Bad Apple Read online

  Bad Apple

  Elle Kennedy

  Contents

  Bad Apple

  Author’s Note

  1. Maggie

  2. Ben

  3. Maggie

  4. Ben

  5. Maggie

  6. Ben

  7. Maggie

  8. Maggie

  9. Ben

  10. Maggie

  11. Ben

  12. Maggie

  13. Ben

  14. Maggie

  15. Maggie

  16. Ben

  17. Ben

  18. Maggie

  19. Maggie

  20. Ben

  21. Maggie

  22. Ben

  23. Maggie

  24. Ben

  25. Maggie

  26. Ben

  27. Maggie

  28. Maggie

  29. Maggie

  30. Ben

  31. Ben

  32. Maggie

  33. Ben

  34. Maggie

  The Chase

  Other Titles by Elle Kennedy

  About the Author

  Bad Apple

  A flirty standalone novel* from New York Times and international bestselling author Elle Kennedy!

  * * *

  One night with him will change her life…

  * * *

  Between her waitressing job, volunteer work, and college classes, there are never enough hours in Maggie Reilly’s day. Especially not for a relationship. Luckily, she’s got the perfect arrangement: a lover she meets three or four times a year. But when she shows up at the hotel expecting to hop into bed with one man, she accidentally ends up with another—Ben Barrett, Hollywood’s most notorious bad boy.

  * * *

  Ben, determined to lay low after another scandal, just wants some much-needed sleep. What he gets is a scorching make-out session with a gorgeous, naked redhead. He won’t accept her apology, but what he will accept is a place to hide out…and if there’s some hot, no-strings sex involved, why the heck not?

  * * *

  But Ben soon discovers that one week with his sassy, bed-hopping waitress is definitely not enough. He wants more. A lot more.

  * * *

  Now he needs to convince relationship-averse Maggie that a bad boy might be oh so good for her—and the best thing that’s ever happened to both of them.

  * * *

  * Previously published in 2008, Bad Apple (formerly Midnight Encounters) features almost entirely new content, including a point-of-view switch. Enjoy this new version of an old favorite!

  Author’s Note

  Dear Reader,

  * * *

  What you need to know about Bad Apple:

  * * *

  This book was previously published in 2008 as Midnight Encounters, through one of my former publishers. When the rights reverted back to me, I immediately got to work! The book has undergone a complete makeover. I’m talking cut/added scenes, fresh editing, and a point of view switch. Basically, this is a whole new book, but with a familiar plot and characters. A new version of an old favorite!

  * * *

  If you previously purchased a paperback version of Midnight Encounters back in 2008, please send me a picture of the book and your snail mail address (contact info at the end of this file), and I will send you a FREE paperback of the new version with its new cover.

  * * *

  Finally, any reviews, good or bad, are much appreciated.

  * * *

  Oh, and did I mention I love you guys? <3 Happy reading!

  * * *

  Love,

  Elle

  1

  Maggie

  “Wipe that look off your face, Mags. You’ll scare the customers.”

  I shove a wayward strand of hair off my forehead and glance over at my coworker. “What look?”

  “The I’m-having-sex-in-an-hour-so-don’t-hold-me-up look.” With a cheerful smile, Trisha opens the icebox under the bar counter and dumps a scoopful of ice cubes into the glass pitcher she’s holding.

  “Damn, and I thought my poker face was solid,” I reply with a grin.

  Trisha pours ice water into three tall glasses and sets them on her black tray. “Don’t worry, you’ll see Tony soon enough.”

  “Who’s Tony?” Matthew, the cute, blond bartender, comes up behind us, curiosity etched into his chiseled features.

  I shoot Trisha a glare, the kind that says one word and I’ll kill you. My sex life doesn’t need to be common knowledge among my coworkers. It’s already bad enough that Trisha knows about it, but she got me drunk one night and pried the details out of me.

  To Matthew, I say, “No one. Trisha’s just screwing around.”

  “Whatever.” He shrugs and heads for the other end of the bar.

  “What part of ‘don’t tell anyone’ didn’t you understand, Trish?” I ask irritably.

  The brunette gives a shrug of her own. “I don’t see what the big deal is. I mean, who doesn’t have a Tony in their life? Casual sex is more common than relationships these days.” She grins. “Though most people usually have it more than twice a year.”

  I ignore the mocking remark. Trisha loves teasing me about the arrangement I have with Tony, but I suspect she doesn’t fully understand just how difficult it is for me to have a normal love life.

  Free time doesn’t exist in my life. I spend my afternoons volunteering at a youth center and my nights serving drinks at The Olive Martini. My only two nights off are reserved for my college classes. How am I supposed to find a man who could fit into—or accept—my hectic schedule? All the guys I dated in the past got tired of seeing me only once a month.

  I’ve been dumped a lot.

  Not that I’m devastated. I mean, do I even want to be with a man who can’t respect dedication and a solid work ethic? I grew up dirt poor. I struggled to make ends meet all my life, scrimped and saved until I was finally able to pay for college. In a few short months, I’m going to have a degree in social work, leave the Olive, and hopefully get a permanent—paying—position at a children’s welfare agency.

  So, really, I don’t need a boyfriend right now. Once I finish school, sure, maybe I’ll start seriously dating again. But for now, I’m perfectly happy having someone like Tony Burke in my life.

  Tony is a travel writer who spends eleven and a half months out of the year roaming exotic places and writing about them. He comes back to New York two or three times a year, and I met him on one of his rare visits home when he stopped in for a drink at the Olive. We instantly hit it off. Wound up in bed the night we’d met, and our trysts are now the highlights of my year.

  Tony flies into town, he calls me, we have sex. Then we both return to our busy lives, sexually sated and emotionally content, with no plans to see each other again—until the next time Tony pops up in the city.

  The last time I saw him was over the holidays, and since it’s already May, I was expecting him to call any day now. Like clockwork, he had. Just three hours ago, with his hotel room number and the promise of some hot, stress-busting sex.

  “Make fun of me all you want, Trish, but we both know you’re jealous,” I say good-naturedly.

  “It’s true. I’d give my right arm for a Tony.” She makes a face. “Instead, I have a Lou.”

  “Aw, be nice. Lou kisses the ground you walk on.”

  “Yeah, when he’s not watching football. Do yourself a favor, Mags. Never date a man who’d rather watch big sweaty goons chase a ball around a field than talk to his girlfriend.”

  I laugh. Truthfully, I’ve always thought the leggy brunette could do a lot better than Lou Gertz, the high school football coach slash couch potato. But whether Trisha just has bad taste in men, or Lou’s a reflection of the kind of guys swimming around in the sin
gles pool, my friend’s love life only reaffirms my belief that relationships are too much of a hassle.

  “Looks like Tony has some competition,” Trisha quips.

  I shift my gaze and notice my pot-bellied customer waving at me from across the room. “My biggest fan awaits,” I say dryly. “And by the way, he heard you snickering when he commented on my waitressing skills.”

  Trisha snorts. “He called you a ballerina of the bar. He was asking for a snicker.”

  “You should’ve kept eavesdropping. I told him waitress training is extensive and that I had to go through four years of schooling.”

  As Trisha giggles, I swipe the guy’s credit card through the register and wait for the printer to spit out the receipt. I tuck the bill, a pen, and some mints inside a sleeve of plastic and then check my watch.

  Ten-thirty. God, when is this night going to end? Normally I don’t mind my shifts at the Olive. The job pays my bills, the tips are great, and I can’t say I don’t have fun. The staff is like a big happy family, the customers our interesting—and often completely insane—surrogate children.

  But it’s Tony night, and no matter how entertaining the crowd is, sex is the only entertainment I’m looking for tonight.

  2

  Ben

  If I see one more motherfucking photographer lurking in the bushes, I’m going to lose my shit. Or worse, slam my fist into someone’s jaw.

  Actually, that sounds so appealing, my palms tingle at the thought. But I’m not stupid. I know exactly how pointless it would be to pick a fight. The paparazzi would jump all over the story: Violent Movie Star Assaults Innocent Photographer! And then my reputation will take yet another hit, my agent and publicist will freak out, and I’ll be forced to make dozens of morning-talk-show appearances to explain to my fans why I knocked someone’s lights out.

  That’s how it always goes. You decide to be an actor and you say goodbye to your privacy. Doesn’t matter that half the stories the tabloids run are total bullshit. If you leave the house with a runny nose, that means you snort coke. If you have lunch with a male friend, you’re gay. If you shove a photographer out of your face, you have anger problems.

  I’ve dealt with this shit for ten years, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. And I’m pissed as fuck that the vultures followed me to Manhattan. I wish I’d found a place in Colorado or Montana for this unwanted sabbatical. Somewhere up in the mountains, so that if the press wants to harass me they’ll have to work for it. Hiking up a cliff would certainly deter at least half of those nosy bastards.

  But my agent insisted I go to New York. “If you want to leave Hollywood, fine,” Stu had said. “But stay in sight.”

  In sight is the last place I want to be, but arguing with Stu is about as effective as arguing with a toddler. Eventually they’ll annoy you into giving up.

  “Hey, aren’t you—”

  I abruptly pull the rim of my Yankees cap lower so that it shields my face, then bypass the middle-aged woman who stopped in her tracks and is standing there gawking at me. Without a backward glance, I hurry along Broadway and try to disappear in the Friday night theater crowd.

  Absolutely fucking ridiculous that I have to skulk around like this, but damn it, I need some peace and quiet. I bought the penthouse on the Upper East Side and moved in last week, but has the press left me alone to settle in? No way in hell. They camp out in front of the building day and night. They pay off the cleaning staff to try to snap photos of me. They bribe the doormen to let them in.

  I haven’t slept in seven days. Haven’t been able to leave the apartment without being barraged with questions.

  Were you with Gretchen the night she died?

  Did Alan know about the affair?

  Did he blacklist you and that’s why you left LA?

  So many damn questions. I don’t want to deal with them anymore. Or ever.

  So I took off. Left the penthouse with a trail of paps behind me, got in my rented BMW, and managed to lose the vultures somewhere in Queens. I ditched the Beemer in the first parking lot I saw, and now I’m on foot, a man on a mission, in search of the first hotel I can find that has a big bed I can finally fall asleep on.

  Satisfied that I’m rid of every photographer in a ten-mile radius, I finally come to a stop in front of the Lester Hotel. There are half a dozen luxury hotels only blocks away, but I have no intention of checking in at any of them. The Lester, a ten-story building with a bland gray exterior, is the last place the vultures would think to look.

  Stepping through the revolving door, I cross the empty lobby toward the front desk, where I find a skinny guy in an ill-fitting blue blazer manning the counter.

  “I need a room,” I mutter, pulling my wallet from the back pocket of my faded jeans.

  “Single or double bed?”

  “Double.”

  “Kitchenette?”

  “I couldn’t care less, kid.” I fish out a wad of bills and drop them on the splintered oak counter.

  “Okay then. Fill this out, please.”

  I scrawl a fake name and address on the clipboard that’s handed to me, then push it back at the clerk.

  The guy doesn’t ask for ID, or even read what I wrote on the sheet. He barely spares me a second look before giving me a key. This hotel is so outdated it doesn’t even use keycards. I stare at the key, which is hanging from a red plastic keychain. Classy.

  Two minutes later, I get off on the third floor and breathe in the scent of potpourri and lemon cleaner.

  The hotel isn’t the type of accommodation I’m used to, but for once I don’t care that the carpet beneath my black boots is frayed or that the doors lining the narrow corridor are in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint.

  I let myself into Room 312. I don’t bother turning on the light, just let my gaze adjust to the darkness and zero in on the double bed in the center of the room. Within seconds, my boots are off. T-shirt and leather jacket are tossed on the armchair. Jeans and boxers lie on the carpet.

  All I care about is sleep. No phones. No agents and managers and publicists. No reporters or photographers.

  Just. Fucking. Sleep.

  3

  Maggie

  My steps are unusually bouncy as I hurry down the street. Normally my feet kill after a shift at the Olive, especially on Friday nights, but the only part of my body that aches right now is the spot between my legs.

  I’m going to have sex.

  Hell to the yeah.

  I don’t care if it’s pathetic. So what if my only source of sexual gratification are my infrequent hookups with Tony? Relationships require too much effort, whereas the only effort I have to make with Tony is unzipping his pants. Relationships drain you—with Tony, I’m only drained after the third or fourth orgasm.

  And he never makes demands on me, monopolizes my time, or acts like being a workaholic is some horrible crime. He works as hard as I do, which officially makes him the perfect man to get involved with.

  I dodge a group of teenagers loitering on the sidewalk, then wave at the hot dog vendor I pass every day on the way to work. My apartment is only a few blocks from the bar, but Tony and I avoid going there. We always meet in a hotel, where we can have fun all night long and then go our separate ways in the morning.

  Another perk—not sharing an awkward breakfast together the morning after.

  I reach the Lester Hotel a few minutes later. I head straight for the counter and request the key for Room 312. The clerk, a very scrawny, very bored-looking guy, replies in a monotone that the room is already occupied.

  “I know. He’s expecting me,” I answer, my cheeks warming slightly. “There should be a spare key for me. Maggie Reilly? Do you need to see ID?”

  “Nah.” The guy turns around and stares at the dozens of keys hanging off the hooks on the wall, then plucks one with his long, bony fingers.

  Thanking the kid, I make my way to the elevator. Tony and I have visited the Lester before, so I know my way around and find the
room quickly. My breasts grow heavy as I stick the key in the lock. God, I need this. With exams coming up in a few weeks, not to mention the billiards tournament the bar is holding next month, soon I’m going to be up to my eyeballs in work.

  If I want to play, tonight’s it.

  As I let myself into the room, I’m instantly engulfed by shadows. I blink and wait for my eyes to focus, while trying to figure out the reason for the dead silence hanging over the room. No, wait, not dead silence. My ears perk as the sound of light breathing floats from the direction of the bed.

  “Oh, don’t do this to me, Anthony,” I chide softly, dropping my purse on the table beside me and turning to lock the door. “I see you three times a year, at least have the decency to stay awake.”

  No response.

  A slow grin spreads over my mouth as I take another step forward. I’m tempted to flick on the lights and maybe stomp my foot to jar Tony from his slumber, but that wouldn’t be fun, would it?