All American Bad Boy starring Xander and Paige is coming at the end of September 2020! I hope you enjoy this teaser until then.

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1 – Introduction

I am not in love with Xander Frost. I repeat, I am definitely not in love with a guy named Xander Frost. Which is the truth, especially considering I don't even know his name yet.

How's that work, you ask? I really wish you hadn't asked. It's complicated, alright?

Basically, if you must know…

I'm just sitting behind the counter in my aunt’s high end fashion boutique minding my own business–which involves being bored out of my mind–when all of a sudden someone rushes into the store like a category five hurricane. I barely have time to look up before he's standing right in front of me. We both take a second to look at each other. Me, because I'm trying to figure out what kind of customer needs a dress so bad that they cause gale force winds just running into the shop, and him probably because he didn't expect to come face to face with someone like me in a place like this.

I'll explain that one soon. I need to deal with the situation at hand first.

“Um, excuse me,” I say to him, mostly because I think he must be lost. “Can I help you?”

“Can you?” he asks, completely sincere, without a hint of sarcasm. “That would be great, actually.”

“I don't know,” I answer, somewhat taken aback by his response. “That depends. Are you looking for a dress?”

“Do I look like I'm looking for a dress?” he asks, concerned.

“That's what we sell here,” I add, trying to keep my composure even if I think I'm probably failing. “If you're not looking for a dress I don't think I can help you.”

“Oh,” he says, this current dress store-induced reality dawning on him. He glances around the small boutique shop with sudden interest.

“It doesn't have to be for you,” I add again.

I'm adding a lot of clarifying statements to this conversation when, really now, he should probably already know a lot of this. What even needs to be clarified? He's the one who ran into a fashion boutique dress shop… no one forced him in here or anything.

At least I don't think they did? Now that I think about it, it would make a lot more sense if they had. Maybe this is some kind of practical joke or one of those prank reaction videos you see on YouTube sometimes?

“That's good,” he says, nodding.

“What's good?” I ask, confused.

“That the dress doesn't have to be for me,” he says, smirking. “I don't even know my size.”

We stare at each other again. Me, because did he really say that, and him because, yup, he just said that.

We both laugh at the same time. This entire situation is absurd on so many levels. I've never had a conversation like this before and I never expected to have it here of all places.

The guy in front of me grins, a green sparkle in his eyes as he looks at me. I smile back and my cheeks burn red all of a sudden. The way he's looking at me is…

Well, I don't have time to find out what it is because our conversation goes from being a little crazy to a lot insane.

He spins around and stares back out where he came in. Which, you know, is the front door? Yeah, I'm not actually sure what's going on either. Leaving me alone behind the counter, he takes three long strides to the front display window and peers outside. His eyes wander back and forth, looking for some invisible threat. It's invisible to me, at least.

Have I mentioned I don't even know his name yet?

After a few seconds of looking around, his attention snaps back to me and he practically leaps the entire return trip to the counter. I swear it's one huge jump, which startles me more than when he first came in.

I will say one thing, though: he's incredibly athletic. This isn't some unpracticed bounce, it's a fully confident leap, like he's practiced this exact move before and knows exactly what he's doing. I mean, I don't know what he's doing yet, but he looks like he knows, so that's at least one of us, right?

“Hey, uh… Paige?” he asks, glancing conspicuously at my cleavage. Or my name tag. Is it wrong if I admit I wouldn't mind if he was ogling my chest?

“Yes?” I ask, unintentionally batting my eyelashes at him. Is this flirting? Are we flirting with each other? I don't know. He's just… there's something… and I haven't in awhile, so…

“Can I lock the door?” he asks, completely ruining my entire opinion regarding any sort of attraction I may have had for him.

“What?” I ask, confused. “Um, no? Wait. Dammit! Are you robbing me? Is that what this is about? I can't believe this. What an awful day. You know, I was already bummed because I haven't had any customers, and now you come in, and, really, I admit your entrance was kind of strange so I should have realized something was up before now, but… seriously? You're robbing me?”

On the bright side, I have no money. There's nothing in the register. It's usually just here for show. No one who can afford to live in Belle's Cove pays in cash. Granted, no one that can afford to live around here, um, lives around here, at least not for the full year. It's one of those summer getaways for the rich and occasionally famous.

There's a few locals, like my aunt who owns this shop. None of the locals actually lives here, but the commute isn't so bad. Driving over the bridge isn't a great idea, at least not if you want to get here within an hour, but there's a ferry that crosses over and brings most of us here every morning.

A few people, my aunt included, have small homes on the extreme outskirts of town where the beaches aren't as nice in the summer. If you stock up on supplies on the mainland first you can stay there pretty easily. It's just really isolated otherwise. It's like a vacation home except without any of the vacation part.

Trying to stock up on inexpensive supplies in Belle's Cove otherwise is, um… nope, not gonna happen, sorry.

Honestly, everything here is weird like that, but when you can make a regular annual salary only working a few months out of the year it's usually worth it. Also, rich people pay a lot for toothpaste when the only store that sells toothpaste is a hundred miles away from all the rest.

Which, now that I think about it, makes this the perfect place for someone who's up to no good. Like I said, it's a summer getaway hotspot for the rich and occasionally famous, so if you're going to rob someone, might as well make sure they have a lot of money, right?

I don't know why I'm thinking about any of this, especially while I'm getting robbed…

This guy keeps looking at me, too. “Is that a no on locking the door? I could really use an answer. It's sort of important.”

“If I say no, are you still going to rob me?” I ask. “Listen, I totally get it. Times are tough and you do what you have to do. Me? I'm just some college girl. I'm only here for the summer. My aunt owns this place. Not only do I not have any money, because, you know… college… I haven't sold a single thing today. Which, yeah, it sucks. It also means I don't have anything in the register, so I'm a really bad target for you to rob.”

“Yeah, by the way, I'm not robbing you,” he says. “What are you even talking about? I just asked if I could lock the–oh fuck.”

We don't get further than that. He dives behind a rack of dainty lingerie. Oh, we sell that, too, by the way. It's all overpriced, but if some rich lady wants to buy a dress, she'll usually want to get some other pieces to accompany it, and… lingerie! It just works. You have no idea how much trophy wives love buying lingerie for their husbands. It kind of makes sense, though, doesn't it? Need to keep his attention somehow, so might as well.

I don't actually know. I've never had aspirations of becoming a trophy wife, so…

It's at this point, while I'm half wondering why this random guy just dove behind a rack of women's delicates and also why some man just ran past the shop in an official looking suit and dark sunglasses, complete with an earpiece behind his ear, that I realize something is definitely up.

Definitely.

I should have realized this sooner, I guess. Sorry. It's been a rough day.

I look back towards the guy in my shop. He looks about my age, so maybe in college? Except he's robbing me. Or not robbing me. I'm still not fully convinced either way. It's fifty-fifty at this point. I take a final fleeting look at the man in black running after… someone.

I have a sneaking suspicion that someone is currently in my store, hiding behind a lingerie rack.

“Excuse me?” I say to him. “Do you mind telling me why you're on the run from the FBI?”

“What? I'm not on the run from the FBI,” he says, standing up and brushing himself off. He acts casual, like he didn't just hide out in my store. “That's the secret service.”

“Oh,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Great! Just the secret service? No big deal. Seriously, who are you?”

“Yeah, don't worry about it,” he says, grinning, but he gives me this odd look at the same time, like he thinks I should recognize him.

“I am worrying about it,” I say. “I don't want to get caught up in some international incident.”

“Nothing international about it,” he says with a nod. Very sincere and somehow professional. I don't know why I'm giving him credit for this, but I am. “Actually, I have a better question for you.”

“Better than what?”

“Maybe it's not better, but I'll tell you who I am if you answer it. Deal?”

“No,” I say, quick. “No deal.”

“Aw, Paige, don't be like that.”

“See? This is why we don't have a deal! You know my name and I know nothing about you except that you're on the run from the secret service.”

“Shh,” he says. “It's fine. Here's the question. When do you get off?”

I, um… wait, what? When do I get off? What the heck, that's…

“That's a little personal, don't you think?” I ask him. “Honestly, I don't know who you think you are, or who you think I am. I know I'm younger than a lot of people around here, but that doesn't mean I'm desperate or anything. I don't know what kind of girls you usually talk to or what, but I'm not into telling guys when I get off. Besides, how should I even know? It's not like I time it.”

“Paige, calm down,” he says. “Breathe. What are you talking about?”

“Getting off! You just asked me when I get off! Is that some kind of pickup line? Because it's not working. I have standards, you know? The next time I ‘get off' will probably be with myself, whenever that is. Definitely not with you. I don't even know when I'll have an orgasm, anyways. It's one of those things, right? Like when the mood strikes and you just feel like sinking into a bubble bath with soft music and some candles, so…”

“Yeah, so… I was actually asking about when you get off work,” he says, making this completely awkward, at least for me. He seems to be enjoying himself, so there's that.

I stare at him, cheeks burning red. Again. This is the second time! I can't look away no matter what I do. Did I really just say that? Bubble baths and soft music and candles? If I'm being honest, I usually just grab my vibrator and go at it, no bath needed, but I'm definitely not going to be honest about my private life with a guy who's on the run from the secret service.

“I… I was maybe going to shut the store down soon,” I say, mumbling. “It's been dead today, like I said, so I figured I'd leave a note for people to call if they needed something. It's not that early. I usually shut down in a few hours, but today I–”

“Cool,” he says, flashing me a winning smile that I know I'm going to regret soon. I'll regret it because it's the main thing I remember about him and probably the reason why I do what I end up doing next. “Want to go grab lunch with me?”

“You?” I ask, incredulous. “Lunch? You want me to go grab lunch with someone who's on the run from the secret service. Sure! Why not?”

I don't know if I need to add this, but that last part is said with undeniable sarcasm. I'm talking, completely dripping with it. Full on drenched. There's no possible chance anyone in the entire world would confuse this with anything less than the most sarcastic agreement ever. Even if you don't speak English, there's just no possible way you–

“Great,” he says. “I'm really looking forward to it. I'll tell you who I am at lunch. That's how first dates usually go, right? It'll be fun.”

“Ummm.”

“The cafe by the beach. I'll be there. Thirty minutes.”

Really now, did he just miss all of my sarcasm? I was trying so hard, too. I wasn't agreeing, I was–

Well, it doesn't matter what I was doing, because Mr. International Incident gives me a short wave and then walks out of the fashion boutique. Through the back door. You know, the door that has a big sign saying it's for employees only?

I'm an employee. I'm the employee! He's not an employee, and so I don't know why he thinks he can just waltz out the back door like that. Probably because he's on the run from the secret service, which does kind of make sense. Can't go out the front door if that's the case, you know? You need to make your stealthy escape out the back, which he just did, so…

Why am I defending him?

Today's the worst day ever and it's only going to get worse. I can tell.

And… why do I feel like I'm in the mood to get into trouble? Which I never do. So I'm not. But I feel like maybe I could be? A little bit?

I really wish he wasn't so attractive. It's that stupid smile of his!

Ugh. Ugh!

2 – Xander

(Earlier…)

“Hey, Mr. International Man of Mystery speaking,” I say, answering my phone.

“Alex, why do you have to answer your phone like that?” my dad asks me.

“I don't know, maybe it has something to do with my secret service detail?” I counter, glaring at the two men sticking close to my side.

“It's for your own safety,” my dad says. “You can come back home if you want. As long as you stay here, you won't need secret service agents guarding you.”

“Home,” I say, almost laughing the word. “Dad, it's the fucking White House. That's not our home. It's not my home, at least.”

Oh, by the way, the president? President Frost, newly elected as of a few months ago? Yeah, that's my dad. It's real fun. The best. So fucking great it hurts…

Except, you know, when I have these two secret service goons following me around everywhere. That's basically the opposite of fun. Having guards who require a ten foot perimeter around you at all times due to safety protocol is a serious mood killer for basically any situation.

Here's a couple for you:

See a cute girl? Want to say hi? Seriously, just a hello. Maybe a cocky bad boy grin or two and a wink here and there. Flirt it up a little. Nah, not even close to possible. Most girls either gawk and stare or run away because they think I'm going to kidnap them and throw them into some government conspiracy experiment.

I actually have no idea why. Girls are strange sometimes. If anything, having a pair of guards should make them feel safer. It doesn't make me feel safer, but I feel like it should make them feel safer.

Second situation, I can't even pay for my own groceries. Maybe you wouldn't think this one's too bad, but it is. Almost every cash register at a grocery store has a counter nearby that could potentially be used to conceal weapons. Plus there's that whole ten foot perimeter issue. If it wasn't awkward enough walking through a grocery store with two suited up men keeping everyone at bay, maintaining a safe, protective distance, now I can't even make casual conversation with the grocery store cashier.

It's not like I have some passionate desire to talk to the cashiers at a grocery store, but sometimes it's the little things that make a difference. You never realize how much you miss saying hi, hey, how's it going? Yeah, I found everything alright. Nah, no coupons today.

Third and final situation, sometimes you get followed. I found it flattering at first, but usually it's not. Kind of like, oh yeah, you want to spend a day in the life of Xander Frost? Come on, let's go. I can't talk to grocery store cashiers or flirt with cute girls, so why the hell not?

Except most of the time it's paparazzi or people just in it for the fame. What fame? I have no idea. I never thought I was famous until suddenly I was. I used to be regular, and yeah, my dad's a politician, but it's not like that meant anything. He's always been that way. Do you know the names of your local senator's kids? Probably not.

You do once he becomes the president, though. And once that happens you get followed around by people with cameras, who sometimes pretend not to have cameras so they can act like they're trying to be friendly and then take the worst picture at the worst possible time.

No one wants to take the good pictures. I'd pose for that shit, for real. Those aren't exciting, though. Hey, can you get my good side? No? You want to take a picture of me with what looks like a giant bulge in my pants so you can sell it to some sleezy place that'll write an article speculating the size of my cock?

Bonus points if they come in pairs and they try to sneak some cute paparazzi girl into the picture. Then you get headlines like “Alexander Frost, the President's son, can't control his lust around beautiful women!”

It's not like I don't appreciate beautiful women, but I'm going to be honest and say I don't usually walk around with an erection just because I saw a cute girl. The picture's probably some weird ass angle, because pants aren't completely straight constantly and yeah, I do have a penis, and unless I'm wearing the baggiest pants in the entire world I assume that sometimes someone could maybe sort of see a slight bulge if they tried really hard.

It's like if a girl is walking around and it's cold and you can see the faintest outline of her nipples through her shirt. It's not because she's attracted to you. Actually, I have no idea. Maybe she is. But that's the stupidest conclusion to jump to. Maybe it's just cold outside, guys? Fuck if I know. I don't usually ask girls why their nipples are hard. Seems rude.

Anyways… back to the story at hand. Ladies and gentleman, I present to you my father, President Frost.

“Alex, are you listening to me?” my dad asks.

“Dad, how many times do I have to tell you that I prefer to go by Xander now.”

“What kind of name is Xander?” he counters. “Alex, everyone knows you as Alex. That's your name. Your mother and I named you that.”

“Yeah, well, I've been going by Xander since the second grade. The only reason I answer to Alex is because you refuse to call me Xander. This isn't some rebellious phase either, Dad. No offense, sorry to break it to you, but it's not. I know you didn't mean it like that, but I want to stand on my own. I don't want to forever be known as basically the second coming of you.”

P.S. – My dad's name is also Alexander…

“How about Junior?” my dad asks, clueless. “I always thought that would be nice. I honestly think we should give it a shot and see if it sticks.”

“Yeah, no,” I say. “Please don't. Where's Mom?”

“She's doing some flower bullshit somewhere,” he says.

“Dad! It's not flower bullshit. That's important. The Floral Society of America is legit.”

“Yeah yeah,” my dad says, handwaving me away. Which is pretty impressive considering I'm talking to him on the phone. “It's just my allergies. They brought in two-hundred-and-four different floral arrangements, Alex. I think I'm allergic to all of them. I managed to escape into the Red Room, which helped a lot, but I need to do some ribbon cutting ceremony or whatever your mother has planned and I don't know if there's enough Benadryl in the world to get me through it.”

“It'll be fine. Just have the secret service come up with some reason for you to leave after five minutes and you're good to go. Don't worry about it.”

“Huh,” my dad says, thoughtful. “That's not a bad idea. I'll see what I can do.”

“Great,” I say. “So… since I helped you out, mind helping me out?”

“That's actually what I called you for,” my dad says. “The answer is no, Alex.”

“What the hell? I didn't even ask the question yet.”

“Graham and John already informed me of the situation. You most definitely cannot walk around without your security detail today. It's completely out of the question.”

“Dad, it's Belle's Cove. This isn't the ghetto. Everyone here is rich. I doubt they care what I do. They're too busy counting money to bother with me. I'm not some old dude in a suit so they'll probably think I'm the help. Maybe someone will ask me to wash a car or mow the lawn or something.”

“No, Alex. I'm not going to compromise on this, and I never will. Once everything settles down and this is all over, we can reassess the situation, but until then I–”

“Once what's over?” I ask, interrupting him. “Once you're done being president? Because, yeah, not sure if you remember but you literally just became president, Dad. What's it been, a few months? First term? That's almost four more years, minimum. Maybe up to eight. I'll be twenty-six by then. This is stupid.”

“It's for your own protection,” my dad reiterates.

I hate when he does this. What do I need protection from? Yeah, I get it. I really fucking do. I'm probably a prime target for some whack job out there, but how far is too far?

“I can't even play football anymore,” I remind him. “I love football. I was good enough to get into college on a scholarship and now I can't even play because you think there's not enough protection available to me on the football field. Do you know how screwed up that is?”

“Alex, enough,” my dad says. I can hear him grinding his teeth on the other end. “It's not up for discussion or debate. You can still play football if you want, just not on a college team. Why don't you have people over and play on the White House lawn? Have fun, get it out of your system, and–”

“Yeah, this is exactly the reason I don't do that,” I tell him. “Get it out of my system? Do you hear yourself? I was on a highly competitive college football team, Dad. They wanted me on the team! I could have gone pro.”

“And there you go again,” my dad says with a sigh. “Why are you so against going into politics? You know how important it is to our family. We can make a huge difference in the lives of the average American citizen. Hell, we can make a huge difference in the whole world, too! And yet you squander it by, what, playing college football? I understand wanting to have fun, Alex. You can do that, but at some point you have to seriously consider growing up and moving on with your–”

I'm sure my dad says more. I don't stick around to listen to him, though. I hang up and shove my phone in my pocket. Fuck it. I'm done. I'm glad I decided to come to Belle's Cove instead of staying in the White House with him. I'm tired of all this.

I just kind of figured I could have a day to myself, you know? That's why I picked this place. We used to come here sometimes when I was younger, but I don't remember it that well. It was a long time ago. I remember the ocean and how exciting everything looked. It's like a movie here, picturesque and sweet. If you've ever seen a perfect romance movie set in a small town by the ocean, this is basically that.

Granted, it's inhabited by a bunch of rich people who treat all the locals like they're hired help, whether they actually are or not, but I didn't know that when I was young. I kind of figured it out recently, actually. Noticed some old dude bossing around some random fisherman and then I saw that same pattern repeat itself with a few other obviously rich people talking to people who are obviously not rich, so…

It's cool, old rich guy. Boss me around all you want as long as you aren't trying to take incriminating pictures of me to sell to the highest bidding tabloid news site.

Except, you know, that's not going to happen. Graham and John, the wonderful (seriously, great job, guys) secret service agents tasked to guard me for all eternity, know full well they're not to leave my side for any reason. I heard my dad texting them about eight times just now, both of them glancing my way in between reading the messages to make sure I don't try anything funny.

“Hey,” I say. “I need to go to the bathroom. I'll be right back.”

“We'll go with you,” Graham says with a nod.

John nods, too. They both start to follow me.

“Guys,” I say. “It's a bathroom. Really?”

“President's orders,” John says. “You know that, Xander.”

“Can we just… not?” I ask.

They both look at me like I'm asking far too much from either of them.

“Look, bathroom,” I add, pointing. It's not actually a bathroom, it's a restaurant, but there's bound to be a bathroom inside. “You can go in, scope the place out, give the all clear, and then leave me alone so I can use the toilet in peace, can't you? Where the hell am I going to go, guys? It's a bathroom.”

John glances at Graham, who glances back at John. It's next level creepy, like they're about to kidnap someone and do government experiments on them. Shit. This is why girls run away sometimes when they see me walking towards them, isn't it?

“Are you for real, guys?” I ask. “Seriously?”

“Ten minutes,” Graham says. “I'll stay with you here while John does a sweep and lets the owner know what's going on. Then you've got ten minutes, Xander. That's it. Sorry it has to be this way, but we have families to feed.”

Which would actually be a great reason to give them the day off and let me do my own thing, don't you think? Not that my dad's going to buy that reason, but I'm telling you, it's legit. It's so good. It's–

John scopes the place out, then comes to the door and gives the all clear, a quick thumbs up. I walk in like I'm a mob boss about to make someone an offer they can't refuse. Men in black suits and dark glasses stand next to me while a lone girl hovers by the hostess station just staring at the entire assembly before her.

Yes. This is my life. Fuck.

Also, I'm about to make a break for it, prison escape style.

~*~

I hope you liked what you read so far! I'll have more teasers coming on Facebook in the upcoming weeks, so keep an eye out there.

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Bye for now!
~Mia