Bad Boy Blues
Contents
Cover
Copyright
Books by Saffron
Blurb
Dedication
Prince and Paige
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
Epilogue
Bonus Scenes
St. Mary's Rebels
Soccer Nation
Author's Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
My Darling Arrow (St. Mary's Rebels #1)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Bad Boy Blues © 2019 by Saffron A. Kent
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Cover Art by Najla Qamber Designs
Cover Model: Clauss Castro
Editing by Leanne Rabesa
Proofreading by Virginia Tesi Carey
April 2019 Edition
Print ISBN: 9781092216685
Published in the United States of America
St. Mary's Rebels
Medicine Man
(Heartstone Series Book 1)
Dreams of 18
(Heartstone Series Book 2)
California Dreamin'
(Heartstone Series Book 3)
A War like Ours
Gods & Monsters
The Unrequited
Cleopatra Paige hates one thing in this world – just one – and his name is Zachariah Prince.
In grade school, he pulled at her pigtails. In middle school, he spread false rumors about her. And in high school, he ruined her prom.
She hates that his smirks are unfairly sexy. And she definitely loathes that his dark eyes seem to follow her everywhere. Sometimes, even in her dreams.
It doesn’t matter that he’s rich and popular or that he lives in a freaking mansion full of butlers and maids. He’s rude and arrogant, and she wants to stay as far away from him as possible.
But unfortunately for Cleo, she lives in the same freaking mansion as Zach.
Only he’s the prince and she’s the lowly maid who serves him.
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To the brave: who stand up for what’s right even when they’re afraid.
To my husband: the bravest man I know.
And well, to me: This book is proof that I’m brave and that I will always, no matter what, stand up for what’s right.
Prince: of English origin; Royal son.
Paige: of English origin; Young servant.
There’s a line in the town I live in.
It’s invisible, this line. It’s also paper-thin and razor-sharp.
But it’s there.
For about nineteen years, I’ve lived on one side of it. On the south side. It’s the side with hardworking and honest people, but we don’t have a lot of money. We have run-down buildings and shabby front yards and houses that creak and shake in a strong wind.
The north side is that of the rich and the powerful. It’s the side with big houses, mowed lawns and expensive cars.
It’s the side I absolutely hate for a variety of reasons. But I’m not getting into that right now.
I have a mission, a very important mission.
For the past six months, I’ve been living on the topmost corner of the north side. Not by choice, mind you. But by circumstance.
I’ve been calling an estate called The Pleiades my home.
It’s named after the constellation of seven stars up in the sky. Probably because the palace-like mansion that sits on this estate has seven towers.
And tonight, my mission is to break into it. The mansion, I mean.
Well, to be honest, if you know the code of the service entrance, is it really breaking and entering?
I don’t think so.
It’s more like punching in the code and entering. Something I do every day.
The only difference is that every day I do it in broad daylight. But right now, I’m doing it under cover of darkness with my stealth mode on.
I’m wearing my black shorts, paired with a black hoodie that covers my bright blue hair, and quiet leather boots.
I’m like the night: dark and silent. Oh and hot. Temperature-wise.
Another thing to know about our town is that it’s always hot. It’s always muggy and humid. Summer is our perpetual weather, even in winter. Weirdly, The Pleiades is the hottest spot of all.
I’m sweating with all the black stuff that I have on. But it could also be the nervousness. It’s not every night that I punch in the code and enter like this.
But desperate times, desperate measures.
Not to mention, I can’t shake off the feeling that I’m being watched.
Stopping at the service entrance with my hand poised at the keypad, I look around for probably the tenth time since I headed out for my mission. But there’s no one there. The night’s dark and the lush grounds are quiet and lonesome.
Maybe paranoia comes with doing kinda shady stuff.
Sighing and turning back around, I hit the keys and enter the code. When the automatic door clicks open, I enter the small lobby-like thingy that has the stairs going down to the basement. To the servant’s wing.
Slowly, I climb down, avoiding the stairs that creak lest I wake up the night staff who are probably sleeping in the on-call rooms.
I reach the landing that gives way to a wide hallway, which is illuminated by tiny nightlights. Rooms flank it on either side. On-call rooms for the sleeping staff, the staff room where we have meetings and breaks, the head housekeeper’s office.
I walk slowly and without making a sound until I reach the other side of the hallway. There’s another staircase that takes us to the first floor. Again, I avoid the creaking ones as I climb up.
My destination is tower three, located all the way in the east.
It takes me about seven minutes to journey through all the rooms and passages on the first floor: the ballroom, the rose room, the yellow sitting room, the private dining room and whatnot.
Then I come upon the sprawling stairs that will take me to tower three, where the guest wing is. As I climb up yet again, I thrust my hands in my pockets to see if I still have my weapon.
Yup, it’s there.
I feel the edges of the pouch and smile in the darkness.
Now that I’m so close to my destination, I can’t wait. I literally can’t wait.
My feet are faster and my breaths are co
ming out in pants. I’m swimming in adrenaline. I feel alive. Like I have more than one life in me. More than one heart and two sets of lungs.
Calm down, Cleo.
I can’t slip up now and have someone bust me. Not when I’m so close to my goal.
Finally, finally, after all the traveling and walking and climbing, I reach it. The exact guest room I was looking for.
“Okay.” I puff out a breath and glance from side to side. “You’re so dead, you fucker.”
I fish the keys that will get me into the room out from my pocket.
The tiny silver-colored key.
Okay, so yeah, this might be a little against the law. Like, maybe ten percent against it.
The keys in my pocket don’t belong to me. I swiped them from Mrs. Stewart, the head housekeeper’s, office right after my shift ended.
But hey, I plan to give them back tomorrow so this is more like borrowing. I’ll have to, actually; she’s weird about keys. But that’s beside the point.
The point is that I’m not a thief; I’m a borrower.
Biting my lip, I insert the key in the lock and it turns easily. The click that comes as I open the door is loud. Or maybe it sounds that way to me and I swallow, freezing in my spot.
God, please. I’m so close.
I need to do this. This needs to happen. This is my only chance.
Glancing up and down the darkened hallway once again, I count the seconds but nothing stirs. The mansion is still asleep and quiet, much like the night outside. There isn’t any indication of movements from the inside either. Meaning he’s asleep too. Totally oblivious of what’s going to happen to him.
Opening the door only far enough so I can fit through, I creep inside. The room is cool, courtesy of the AC. The night lamp is on and it throws the sleeping body on the bed into light.
Mr. Grayson.
A fifty-year-old guest who flew out to see the famous apple orchards of The Pleiades and take the grand tour of towers six and seven. They are more like a museum and are open for public display.
Yeah, The Pleiades is kind of a big deal for our town.
Half of it is preserved, and privileged people from all over the world come to see the beautiful architecture of it. Throw in a world-famous golf course or two and they’re happy as a peach. I hear that the tour alone costs more than what I make in a year working on the cleaning staff.
The other half of this mansion is where the Princes live, the oldest family of this town. In fact, they are the founders of this town with a line.
They built The Pleiades a long time ago and have lived here for centuries.
A guy once lived here too.
A guy with jet black hair and jet black eyes. A guy I haven’t seen in three years, ever since he abruptly went away.
A guy I don’t like to think about.
Anyway, enough history lesson. It’s showtime.
I’ve been in this guest room a hundred times before so I know where everything is. Namely, the closet that holds my prize.
Softly, I tiptoe toward it, keeping my eyes on the sleeping man. He hasn’t stirred yet. Probably drunk off his ass.
I open the closet door and there it is: his freshly-pressed suit for tomorrow.
I wish I could fist-pump right now but that might be too risky. So I fish out my weapon, the itch powder, and open the lapels of his suit jacket. Glancing at Mr. Grayson one last time, I sprinkle the powder all over the fabric, especially on his pants.
He’s so not going to know what hit him.
Biting my lip once again, I try to keep my gleeful laughter under wraps. I’m not out of the woods yet. I need to get back to my cottage undetected or Mrs. Stewart will wake up to the best news ever: Cleopatra Paige was finally caught breaking a rule and it’s time to fire her.
She’s not a huge fan of me or my blue hair or my blue lipstick or my leather boots. Basically, she hates my guts and she won’t hesitate to fire me if I step even one toe out of line. And right now, I’m so far past the line that I can’t even see it.
With my mission completed, I creep back out of Mr. Grayson’s room and shut the door quietly. Then, I’m retracing my steps, climbing down, walking, traveling all the way back to the servant’s wing.
With any luck, I’ll be back in my cottage before the clock strikes midnight and when I come to work tomorrow, Mr. Grayson will be reduced to a monkey who scratches his own balls.
You’re awesome, Cleo. You’re fucking awesome.
I grin.
Just as I’m about to step on the stairs that will take me up to the service entrance, I hear a rustle behind me and my name is whisper-shouted.
“Cleo!”
I gasp and my fingers fumble on the wooden bannister.
“Cleo.”
I scrunch my eyes closed and bow my head. Sighing, I face the caller. It’s Maggie, the head cook.
She has her arms akimbo and her lips pursed as she watches me with accusing eyes. “What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
She looks me up and down, probably noticing my stealth mode and somehow, her gaze falls on the pockets of my hoodie. “What do you have in there?"
I pat them and realize there’s a bulge where I stuck the itch powder and the key in. “Nothing,” I repeat.
Even I don’t believe myself, and I’m an excellent liar.
“Give it here.”
Time to up my game.
“Maggie, there’s nothing in my pockets, okay? I came in because I thought I left my phone in the staff room. But I didn’t. So yeah. Nothing in my pockets. Not up to any mischief or anything.”
I spread my palms in mock surrender as I finish my nonchalant speech.
Maggie watches me for a beat. Her stare is making me nervous, or rather more nervous than I already was.
“I watched you grow up, you know. I know when you’re lying, Cleopatra Paige.”
“I’m not –”
“Come on. Let’s go to the kitchen.”
With that, she turns to her right and walks into the hallway that breaks off right before the stairs where I’m standing.
Damn it.
Not exactly what I had in mind when I broke into the mansion tonight. Whipping off my hood so my long, wavy hair can breathe, I follow her.
The kitchen at The Pleiades can probably fit the cottage that I live in three times over. It’s a large circular room with industrial lights and steel countertops. It’s more or less like the kitchen of a very posh restaurant, complete with a walk-in freezer and high-end grills and whatnot.
Maggie gestures at me to take a seat in a nook with a little dining table by the window, overlooking the night.
She’s in her robe, meaning she was on call tonight, and I know that she’s a light sleeper. Just my luck.
I watch her as she scurries back and forth, collecting dishes and forks, and getting the blueberry pie out of the little fridge off to the side.
Maggie is super cute. Short and plump with a mop of curly honey blonde hair, peppered with gray.
She cuts us each a piece and sets one of the dishes in front of me before taking a seat.
“Eat,” she tells me, her motherly face stern.
I shoot her a small smile. She knows how much I love blueberry pie – actually, I love all sweet things – and she always makes sure to save a few pieces for me.
Sliding the dish close to me, I dig in. “Thanks.”
She grunts and my smile gets bigger.
Maggie points a finger at me. “Don’t. Don’t you smile at me. You’re not off the hook yet.”
I bite my lip to keep from smiling and mouth sorry.
She cuts a piece of her own pie. “Now, is this about that guest, Mr. Grayson?”
I gulp the bite I had in my mouth and Maggie raises her eyebrows.
Clearing my throat, I whisper, “Maybe.”
“I told you to stay out of that.”
“Stay out of
it?” I ask in disbelief. “Do you even know me? I can’t stay out of it. I won’t stay out of it. He groped Grace. Groped her. He practically groped me.” I gesture to my boobs. “And you don’t grope these without consequences.”
Grace is one of the girls on the cleaning staff. She’s shy and doesn’t like confrontation. So when I caught her crying in the staff room, I forced her to spill her story. Apparently, Mr. Grayson has been harassing her, making lewd comments and patting her butt whenever she walks by.
Motherfucking asshole.
A couple days ago when I felt a brush across my chest while I served him breakfast in bed, I thought I’d imagined it. But Grace’s story had me re-evaluating things.
So I acted. Someone had to.
Maggie studies me shrewdly and I feel my cheeks flushing with warmth.
“And that’s the only reason?” she asks.
“Yeah.” I shift in my seat. “What else could it be?”
Shrugging, she eats a bite of her pie. “I don’t know. Maybe something to do with the fact that you hate this job.”
“I don’t hate this job.”
“Really?”
I slide the pie away. “Yes. I mean, do I like cleaning up vomit when the guests go wild and finding used condoms on the floor? No, I don’t. Do I like dusting off the windows or mopping up the floor until I can see my face on the tiles? Nope. But it’s a job and you know I need it. I need it more than anything else in the world right now.”
Maggie was the one who got this job for me.
In our town, if you don’t go to college, you most probably go here. You work on the cleaning staff or on the cooking staff or whatever staff you seem fit to work on.
My parents were the select few who had other jobs. My dad used to paint houses and my mom used to tutor kids sometimes.
College was never an option for me; I’m not into books and all. But neither was working at The Pleiades.
I wanted to travel the world like my mom used to say when I was little. I wanted to explore it and see what I liked. See where my passion was. I wanted to find myself.
Pity flashes through Maggie’s eyes and I look away. If I don’t, I might start crying and that’s the last thing I want tonight.