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NAUGHTY GIRL

An Ellora’s Cave Publication, May 2004

Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.

PO Box 787

Hudson, OH 44236-0787

ISBN MS Reader (LIT) ISBN # 1-84360-876-6

Other available formats (no ISBNs are assigned):

Adobe (PDF), Rocketbook (RB), Mobipocket (PRC) & HTML

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. They are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

Edited by Mary Moran.

Cover art by Syneca.

NAUGHTY GIRL

J.W. McKenna

Chapter One

She’d come into the downtown Santa Barbara bar that night with a man who oozed money. Carl Harman immediately pegged her as a gold digger—how could he not, the way they were so mismatched? He could see the same thought in the eyes of the other single men in the crowded bar.

Honey-Blonde—which was how Carl thought of her at first—was young and sexy while her companion was older and more oily. His body, once muscular, had gone soft. His thinning black hair was combed straight back over beady eyes. His only saving grace was a row of white, even teeth, perfect for a false smile. He reminded Carl of a used car salesman. To attract a gal like that, he had to be loaded. Women who’d trade their youth for old money usually didn’t interest Carl. But she was the exception.

Car Salesman led her to the bar a couple of stools down from Carl and ordered a stiff scotch for himself and a white wine for her. The man spoke in a loud voice and seemed to treat the girl like an accessory.

Carl, sitting at the bar nursing his drink, tried not to pay attention to her. That quickly proved to be impossible when he noticed she wasn’t wearing a bra under her gray silk blouse. He could see the round shape of her breasts and the hint of her nipples. She was in her late twenties and had medium-sized breasts, so she didn’t really need a bra. Still, a woman who walked into a bar braless made Carl wonder about what else she might be missing underneath her navy blue wrap-around skirt.

Now that she had his full attention, he took in other details. She stood about five-seven, so Carl, at six feet, imagined that he wouldn’t have to lean over too far to kiss her, and her perfectly heart-shaped ass would be at just the right height to run his fingers over it. His hand itched at the mere thought. Her face reminded him vaguely of Faye Dunaway in her prime—beautiful blue eyes, strong cheekbones and jaw, although softer somehow, more demure. Her honey-blonde hair seemed natural to Carl, though he wondered if the drapes matched the carpet. He smiled at his own crude joke and took another sip of his martini.

Carl noticed that when Car Salesman wasn’t looking, the young woman’s eyes glanced about the room as if she were searching for someone. Only later did he find out she was looking for someone to rescue her—or why she couldn’t rescue herself.

Car Salesman proceeded to get drunk in short order. Perhaps he could tell that his grip on Honey-Blonde was slipping and he was determined to be a real horse’s ass before it all ended. Or perhaps he just couldn’t help himself—maybe he treated everybody this way. Carl minded his own business, nursing his drink.

He was in-between girlfriends at the moment and feeling a little sorry for himself. He’d been idly thinking about renting a video on the way home. After he spotted Honey-Blonde, he thought perhaps an adult video might be better. She had that effect on him. He never expected he’d get any closer to her than he was at that moment, two stools down in a bar full of TGIF’ers.

But when Car Salesman suddenly tossed the remains of his drink on her and, in a loud voice, accused her of flirting, the White Knight in Carl woke up. Everyone else seemed to stare then edged away, as if they didn’t want to get involved in a lovers quarrel. Or maybe Car Salesman’s sudden rage made them fearful. Though going to seed, he still had the look of a brawler.

Carl couldn’t stand it. He came off his stool and approached them before he was even aware he had moved.

“Hey, now,” he said, trying to be chivalrous without seeming like he was trying to steal Honey-Blonde away because, frankly, he wasn’t at that moment.

Then he saw her sad, tired expression and how the man’s drink had splashed over her chest, causing her left nipple to show clearly through the sheer material. Carl fell just a little bit in love with her right then.

Car Salesman turned his sudden fury on Carl. “Mind your own fuckin’ bizness or I’ll shove your head up your ass.”

He made Carl instantly angry. He struggled to get a firm grip on his temper. It was as if an avalanche was being held back by a single log against a rock. He strained to hold that log in place.

Carl turned his eyes fully on the man and gave him his best “Don’t-Fuck-With-Me” look. But the man was too drunk to notice. In fact, Carl believed he was itching for a fight. Perhaps, long ago, he had rescued Honey-Blonde from another old, drunk Alpha Male and thought he might regain some of his power by defeating some upstart.

“Where I come from,” Carl said evenly, “men don’t throw drinks at the ladies. It’s usually the other way around.” He could feel the log shift against the rock in his head.

Now if Car Salesman had laughed, or calmed down or apologized to the woman, the moment would have passed, and that would’ve been the end of it. But somehow Carl knew none of those things would happen. Something evil flickered in the man’s eyes and the tumblers in his drunken brain seemed to click into place.

The man reared back, so Carl saw the punch coming from about a half-mile away. Maybe ten years ago and maybe if the man wasn’t drunk, he might’ve been able to catch him with it. Carl doubted it, but he was trying to be kind. He had about a half-hour to decide which way to lean to avoid the callused hand and how to place his feet to get the maximum power into his own punch. As Car Salesman’s fist creaked by him—no doubt lightning speed from his vantage point—Carl popped him a good one right in the nose and stepped back.

Car Salesman wasn’t sure he’d been hurt until he felt the blood spill out onto his shirt. He clamped a hand to his face and howled, his eyes already beginning to water. Focusing all his hatred in Carl’s direction, Salesman wanted to kill him, to dismember him, but Carl could tell he suddenly realized he was at a disadvantage—Carl wasn’t the pushover he’d thought he was. Carl could see his mind working. Mentally, he begged him to back down as he strained to hold his avalanche of anger in check.

But no. Car Salesman’s eyes cast about for a weapon—a harpoon, a howitzer—anything massive enough to end this fight quickly and with maximum damage. Carl believed the man was fully prepared to kill him in that moment.

The drunk lunged to his right and grabbed a chair from an empty table. It was one of those wood and wicker jobs that weigh about twelve pounds—hardly the right choice, although it would’ve stung quite a bit to be hit with it. Apparently it was all he could manage on the spur of the moment.

Carl almost shook his head as he mentally kicked the log free and allowed the rush of anger and adrenaline to overtake him. The light took on a reddish tint. His vision narrowed to include only the angry drunk in front of him. Car Salesman’s already slow reaction time became glacial in Carl’s accelerated vision. Before he had that chair up high enough to smash him in the head, Carl had chopped him up with three quick strikes. Left to the head, right to the stomach, then pivoted into a right uppercut. He followed with a leg sweep and a shoulder push that sent the drunk crashing to the floor.

He didn’t get up. Carl really wanted him to. He thought seriously about kicking him a few times, but he resisted the urge. Slowly, the red haze cleared and he became more aware of the rest of the room.

He turned to the man’s wide-eyed companion. God, she was beautiful, he thought all over again. “Are you all right?”

Carl wondered if she was one of those women who immediately would fall to their companion’s side, regardless of how he’d treated her, and rail against the bully who hurt him.

She seemed stunned. She looked down at her groaning companion, then up at Carl, then down at her nipple that was doing its best to poke through the material of her blouse. She didn’t answer at first, as if trying to sort out her emotions. She reached down and plucked the blouse away from her breast. Carl was sorry to see her nipple go.

She bit her lip, looking like a lost little girl. “Umm, I guess. I…I…”

She didn’t seem to know what to say about it. She was rescued by the bartender, who finally managed to lumber out from behind the bar and came to where they were standing over the prone figure.

“What’dja do, kill ‘im?” He was a beefy guy, with long black hair tied in a ponytail. In his right hand, he carried a Little League-sized Louisville Slugger. The barman’s special.

“No,” Carl responded. “I think he’s more drunk than hurt.” At least he hoped that was true. He looked up at Honey-Blonde. “I didn’t want to hurt him.” The hell I didn’t, he thought. Her eyes were wide and Carl could see tears brimming in them.

“I saw it—he came at you with a fuckin’ chair. He had it coming.” The bartender turned to the woman. “Whaddya wanna do? You wanna call the cops? An ambulance? Or shall we just get him back to his car?” It was clear which choice he preferred.

Honey-Blonde glanced from Car Salesman to Carl then back again. He could feel those pale blue eyes on him. She seemed to make a decision.

When she finally spoke, her voice was soft. “It’s all right,” she told the bartender. “My friend and I can take him from here.” Carl thought his heart would burst—“my friend” she had called him!

He nodded dumbly. The bartender shrugged and moved away, the small baseball bat tapping against his meaty thigh. The noise in the bar began to return to normal. All those Yuppies grateful that the crisis had passed. No one was asking them to defend their women, thank god. Now they could get back to cursing the economy, and lying about their past successes over blended drinks.

With the sagging, semiconscious body of Car Salesman between them, Honey-Blonde and Carl horsed him out the door to a black Mercedes parked in a handicapped space. Carl thought it ironic that the man had parked illegally in the handicapped spot going into the bar, but fully qualified for it on the way out. The drunk didn’t fight them. He seemed happy to have the help.

The woman fished in Car Salesman’s front pocket for his keys and thumbed the button to unlock the doors. Carl expected her to pile him into the back seat, thank him for his help then drive off out of his life. He was amazed when she directed him to dump the drunk across the front seats, tossing the keys in after him.

She shut the door and turned her hundred-watt heat on Carl. “Will you take me home?”

“Um, yeah, sure, you bet.” He tried not to sound like Elmer Fudd. He had many questions: Do you live with him? What do you see in him? Are you in love with him? But he said nothing else.

Carl directed her to his aging Honda, embarrassed as he mentally compared it to the luxury vehicle she had arrived in. He opened the door for her and silently thanked the heavens he had cleaned out the old fast food wrappers just three days prior.

“Where to?” he asked as he eased himself into the driver’s seat.

“Montecito.”

Carl nodded. He should’ve guessed. Montecito was the exclusive part of Santa Barbara. Old money, new money and lots of security guards. He figured she was directing him to Car Salesman’s house, where no doubt she lived like a pretty bird in a gilded cage.

Carl drove, casting about for something, anything to say. She seemed to be in shock. He wondered if the sudden violence turned her off, or if she considered him dangerous.

“Look, I’m sorry about all that. I shouldn’t’ve hit him so hard.” He meant it. One punch probably would’ve been enough, considering how drunk the man had been. He was going to have a headache, that’s for sure.

“He had it coming,” she said bitterly. There was a lot of weight behind that one sentence.

“Has he thrown a drink on you before?”

“Sure. Or worse. It’s been coming apart for a while now.”

Carl decided not to ask for the gory details. Time for a change of subject. “You live in Montecito long?”

“Two years. I’m not actually in Montecito. More like on the edge.”

“With that guy?” Shit! Carl couldn’t help himself.

“What? Him? No way,” The emotion behind her words lifted his hopes. “He’s just someone I’ve been seeing.”

“Well, it’s a shame he treated you that way. I doubt you deserved it.”

“No, I didn’t. No one does,” she said sharply.

“Yeah, that’s what I meant,” he jumped in, trying to cover up his gaffe. He hoped he didn’t come across as a sexist pig.

He tried to change the subject. “My name’s Carl. Carl Harman.”

“Diedra Newman. My friends—” She stopped.

“Your friends?” he prompted.

“Never mind. Here, turn left at the next light.” She directed him to an apartment complex lining the main street near Montecito. Carl could see the big brass gates of an exclusive complex from the where he parked. Close enough to get some benefit from the additional security up the road. That told him these apartments probably weren’t cheap.

That made him think of Car Salesman again and whether he was paying her rent. “Let me walk you up, okay? I’m worried that your friend might wake up and be mad at you.” It was half the truth and half a ploy to see her apartment. She might even invite him in.

He held his breath while she thought about it. He figured she knew the score. She was an attractive—hell, gorgeous—woman whom he had just rescued. Diedra probably thought he was just another horny man, expecting a quick fuck in return. Carl wasn’t so crass, but she did turn him on. How could she not?

Diedra turned her wattage on him, only this time, he could feel the yellow warning lights. “Look. You’ve been very nice to help me. I hope you understand that I’m kinda all mixed up right now. I don’t want to, um, start something.”

Carl held up his hands. “I understand completely, Diedra. I’m not expecting anything. I’m genuinely concerned about you. Yes, I admit that I’d like to get to know you better, but that’s as far as my thinking goes right now.”

You liar, he thought. Given the chance, you’d jump her bones in a minute.

Again, he pictured her little brown nipple, pressing against her gray blouse. Carl willed his eyes not to look at it and succeeded, right up until she glanced out the windshield. Then he peeked and was disappointed to see the drink had dried, leaving just a little brownish stain on her blouse. Her nipple had made its retreat. He hoped he had managed to raise his eyes before she turned back.

“Okay, but just until I’m safely inside. I am kinda shook up.” She opened the door before he could get around to her side of the car. Carl stayed close, but not too close, as they strolled up the walkway to the arched entryway. He could smell her perfume, a soft, enticing fragrance that wasn’t helping his Boy Scout demeanor. His cock stirred.

“I’m here, to the left.” She pointed.

He tried not to pant like a horndog as he followed along. They came to a red door, number 136 in gold numerals on it. Carl was sure he could find it again during a power outage in the middle of a rainstorm with wild dogs chasing him.

“Well, this is it.” She turned toward him. Her body posture seemed dismissive, and yet… He sensed she liked him.

“Diedra, despite the rather ugly circumstances, it’s been a real pleasure to meet you. I hope you’ll forgive me for hurting your boyfriend, although he doesn’t deserve someone like you.”

She smiled and he almost took a step back. Her powerful charisma washed over him. As it was, Carl rocked on his heels a little. His cock began to press against his jeans.

Down, Simba! Not now!

“Well, thank you. You’ve really been nice. A real gentleman. And for the record, he’s not my boyfriend. Not anymore.”

“That’s very good to hear, but he might have different ideas.” Carl hesitated, then took the plunge. “But if you two don’t get back together, would you object if I called you up and took you out sometime?”

She actually blushed. His dream-girl blushed! She looked down at the ground.

“I don’t know,” she said in that bedroom voice. Carl waited, his heart beating rapidly. “I’m still all mixed up.” She glanced up at his earnest face and seemed to soften. “Well, maybe.”

Carl’s head seemed to leave his shoulders. “S-sure.” He shifted position to conceal his growing erection. If Diedra noticed, she paid no attention. Carl felt he was carrying a surfboard in his pants.

“Let me give you my phone number.” She parted her full lips, waiting for him to get ready.

He reached into his pants pocket—careful, careful!—for a pen and he saw her gaze briefly drop, then snap up again as if she didn’t want him to catch her looking. Carl felt a flush of embarrassment creep up from his neck to his cheeks. He tried to adjust his pants to hide his erection and looked up to see redness creep up her neck as well. He made a big deal out of writing the number down on his palm, trying to cover up the awkward moment.

Diedra gave him the number, one digit at a time, at such a low pitch, Carl had to lean in to hear her. Her perfume mixed with the real woman odor of her and it triggered an animalistic reaction. All he wanted to do at that exact moment was thrust her up against the door, raise her skirt and see if his suspicions about her lack of panties were true. If they were, he wanted to take her right then and there. Carl tried not to shake as he wrote down the final digits.

Forcing himself to step back to keep his sanity, he started to write down her name over the number, for no reason other than to stall for time. When she reached out to touch his arm, he knew she felt some of that animal lust as well. It was as if she didn’t want him to move too far away. She wanted to prolong the moment just a little longer. Or so he hoped.

“How do you spell Diedra?” he asked, though he easily could’ve guessed.

Her lips parted. She licked them, a soft pink tongue caressing softer red lips. For some strange reason, he imagined them around the head of his cock and had to close his eyes against the image.

“Actually, my friends call me DeeDee.”

“DeeDee…that’s a nice name.” She could’ve said Bertha or Agnes and he’d have said the same thing. “A very nice name.”

He’d run out of things to stall about. He let his hand drop to his side. He wouldn’t wash it until that number was copied down in his little black book. His very thin little black book. His very thin little black book with moths flying out of it.

It had been a slow year.

“Well, I guess that’s it. You should be safe now, I expect. He probably won’t wake up until morning anyway.” Carl’s mind cast about for some other reason to stand there, talking. He grasped a sliver of an idea. “Of course, if he comes by and he’s really angry, you could call me. I mean, if you wanted to.”

Or she could call the police, you complete idiot!

DeeDee smiled again and it took all his concentration not to puddle at her feet like a schoolboy. “Sure. That would be real nice. But I don’t think it will come to that.”

“Just in case.” Carl started to give her his number then realized she had nothing to write on. He wouldn’t expect her to write it on her palm—that was far too crude for such an elegant woman.

She hesitated then began looking through her tiny purse for some scrap of paper and found none. Carl could see the wheels turning in her head. Did she invite him in or did she just tell him to forget the number for now, she’d get it later? Carl held his breath. His hard-on held its breath. The world stopped spinning on its axis.

Perhaps his earnest good looks helped her decide. “Okay, come in for a minute and let me get some paper. Just for a minute, you understand.”

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.

Carl kept his face neutral, as if this meant nothing. His erection knew better. It swelled another notch. If she’d misplaced her keys, he could’ve used it as a battering ram against the door.

She unlocked the door and led the way inside. Carl shuffled in behind her, giving his crotch a glaring look when her back was turned. Not now! She turned on a lamp by the couch.

Her apartment had a casual look to it. A few newspapers and magazines lay scattered over the coffee table and the sofa, but it was otherwise well kept. The rug had recently been vacuumed, he could tell from the machine marks on the nap. Looking through the doorway into her darkened kitchen, Carl could see the table was clear of dirty dishes, yet there were a couple of cups and a plate on the counter near the coffee maker.

“Excuse the mess,” she said and he wanted to tell her, no, darling, it was perfect, just like you, but he said nothing.

She found a piece of paper and handed it to him. He carefully wrote down “Carl Harman” and the number in block figures so it would be easy to read. “There you go.” He handed it over. Fortunately, the cerebral act of writing helped diminish his cock somewhat. At least it was no longer threatening to take over the city like Godzilla.

They stood there for several seconds. Carl wanted to stay and he suspected she wanted him to, yet there was nothing else he could do to delay the inevitable.

“Well,” he said, and let it hang. Car...

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