BEST BAD IDEA (Small Town Sexy Book 2)

  Table of Contents

  BEST BAD IDEA

  A Small Town Sexy novel

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Want more from the Small Town Sexy series?

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  BEST BAD IDEA

  A Small Town Sexy novel

  Morgan Young

  Chapter One

  When your wild best friend is about to marry a cop, move to the suburbs, and most likely become a Stepford wife, you accept her barbecue invitation.

  It’s the least I can do, really. Especially since I’m the one who dared her to kiss that very same cop all those months ago, inadvertently getting her arrested. I’m pretty sure Zoey forgives me for that, though. Her guy is criminally hot.

  I pull up to Zoey’s new two-story house, immediately nostalgic for our crappy walk-up apartment above Miller’s Garage. After Zoey moved out to be with Porter, I didn’t feel at home there anymore. Porter insisted it was unsafe, so now I have a studio apartment in a decidedly nicer neighborhood. But it’s not the same.

  A teen with a gold-plated star pinned to his vest motions me forward like he’s the Sheriff of Parking; he doesn’t even look old enough to drive. But I’m trying this thing where I care way less about everything, so I pull up and toss him the keys.

  “Don’t scratch it, sheriff,” I say, flashing him a smile, and handing him a twenty. He nearly faints, and quickly disappears inside my Honda. It’s not even a nice Honda. I just felt like making his day.

  I try not to worry when he squeals my tires and heads down the block at top speed. I glance around to check if anyone else noticed this, but people seem to be in a rush to get to what must be the barbecue of the year. I realize suddenly that I’m the only person here under fifty besides the happy couple.

  I better start drinking early if I plan to stay for s’mores.

  “Cheyenne!” Zoey calls, practically falling over me. We hug, and she hands me a beer. Although I saw her like two weeks ago, her eyes water like it’s been years. “Oh, my gosh,” she says. “You look like shit. What’s wrong?”

  I pretend to be offended for a moment, but then smile. “We can talk about it later,” I reply, waving off her concern. I don’t want to ruin her big… barbecue day?

  “Okay,” I say, swinging around to face her. “What the hell is going on? Do your new friends like grilled meat this much, or—”

  “We’re celebrating,” she says. “Porter made captain. He’s like… in charge of everything. It’s awesome.”

  I’m pretty sure Zoey has no real clue what Porter does most of the time, but it’s adorable how proud she is. I wish I had similarly good news.

  “Frankie Miller is getting married,” I announce, and straighten my back as if I’m not bothered at all. Why should I be? He’s my ex-husband. My employer. I haven’t had sex with him since we were eighteen. I’m honestly not even attracted to him anymore.

  But…

  “Who the hell is Frankie marrying?” Zoey demands, looking scandalized. “He can’t do that to you. He promised to let you remarry first.”

  He did. Frankie was always awesome about stuff like that. He always let me do everything first. And I mean everything.

  “I guess he got tired of waiting,” I say, but then shake my head. “He actually met a great girl,” I admit. “I think he’s been wanting to ask her for a long time. He couldn’t wait on me anymore. I’m like forever single. The petrified forest of Tinder. The—”

  “Frankie Miller’s getting married,” Zoey says, sounding stunned. “I’m sorry, Cheyenne. It sucks. You know what this means, though?” She looks over at me with an exaggerated pout, and holds up her beer.

  “What?” I ask suspiciously before clanking the glass.

  “You’re getting laid tonight.”

  I glance around the party, at all the older—albeit fit—men and their wives. A few screaming kids running through a sprinkler. I’m about to tell her I’m more likely to get arrested than sexted, when I see him. Or rather, his arms.

  Over at the bar, in a short-sleeved white T-shirt that is pulled taut over his biceps, is possibly the hottest guy I’ve ever set my eyes on. And I haven’t even seen his face yet.

  “Who the fuck is that?” I ask, pointing my beer in his direction. Zoey’s eyes trail over there, and when she figures out who I’m talking about, she laughs.

  “Oh, no,” she says. “Not today, Satan.” She puts her arm across my shoulders and turns me away. “That is—Ryerson Banks, Porter’s brother.”

  “Is he single?”

  “I don’t know. Stopped keeping track after the last three. In a month.” She widens her eyes to let me know that he’s not even the fun kind of dirty. He’s short-term with a ton of regrets filthy.

  I glance over at him again anyway.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Zoey sings out from the lip of her beer. “He’s also a convicted felon.”

  “Oh,” I say, disappointed. Just then, Ryerson turns around, and scans the party. I’m disappointed to say he is even cuter than his arms gave away. If Porter is criminally hot, then his brother is a… well, a convicted felon, I guess. But a super-hot one.

  His eyes meet mine from across the lawn, and I sort of expect him to smile, flirt. Instead, he quickly looks me up and down—his black eyes the kind you can lose your soul in. And then he sniffs a laugh, and turns away.

  Chapter Two

  I’m halfway to drunk when Porter comes over to find Zoey and me hidden on the side of the house, swapping sex stories like the good ol’ days. Porter smiles when he sees us, and even tips his head to me politely.

  I’m kind of jealous that Zoey got a guy with impeccable manners. She’s the same girl who once revenge-peed on an ex-boyfriend’s lawn in broad daylight, but she deserves to be happy.

  “Hey, Porter,” I call out like I’ve got a secret. “How’s it hanging?”

  Zoey literally chokes on her sip of beer. We just got done discussing Frankie Miller’s left curve.

  “Uh…” Porter narrows his eyes like he knows he shouldn’t answer.

  “Don’t,” Zoey says to him, getting to her feet and running her forearm over her chin to wipe away the spit-up beer. She comes to stand in front of him, leaning her long body against his, and they practically melt into each other.

  I look away, and sip from my drink. They really are perfect together. The only person who could ever handle Zoey is a guy with a badge and a gun.

  Porter gives Zoey a quick, secret kiss, and then turns me. “You’re staying the night, I hope,” he says, motioning to my beer.

  I hadn’t planned on it, but I guess our days of reckless driving and getting nearly arrested in police golf carts are behind us. “You got room?” I ask, getting to my feet.

  “Ryerson already called the spare room, but I will certainly kick him out for you,” Porter says. Zoey cocks up her left eyebrow.

  “Ry is staying the night?” she asks, turning to her fiancé. “I didn’t… realize.”

  Porter stares at her for minute, looks at me, then back to her. He sighs. “Cheyenne,” he says. “Don’t hook up with my brother.”

  “I wasn’t planning to,” I say innocently.

  No one says a word.

  “Okay, yes, I fantasized a little,” I add. “But he looked straight through me, so I don’t
think you have to worry.”

  “I always have to worry,” Porter says with a heavy exhale. “He already asked about you.”

  “Shit,” Zoey and I say at the same time.

  I quickly wave her away. “It will be fine,” I tell Zoey. “You’re acting like I can’t control myself.”

  She cocks that damn eyebrow again.

  “Um, excuse me,” I say with a laugh. “Who’s the one who made out with a stranger in uniform?” I look over at Porter, and whisper, “That was you.”

  “I was hoping,” he responds easily.

  “Sure,” Zoey admits, pulling herself up to her full six-foot frame. “But you’re the one who got married at seventeen. So—”

  No sooner are the words out of her mouth, than she claps both palms over it, and then crinkles her nose in apology.

  “Frankie Miller’s getting married,” we both say. I sigh heavily.

  “One day you’ll have to tell me that story,” Porter says curiously, reaching over to take Zoey’s beer and sipping from it. “But for now, can we get back to the barbecue? Someone is going to fuck up my meat.”

  Dear Lord. Zoey and I have to basically swallow our tongues to not jump on that joke. Porter senses it, shakes his head like we’re the immature ones, and heads back to the party with Zoey’s beer. When he’s gone, my best friend turns to me.

  “If you hook up with Ryerson Banks, I swear you’ll live to regret it,” she says, a slight slur in her speech.

  “At least I’ll live, right?” I say, and smile winningly. When she doesn’t return it, I shrug. “I’m human, Zoey. I’m lonely. But I’m not fucking stupid. Okay?”

  “I’m sorry about mentioning you were a child bride,” she says.

  “And I’m sorry that your eventual-husband’s meat is being mishandled.”

  “Come on,” she says, throwing her arm over my shoulders. “Let’s go help him with his beef.”

  “Ew,” I laugh, and we head back out to the barbecue.

  ***

  The day hasn’t been a total waste. Not only did I get to spend time with Zoey and Porter, I got to meet the neighbor’s dog. And if there’s one thing I’m always down for, it’s making friends with canines. Especially when I’m drunk.

  And I’m pretty drunk. I’d say nicely buzzed, but that would be a damn lie. I’m sitting back on a lounge chair, next to the pool, sipping my beer. My feet are up, but I’m not entirely sure where my shoes are. I’m bummed because they’re the cute red ones with flowers, but I doubt a house full of cops walked off with them. They might be under another chair.

  Most of the kids are gone from the barbecue, and the sun is setting gorgeously over the back fence. I gaze at it from behind my sunglasses.

  It’s then that I notice him. And I notice him because he’s watching me, standing at one of the bar-top tables, drinking from a short glass. A little douchey for a barbecue if you ask me. Normal people drink beer.

  Ryerson isn’t hiding that he’s looking directly at me, either, but I take the high road, and pretend to not notice him. Okay, maybe it’s a little bit of payback for his earlier snub. And, sure—I’ll obviously have to talk to him eventually. He’s Porter’s brother.

  But for now, I’m hard to get. Totally unattainable. Certifiably—oh, shit. He’s coming over.

  I swallow hard, and take another sip of my beer, wishing I’d touched up my lipstick. I’m not imagining he’s walking directly towards me; there’s no one else over here. I dig my newly-painted toes into the cushion, and pretend to rest back, eyes shut.

  I hear his approach, and then the clink of glass as he sets it on the table between lounge chairs. He sits down and exhales heavily.

  Now I have two choices. I can acknowledge him or pretend I passed out. Neither seems like the right move, so I take another sip of beer. I’m going with total ignore.

  “Cheyenne, right?” he asks.

  Oh my God. His voice is insanely hot, raspy and deep. I’m so dead.

  I turn to him, trying not to smile my usual flirtatious grin. “Yep,” I say, and then turn back to the pool. He laughs.

  Looking at him was like looking directly into the sun—too beautiful for my eyes to take in. I mean… he can’t really be that good looking. Nobody was. I looked at him again, and he lifted one corner of his mouth in a smile.

  Lord, help me.

  “I’m Ryerson,” he says, holding out his hand. I take it, and we sort of shake, but mostly it’s just him running his palm over mine.

  Seductive, I get it. Frankie Miller was the same way when I was seventeen. I’m a bit more hook-up savvy now.

  “Nice to meet you. I’m friends with Zoey.”

  “I gathered,” he replies. “You’re the only one here who doesn’t look like a cop other than Zo. And she’s a handful. Are you as crazy as your friend?”

  “No,” I say, and take a sip of my beer, trying to figure out his game. He’s not flirting with me—not really. I think he’s sizing me up. Seeing if I’m bedding material. Well, sorry, Ryerson. You won’t hit the jackpot tonight.

  “Speaking of Zoey,” I say, swinging my legs to the side of my lounger, “I should go find her.”

  “Here, let me help you up,” Ryerson says, getting to his feet. He holds out his hand, but I gently swat it away.

  “I’m fine,” I say, not wanting his assistance. I mean, the least he could have done was flirt with me. A pity flirt. But instead he talked to me like he was interviewing me for a job at Applebee’s.

  But I’m definitely drunker than I let on, because the minute I’m on my feet, I feel the world tilt severely to the left. I stumble in that direction, and Ryerson reaches out and grabs my wrist.

  “Whoa,” he says, trying to pull me back. But my balance is jacked, and when I try to right myself while pulling away from him, I start to fall backwards.

  Suddenly, Ryerson jumps forward, arm across my back, and catches me. We stay like that, looking like we’re doing a dramatic Tango dip. My sunglasses have slid down my nose.

  Ryerson looks down at me, and he flashes me a devilish smile. “Well, damn, Miss Cheyenne,” he says in that sexy voice. “You have the prettiest brown eyes I’ve ever seen.”

  My lips part, and his gaze travels immediately there. If I had any sense, I would straighten up out of his arms and head into the house for a cold shower.

  But blame the alcohol, or Frankie Miller, or maybe even Zoey for telling me not to, but I slide my fingers up the back of Ryerson Bank’s neck, and pull him into a kiss.

  His mouth—burning hot with a tangy orange twist—covers mine, and just as I feel the touch of his tongue, we both lose our balance.

  And in the least graceful fall to ever take place at a police chief’s barbecue, Ryerson and I fall into the freezing cold pool.

  Chapter Three

  I’m sitting on the couch with a towel wrapped around my shoulders, wearing Zoey’s sweatpants and a tank top. Her bra wouldn’t fit me, so I’m pretty sure my nipples are on full display.

  Luckily, after the fall, the party dispersed. Porter ushered Ryerson in the opposite direction, and I haven’t seen him since. I vaguely remember asking Zoey if I was under arrest, but she laughed and plopped me down on the couch.

  I’m sober now. But my naturally curly hair has gone from adorable to frizz-tastic. It’s still wet, and yet I have a giant halo of fuzz. I’m too humiliated to walk back into Zoey’s room and ask for a hair band.

  Ryerson walks into the living room holding two bottles of beer in his right hand, and sits down next to me. He takes one of those bottles and hands it to.

  “You seem like you could use it,” he says, trying not to smile.

  I accept the drink, and down a big, icy gulp. “I wish I had a hair dryer,” I say, and pick up a bottom curl.

  He shakes his head emphatically. “No, I like it,” he says. “You look like a maniac.”

  I laugh into my beer, and take another sip before setting it on the coffee table. When I sit back on the couch, fee
ling a little better, I notice Ryerson’s eyes on my nipples. He quickly looks away, but there’s a little smirk on his lips before he puts his arm around the back cushion.

  Well, this is humiliating.

  I turn to him. “I’m—”

  “I’m—” he says at the same time. We laugh awkwardly, and he motions for me to continue.

  I roll my eyes because I can’t handle this level of embarrassment right now. I don’t typically get embarrassed. I roll with the punches. But this fucking guy has me twenty shades of red. I have to look away.

  “I’m sorry I kissed you and knocked us into the pool and almost drowned you,” I say quickly, and then shrug like it’s not a big deal. He doesn’t say anything, and I hate that I have to turn to him and see his expression. He’s smiling.

  “That’s funny, Miss Cheyenne, because I was about to say, ‘I’m so glad you kissed me and almost drowned me.’ But I guess I’m more into the rough stuff.”

  There’s a tightening my belly, and I just about pass out from his hotness. Instead, I grab my beer, and take another sip. Where the hell is Zoey?

  As if I conjured her out of the grave, my best friend comes into the living room, her stick straight hair pulled up into a ponytail, a toothbrush clenched in the side of her teeth. She stops abruptly when she sees me on the couch with Ryerson.

  “What is this?” she asks around her toothbrush.

  “We’re just having a beer, Zo,” he says, although there’s a hitch in his raspy voice like he knows she’ll be mad anyway. Well, he’s right.

  “Nope,” she says, taking the toothbrush out of her mouth, and pointing it at him. “No, no, no. You,” she points her brush at me, “are sleeping in the guest room. And it’s late. You should be there now. I’ll bring you blankets.”

  I furrow my brow. I’ve never see Zoey this protective. She’s usually my hook-up cheerleader. All “Rah, Rah, DO HIM!” But right now, she’s blocking him pretty hard.

  I glance at Ryerson, and his jaw is clenched. He’s glaring at Zoey like she’s out of line, but he doesn’t tell her so. Eventually, he leans further back on the couch, and drinks somberly from his beer. I feel kind of bad for him. I’m about to comfort him, when Porter appears in the doorway with a handful of folded blankets. He also stops when he sees us on the couch. It’s not like we’re naked. I don’t get it.