Colleen Collins - Building a Bad Boy

“No, no you’re not a building,” she finally said. Her fingers fluttered around the top button of her silk blouse.

“What’s wrong with Nigel?”

She continued playing with the button. “Nigel is so…Noel Coward.”

“Noel who?”

“It’s too stuffy.” She closed her eyes and rolled the button between her thumb and forefinger. “Got it!” she suddenly said, releasing the button to snap her fingers. “Your name will be…Nicky!”

“Nicky?”

“Yes,” she enthused. “Nicky Durand!” She shuddered a breath. “It’s sexy, bad…oh, yes, very bad, which is very good. Nicky it is.”

Before hearing that burst of breathy enthusiasm, he’d been ready to fight to the death to remain Nigel…but suddenly “Nicky” wasn’t so bad. Especially if women reacted as she did, all pink cheeked and ready to pop buttons.

“I’ll just say it’s my nickname, right?” Lots of people had nicknames.

“Hmm, yes.” She looked around, distracted.

“After a few meet and greets with a woman, I’ll divulge my true name.”

“Right, right,” she murmured, catching the eye of the salesclerk, who was thumbing through a rack of leather jackets. “Black,” she called out. “Lots of zippers.”

She reached into her jacket pocket and extracted a yellow jelly bean, which she tossed into her mouth.

Yeah, she lived alone. Nobody to watch over her, make sure she ate right. Nigel could see it now—her running out the door in the mornings missing earrings, stuffing her pockets with pieces of candy. He doubted she had a pet or plants—when would there be time to take care of them?

Which meant there was no one to come home to, to talk to about her day, share her worries and her joys. Did women like her really choose such lifestyles, or did they wake up one day and realize they’d worked so hard to make their way in the world, they’d forgotten to make a home for themselves?

The thought saddened him. Because he related. His home life had been loving, but money had been tight so his dad was always pulling double shifts. And even though Nigel knew firsthand how much he, his sisters and Mom missed him—or how many school events he missed—damn if Nigel didn’t do the same thing.

By the age of twenty-four, he had been on the road building his wrestling career, figuring there was plenty of time for marriage and babies. Then he got sidelined with that busted knee, which gave him plenty of time to realize he’d let his career deep-six building his own family. The fact hit him hardest after being released from the hospital and there was no loving woman welcoming him home, no child’s arms hugging him, just his empty apartment.

“How are these, ma’am?” The salesclerk walked up, his arms laden with jeans and shirts. “Left several leather jackets in the dressing room.” He slid a glance to Nigel. “Lightweight ones.”

Kimberly went into success-coach mode and began flipping through the clothes, oohing over this, saying “no” to that. Nigel stood nearby until the salesclerk escorted him to a dressing room.

It was a big room. No surprise there, considering this place catered to big guys. Alone, Nigel looked at himself in the mirror. Today he’d thrown on a pair of old cotton shorts, a loose T that had been washed so many times he wasn’t sure if the logo was from a burger joint he once visited in Minnesota or another Foghorn Leghorn that had seen better days. On his feet, an old pair of sandals that had turned the color of dirt.

Hardly chick-magnet attire.

Maybe he’d come in here muttering to himself about “looking like a bad boy,” but faced with his image, he had to admit this let’s-go-bowling look needed some serious renovation. How many times had he seen his buddies dress like wolves when they were on the prowl? Tight pants, body-hugging shirts, slick shoes. Even his best pal Rigo, now settled down with a bambino on the way, had donned that look in his bachelor days.

Looking hot and bad to attract the opposite sex.

“Maybe you bake the best brownies in the state of Nevada,” he said to his reflection, “but buddy, you sure aren’t cooking up everlasting love.” He started peeling off his clothes, ready to dress bad.

He’d just kicked aside his shorts when a woman’s voice called out, “How’s it going?”

He straightened and saw Kimberly’s face peeking through the curtain of his dressing room.

“What the hell are you doing?” He released a huff of breath. “Sorry.”

“For what?”

“Cussing.”

She blinked. “Everybody cusses sometime.”

“I try not to. Made a point to watch my language when helping raise my three kid sisters. Role model and all that.” He pressed his thumb against his lower lip. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to check up on you.”

“I’m naked.”

Her eyes dipped. “Not quite. You’re wearing…”

Kimberly couldn’t stop staring at the bulging black briefs that seemed stretched to the max over his member. Just like that black leather Speedo number he wore in those Crusher ads. She glanced at his oversize feet. So what they said was true….

She tried to look back at his face, but there was a lot of body to cover on the way. Prominent thigh muscles. Ridged tummy. A sun-kissed torso underneath swirls of thick, black chest hair.

She thought back to their initial meeting yesterday in her office when she’d wondered if the former wrestler still shaved his chest. She could put that question to rest.

She glanced at his head, hard and pink under the lights. “Your head…”

“What about it?”

“Do we have to go the Yul Brynner route?”

“Yul who?”

“The King and I?” As soon as she said it, she imagined herself in a satin gown, dancing in the arms of the King of Siam who, in this particular fantasy, looked like Nigel. Although Nigel would never resort to the charming bullheadedness of the King. This guy is hopelessly sincere, and from what he mentioned about helping raise three kid sisters, dedicated. She wasn’t sure whether to be amused or amazed at this mass of man who had a body like The Rock and the heart of E.T.

Those baby blues had a confused look and she realized he still didn’t get the Yul Brynner movie reference. “I think you should grow out your hair,” she said, gesturing limply toward his fleshy dome. “Women like to run their fingers through a man’s locks.”

Nigel gave the dome a shake. “I can do the clothes, even try on a new name, but the head stays as is.”

“Why?”

“Because I like it. No muss, no fuss.”

“But women like to run their fingers—”

“Over my shiny bald scalp. After wrestling matches, I can’t tell you how many fingers skimmed and rubbed and tickled the surface. Old women, young women, kids. Here, you do it.” He leaned down, holding his head inches from her.

“This is ridiculous,” she managed to say despite her pulse leaping into her throat.

“Feel it.”

“I can see it.”

“Feel.”

“If you had so many fingers feeling you—I mean, your head—why didn’t you just hook up with…” It really wasn’t any of her business why he hadn’t latched on to one of the finger-feeling woman back in his Phantom days.

He glanced up, and something in his expression gave her heart a squeeze.

“Just ’cause they wanted to cop a feel didn’t mean they wanted to know the real me.”

She blinked, thinking how many women had complained about the exact same thing. Men just wanted them for their bodies, not their minds and heart. “You know, that’s what a lot of women say about men.”

He shrugged. “It’s a curse and a blessing being a sensitive man.”

She was wondering about the blessing part when he dropped his head, waiting for her to feel.