"So this is where you grew up?" Jaimie asked, staring at the invitation.

"After my mom died, yeah," Dean answered, finger running up and down her bare back.

"How old were you?" she asked, looking up at him.

"I turned seven like a month after she died," he said quietly.

"Poor baby," she murmured, and it sounded so unJaimie, so cliché, but she looked so sad for him he wanted to reach out and hug her. Which was pretty damn unDean.

She rolled onto her stomach, and that distracted him, her perfect ass suddenly exposed like that.

"So are you going back?" she asked, propping herself up on her elbows and studying him.

"What, to celebrate the fact that my dad made it five years with wife number six?" He rolled his eyes. "I'll pass. The only reason I'd ever go back is to fuck wife number six, or hell, number seven whenever she shows up, and before you get pissed at me, it would only be so I could finally score the triple crown."

"The triple crown of stepmother fucking?" she asked slowly.

"Yeah," he answered with a grin.

"Which ones?"

"Number three and number five."

"Number four wasn't your type?"

"She tanned too much," he explained. "Her skin was all leathery."

"Good to know you have standards."

He leaned forward, nibbling on her shoulder playfully. "Damn straight sweetheart."

She rolled onto her back, holding up the invitation, still studying it. "You don't seem like a guy who came from a place like this," she murmured.

He took the invitation out of her hands, tossing it off the bed so he could pay attention to her tits.

"What's a guy who grows up there supposed to act like?" he asked, an amused smile on his face as he moved over her body.

She shrugged. "I don't know. You could be this handsome, suave guy."

"You don't think I'm handsome?" he teased.

She smiled at him. "I think you're handsome. I just think you hide it. You could be James Bond if you wanted."

"Why the hell would I want to stand around drinking martinis when I could live in my hovel and drink cheap tequila and still get you naked in my bed?"

She wiggled, shifting positions and getting comfortable and generally just driving him fucking crazy.

"So what, the bad boy thing is more fun than the poor little rich boy, with his swimming pool and his tennis lessons?" she asked.

"Why are you suddenly so interested?"

She twisted her face up before answering. "You're an interesting guy."

"Always fucking hated tennis," he offered, kissing her between words.

"Figured you'd be crazy about the little skirts."

He chuckled softly, tracing her collar bone with his tongue. "I do like those," he admitted. "And I like the bad boy thing. Feels much more like me than anything my father had planned for me."

"You're a real live bad boy," she said. "Not a poseur."

"Exactly." He pinned her arms above her head. "It's really not that interesting."

"I think it's pretty damn interesting," she protested. "Rejecting this whole life you had, this whole part of who you are."

"It's not who I am," he sighed.

"Yes it is," she insisted. "You can be that handsome guy. I've seen you get all dressed up in a suit and schmooze people."

"I rejected my asshole father's life. That's not interesting, sweetheart, it's not unique. It's textbook."


"Va va voom," Dean murmured, walking into the bedroom to find Jaimie staring at her reflection in the mirror.

The dress was sparkly, molded to the curves of her body and hotter than anything covered in sequins should be.

"You like?" she asked, doing a little spin.

He nodded, sitting on the edge of the bed and toeing off his shoes. "Where the hell are you wearing that thing and do I get to come?"

She shrugged. "I figure Carter will need a trophy wife again sometime and I got a really good deal on it."

"Yeah? Did it fall off the back of a truck?"

She glared at him. "No. I thought we could have a little fun playing with it, but maybe not if you can't be nice."

"I can be nice," he said, motioning her over. "Come here and I'll show you how nice I can be."

She walked slowly over to him, standing between his legs as his hands ran over the dress. He reached up to brush her hair off her face and pulled her down for a kiss.

"God you're gorgeous sweetheart," he murmured, staring into her eyes.

She smiled softly. "You're not so bad yourself."

He laced his fingers through hers, raising her hand to his lips and kissing it. "We should go out. How do you feel about boring stuffy anniversary parties for rich bastards? There's free booze, real top shelf stuff."

She laughed. "You were pretty adamant about not going to your dad's party."

He shrugged. "You got this pretty dress, I got a tux somewhere, I should take you out, show you off."

"Stick it to daddy by showing up with your pretty little girlfriend?" she asked.

"Yeah, maybe, a little. If you don't wanna go, we'll go out to dinner, something. You look to good to sit around here, we should go out."

She smiled, nails scrapping feather light at his neck. "Take me home. Show me off. Maybe we'll even have fun."


He went straight to the bar when they got there, without looking for his father or the wife, only vaguely aware that Jaimie was still trailing after him. He'd always been a pretty crappy date.

She didn't seem to mind though, she just leaned on the bar next to him, smiling at the bartender when he sat two glasses of tequila in front of them.

"We could get out of here," she murmured. "Just go back home."

He shook his head, draining the glass. "I just need a minute."

"You're late."

Dean shrugged, looking up at his father. "Don't own a watch. It's not like I do anything important like stealing other people's money. Wait, I'm sorry, investing."

"This is not the time or the place," his father snapped.

"Where's the wife?" Dean asked with a smirk, nodding to the bartender for another drink.

"Teresa's in the other room. Not that I want you anywhere near her, given your predilections."

"Predilections," Dean repeated as Jaimie placed a hand, soft and reassuring on his arm. "Fancy word." He turned to Jaimie. "Sweetheart, meet my father, the esteemed Frank Bendis, captain of industry."

"It's Franklin," his father corrected, extending his hand to Jaimie.

"No one's named Franklin," Dean muttered. "Except for some phony, pretentious douchebags." He laughed darkly. "Oh wait."

Franklin looked Jaimie up and down, raising her hand to his lips and kissing the back of it. "You're far too lovely to be wasting your time with my son."

"Oh don't worry about me, Frank," Jaimie said with a sweet smile, "what your son lacks in charm he makes up with his huge cock and ability to fuck me all night long."

Frank dropped her hand, his face twisting in a grimace, "I see...you're just like the rest of them."

"On that note, we're going to mingle," Dean said, "maybe meet some of your friends."


He pulled Jaimie into a closet, his hands on her hips pulling her against him.

"I look like a fucking waiter," he muttered as she straightened his collar.

"No," she said with a smile. "I keep telling you, there's a handsome James Bond guy hiding under all that bad boy charm."

"Yeah, well, I'm not gonna start drinking fucking martinis," he said, tugging at her zipper and squeezing her ass.

"You know," she said, stepping out of the dress and wrapping her legs around his waist as he lifted her up, "your father and all his fancy party guests are going to hear us."

He smirked against her skin. "That's sort of the idea, sweetheart."

"I can be very vocal when I'm enjoying myself," she continued.

"That's why I love you."

He froze, swallowing and looking up at her.

She smiled, nodding. "Yeah, I love you too."