but the day Jackson and Faith tied the knot was different.

  Jackson looked happy. As much as it pains me to admit it, the man had a smile on his face like he’d pulled off some secret coup. He looked happier than I’d ever seen him, and we’d been through it all together. He waited a long time for that day, and he was about to marry the woman of his dreams, the woman who’d given him a child, the woman who’d been so faithful to him for twelve long years. She was so loyal even her name was Faith. And they were finally tying the knot.

  Even I could admit it was a good story, painful and difficult, full of danger and despair, but full too of hope and joy, laughter and tears, and most important of all, love.

  Maybe I was getting soft, but it touched me.

  Jackson was the best friend I ever had, and he was finally getting the happiness he deserved. The happiness he’d earned. It was almost enough to make me forg
et myself and shed a tear.

  Almost.

  I mean, like I said before, weddings aren’t exactly my thing.

  The bride was beautiful. You have to say that, you can’t say anything else about a bride, but Faith truly was beautiful. She looked the way only a bride can on that one day when she marries the man she loves. When I saw her I thought she was an angel, dressed all in white, the light on her silk dress making it glow like it was on fire. She’d waited twelve years for that day, and it pulled at my heart strings to watch it all come together for her. It gave me hope for the future.

  Sam looked better than I’d ever seen him. He was doing so well since Jackson’s return. It made me realize the importance of a father in a boy’s life. Now that his parents were getting married, he looked like all his dreams were coming true. He was a good kid and I was proud to call myself his godfather. I almost teared up when I saw the look of amazement in his eyes when he saw his mother in her beautiful dress.

  Almost.

  Like I said, I’m not the type to get sentimental at a wedding.

  But looking at the way Sam loved his parents, and seeing that he would now have the family he’d always wanted, it was almost enough to bring me to tears.

  Sam helped his daddy fix up the old hacienda. He worked hard on it. We all did. And the three of them would be happy in that house. I knew it.

  And Jackson? I swear to God it was the first time I ever saw him nervous, and I’ve known him a very long time. I nodded to him reassuringly as we stood there with the priest, waiting for the bride.

  Yes, sir. The day of Jackson’s wedding was the happiest of his life.

  But would you believe me if I said it was also the happiest day of my life?

  Crazy, right?

  Unbelievable.

  I’d have said the same thing.

  I’m no pushover. I’ve been around the block. I’ve seen and done things that would give most men nightmares. I live my life on the edge, skirting the law, making my own rules. I’m not the kind of guy you’d expect to get emotional at a wedding. Shit, I don’t even believe in weddings. I won’t bore you with the statistics, we all know them, but I think it’s clear that you’re more likely to get hit by lightning, or win the lottery, than end up in a happy marriage.

  A good marriage is a lot harder than most people realize. A strong relationship takes everything, and it’s rare to find someone willing to give everything these days.

  So I tend to look at weddings as just one more fairy tale, left over relics from a time when people were simpler and more naive.

  True love and devotion for a life time? Please. It’s about as common as a prince rescuing a princess from a dragon.

  So why was I tearing up?

  Why, as I stood there next to Jackson and the priest, romantic music serenading us, did I feel like I was about to burst into tears?

  Let me give you some background.

  I’m not a small man. I’m what you might describe as husky, or brutish, or gruff. While some men’s bodies seem like they’re chiseled from marble, mine looks more like it was hewn from solid wood. While some men might write you a love poem, or sing you a song, I’m more likely to cut you down a tree, or maybe haul rock.

  I’m big. I’m course. I’m rough.

  I’ve got muscles that sometimes cause my shirts to rip.

  I’ve got tattoos that get me kicked out of fancy restaurants.

  When a cop sees me on the highway, I get pulled over. I always get pulled over.

  When I walk into a bar, everyone goes silent.

  My mother knew it the day I was born. She said that instead of naming me after something sentimental, she named me after the land deed from the State of Montana granting our family the ranch.

  Grant. Grant Lucas. Tough, bold, lawless.

  All of which is to say, when Lacey Eden came walking down the aisle ahead of Faith, dressed in a light blue silk dress, her blonde hair shining like it was made of pure gold, the tears in my eyes surprised me more than they surprised anyone.

  Naturally, everyone assumed I was crying at the bride. She was beautiful. I’m not kidding, Faith looked beautiful.

  But Faith wasn’t the reason I was crying. Hell no. She was Jackson’s girl.

  The reason my eyes were full of those ridiculous tears, the reason I suddenly couldn’t hold myself together, the reason I looked like a bumbling idiot in a suit and tie picked out for me by women, was Lacey.

  It was always Lacey.

  She was doing what she’d always been able to do to me. She was taking my breath away.

  And I felt as if she was coming down the aisle toward me.

  Chapter 3

  Lacey

  GRANT WAS CRYING.

  Did you hear what I just said?

  Grant was crying.

  Grant never cries. I’ve known him practically my whole life. He was the first member of the Brotherhood my father brought to live with us at the mansion. Since the moment my father introduced us, seventeen years ago, I’d never once seen him cry. Not even at my father’s funeral, and he regarded my father as dearly as his own.

  Not that we were like siblings or anything. Hell no. Grant was twenty-one when my father found him. He was a grown adult the first time I set eyes on him. He was a man then, and he was a man now. He’d always been all man.

  Back then, he was the best safe cracker on the west coast. My father brought him to live with us mostly to keep him out of trouble. He was too talented to end up in a prison cell, my father said. And that was pretty much how the Brotherhood started out.

  First with Grant, and later with Jackson, Forrester, and Grady, my father had a habit of taking in strays and giving them the guidance they hadn’t found elsewhere. It was a weird way for me to grow up, surrounded by thieves, but it sure was interesting. The boys, the brothers, as we called them, were all talented thieves, brave criminals, and they weren’t afraid to put their neck on the line to do what was required. If it wasn’t for my father, they might all have ended up as common criminals. But the way my father trained them, they realized that a talent for stealing large sums of money could be used for good just as effectively as evil. My father taught them that the world was full of corporations and rich men that had more money than they needed or deserved. If someone was willing to take that money and spread it out among the people who really needed it, they’d be performing a valuable service.

  And it all started with Grant. My father never intended for it to grow, but by the time he passed away, there were four brothers, and to this day they’re the only family I have. Well, them, and Faith and Sam.

  I felt self-conscious as I walked down the aisle. Faith insisted I have the honor of preceding her, and she would be following me down the aisle in a moment. Faith’s own family had let her down badly in life and wouldn’t be attending the wedding. To be honest, I wasn’t even certain if her parents were still alive. She never spoke of them.

  I never knew my own mother, she died of cancer a year after my birth, but for this special day I was wearing her wedding dress. It was light blue. As I stepped carefully along the aisle, beautiful music playing, I imagined what it would be like one day to get married myself. If that day would ever come.

  I looked ahead. Jackson was there of course, with the priest, and standing next to him, tall and strong and handsome as ever, was Grant.

  And he was crying.

  Just a little, a few tears that barely filled his eyes enough to spill down over his cheeks, but they were there.

  He was crying.

  He was the best man, I was the maid of honor, and for a brief second, I felt as if I was walking down the aisle toward him. As if he was my husband-to-be, waiting at the altar for his bride.

  It was a foolish thought. Grant would never be a groom.

  I remembered as clearly as if it was yesterday, the day my father brought him into our home.

  I was seventeen, a high school junior. I spent my time listening to Joy Division and New Order
. My favorite movie was The Breakfast Club. I wore my hair like Blondie. I can’t imagine what Grant thought of me when he met me, but for my part, I was instantly and completely taken by him. He was like no one I’d ever seen before. His size, his sheer strength, startled me even then. It was like the time when I was a child and my father took me to the zoo, and for the first time I saw the majesty and power of a grizzly bear.

  There was something noble, but also sad and lonely, about the depth and darkness of his eyes.

  I was so taken by him I couldn’t get him out of my mind. I did all the things girls do when they’re infatuated. I drew pictures of him in my diary and practiced writing my name as Lacey Lucas. I concocted detailed imaginary situations in which we confided our love to each other. I watched him wistfully as he did his chores around the vineyard, learning the ropes, helping my father. It was during those long days of work that my father taught him he could use his talents to help people as well as steal money. It was a revelation to Grant, who’d never thought of using his skills for the benefit of others.

  It was during those months that I first realized I was a sexual person. There was a desire flowing through me that was so powerful, so filled with longing and passion, that it startled me.

  Usually at the end of the work day, especially when it was hot and the sun beat down on them mercilessly, Grant would shower by the barn with an old garden hose. I’d watch him rip off his shirt and hose down his strong, sweaty muscles, and ashamed as I am to admit it, he made my panties wet. God, it was a delicious torture. To be that close to something so beautiful, so sexy.

  At night, I dreamt about his strong, muscular body, and what it would be like to have him wrapped around me. I imagined him pinning me to the wall of the barn, or throwing me onto the hay in the loft, and having his manly way with me.

  My first orgasm was while I was spying on him. Believe me when I say it came as a shock. I was seventeen. I still think that was kind of late for a first orgasm, but I don’t know. I was sitting on my bed, peering out the window at him as he hosed himself down, and my hand naturally went inside my panties. I’d touched myself before, but never to the point of climax. I didn’t even know it was possible. I wet my fingers and began stroking my clit delicately. I imagined it was Grant touching me, on our wedding night, so fired up with desire for me that he was ready to burst. I was so naive back then. I thought it had to be our wedding night.