The Badboy In My Bed

JAMES.

"Mr. James, your table is ready!" the manager of the bar informed me with an enthusiastic smile, practically bouncing on his heels as he approached my position by the entrance. His crisp black suit seemed freshly pressed for the occasion of my visit, and I noticed he had even added a pocket square that matched the bar's signature colors.

"We've prepared everything exactly as you requested," he continued, gesturing toward the main dining area with a flourish that bordered on theatrical. Several patrons turned to watch our interaction, their curious gazes following me as they whispered to their companions. "The chef has also prepared those special appetizers you enjoyed last time," the manager added, clearly hoping to impress me with his attention to detail and memory of my preferences. I could see other staff members watching nervously from their stations, straightening their uniforms and nudging each other as I stood there evaluating the situation with what I knew was my characteristically unimpressed expression.

I nodded my head curtly, my face deliberately neutral to maintain the air of importance I'd cultivated over years in the public eye, and I followed him through the crowded main room where conversations hushed momentarily as we passed. "This is ridiculous," I muttered under my breath as we approached a table that was clearly in the main dining area, not the secluded VIP section I had specifically requested. "What's this?" I demanded loudly, not caring who heard my displeasure. "I said I want the VIP table in the private section away from prying eyes and smartphone cameras!" I gestured dismissively at the perfectly acceptable but very public table before me. "Are you deaf or just incompetent! Or perhaps you want me to shut down this entire establishment with one phone call?" I hollered in disbelief, my voice carrying across the now-silent restaurant as other diners pretended not to watch the unfolding drama. "Do you have any idea how many paparazzi followed me here?" I continued, my irritation genuine though perhaps exaggerated for effect. "I specifically requested privacy for a reason, not to be paraded in front of your regular customers like some circus attraction!"

"Sir, I'm terribly sorry about this misunderstanding, it's just a mistake in our reservation system!" The manager was desperately trying to explain to me, his previous confidence evaporating like morning dew under a harsh sun. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead as he frantically signaled to another staff member across the room. "We had your reservation correctly noted for the VIP section, but there seems to have been some confusion with another James in our system," he continued, pulling out his tablet to show me the double booking. "The other party arrived earlier and was escorted to the private area, but I can absolutely have them relocated immediately." He turned to a nearby server. "Sarah, please inform the guests in the Azure Room that they need to be moved to accommodate Mr. James." The young server hesitated, clearly uncomfortable with the task. "But sir, that's the Stevens party celebrating their anniversary," she whispered, though not quietly enough that I couldn't hear. The manager's face paled further. "I don't care if it's the President's birthday party," he hissed back. "Move them now."

I cut him off with a dismissive wave of my hand, having no patience for his scrambling excuses or whispered staff conversations. "Just stop babbling and making this worse! I've heard enough of your pitiful explanations," I interjected harshly, adjusting my designer watch with deliberate slowness to emphasize my growing impatience. "I will take a seat at the bar counter tonight since your incompetence has already ruined my mood and wasted precious minutes of my evening." I scanned the room, noting how many people were now openly staring at our interaction, some even surreptitiously recording with their phones. "Perfect," I thought sarcastically, "exactly the privacy I was hoping to avoid." I turned back to the manager with a deepening frown. "Your stupidity has cost you not only my reservation tonight but likely my future patronage as well." I snapped my fingers imperiously. "Have the bartender prepare my usual, at least he knows how to do his job properly." I started walking toward the bar area without waiting for a response, hearing the hushed whispers follow in my wake as other diners leaned toward each other to discuss the scene they had just witnessed.

"Sorry, sir! Please forgive this terrible oversight," the manager trembled visibly, his professional demeanor cracking under the pressure of potentially losing such an important client. He hurried after me, nearly tripping over a chair in his haste. "Please, Mr. James, let me make this right," he pleaded, his voice taking on a desperate edge that made me almost feel sorry for him – almost, but not quite. "We can clear the VIP section immediately for you. We can offer complimentary champagne, or perhaps the chef's special tasting menu on the house?" He was practically wringing his hands now, aware that word of this misstep could spread quickly through elite circles. "Or perhaps a private dining room? We have the Owner's Suite available, completely separated from other guests." His offer came too late, however, as I had already committed to my new plan and had no intention of appearing indecisive by changing my mind again. "I'll personally ensure you're never disturbed like this again," he promised to my retreating back, his voice fading as I continued toward the bar without acknowledging his increasingly desperate offers.

I ignored him completely, refusing to dignify his groveling with even a backward glance, and I stepped purposefully to the elegant bar that stretched along the far wall of the establishment. The polished mahogany gleamed under subtle lighting, and bottles of premium spirits lined the mirrored backdrop, creating an atmosphere of sophisticated luxury. I waved casually to the bartender, a professional I recognized from previous visits who immediately dropped his jaw from excessive happiness at seeing me approach his station. The way his eyes widened and his hands momentarily fumbled with the shaker he was holding made it clear this was an unexpected honor. "Mr. James!" he exclaimed, quickly setting aside the cocktail he had been preparing for another customer. "This is quite a surprise! What can I get for you tonight?" He quickly wiped down the already immaculate counter space directly in front of the most comfortable-looking barstool, clearly preparing for my arrival with something approaching reverence. "The usual Macallan 25, or perhaps something special to improve what I gather has been a disappointing start to your evening?" His eagerness to please was evident, though more professional and less desperate than the manager's had been.

I'm not a normal person who sits on a normal chair at the bar counter like some average customer seeking a casual evening drink or meaningless conversation with strangers; I'm James Dean Jr., a name that carries weight and expectations throughout the entertainment industry and beyond. Although all the eyes in the establishment turned to me the moment I took my seat, their curious and sometimes envious gazes following my every movement as if I were a rare exhibit in some exclusive museum, I maintained my practiced air of indifference to their attention. "Let them look," I thought as I settled onto the premium leather barstool, adjusting my custom-tailored jacket with deliberate casualness. Yes, I'm the only son and heir of the most famous producer in the country, the unquestioned prince of entertainment royalty, the sole offspring of the legendary MR JACK DEAN!!!! The billionaire media mogul whose name alone opens doors that remain firmly closed to others! "A double Macallan, neat," I instructed the bartender, who nodded eagerly and reached for his finest crystal tumbler. Besides my family connections, I used to be a famous basketball player in my own right, dominating the court with a natural talent that had scouts and sponsors fighting for my attention from the moment I entered high school, but due to a career-ending knee injury that still occasionally pained me in cold weather, I reluctantly stopped my promising basketball career and began instead to work for my father in the family business, learning the entertainment industry from the inside. "Just one ice cube," I added as an afterthought, watching as the bartender selected a perfectly clear, hand-carved cube from a special freezer. "And make it a triple," I amended, noting how his eyebrows rose slightly before he quickly schooled his expression back to professional neutrality.

All the singers in town do their best to come close to me, sending demo tapes and making appearances wherever I'm rumored to be, hoping for that life-changing introduction to my father; actors and actresses similarly vie for my attention at industry events, their smiles a bit too wide and their laughter a bit too enthusiastic whenever I make even the mildest attempt at humor. "How's your father doing these days, Mr. James?" the bartender asked conversationally as he poured my drink with the precision of someone handling liquid gold. "Still working on that big superhero franchise deal?" I nodded noncommittally, used to people fishing for industry information they could share later to boost their own social standing. I'm precious to all of them, a valuable connection to be cultivated rather than a person to be known, which I hate most deeply because it means I couldn't live a normal life filled with genuine interactions and authentic relationships. "Always working on something big," I replied vaguely, lifting my glass in a small salute before taking a substantial sip, feeling the expensive scotch burn pleasantly down my throat. "Nature of the business." I glanced around the bar, noting how many people were still watching me despite attempting to appear casual about it. "Can't escape it, even for one evening," I added, more to myself than to the bartender, who nodded sympathetically as if he understood the burden of being constantly recognized and approached, though I knew he couldn't possibly comprehend the gilded cage that was my daily existence.

"Give me..." I was going to order another drink as the first one disappeared more quickly than I had intended, the smooth burn of alcohol already beginning to dull the sharp edges of my perpetual irritation, when a girl suddenly hit my shoulder as she squeezed into the small space beside me at the crowded bar counter. Without so much as an "excuse me" or a glance in my direction to see whom she might have jostled, she immediately began asking the bartender for a beer in a voice that carried clearly over the ambient noise of the establishment! What the hell?! I couldn't believe the audacity, the complete lack of awareness or perhaps concern, that would allow someone to interrupt me in the middle of placing my order! Even people who didn't recognize me specifically would typically demonstrate better manners in an upscale establishment like this one.

"Seriously?" I muttered under my breath, though not quietly enough that she couldn't hear if she were paying attention. "Does no one teach basic etiquette anymore?"

James.

I spun my head to take a proper look at this rude interloper, prepared to deliver a cutting remark about waiting one's turn, but my prepared speech died unspoken as my eyes laid appreciatively on her infectious smile with adorable dimples and her glimmering eyes that seemed to capture the ambient light and reflect it back with added warmth and vitality. I wished I hadn't twirled my body to confront her because now I found myself momentarily speechless, captivated by this stranger in a way that felt both unfamiliar and slightly alarming. "Who the hell is she?" I wondered silently, unable to place her as an actress or model or industry connection, finding no reference point in my mental catalog of important people I should recognize. I gazed at her for what must have been several long seconds, taking in details like the casual way she leaned against the bar with complete confidence, the absence of the fawning body language I typically encountered, and the refreshing lack of recognition in her expression as she finally noticed my sustained attention. "She has no idea who I am," I realized with a strange mixture of offense and intrigue, the novelty of the situation momentarily disarming my practiced defenses.

Then she dropped her jaw in apparent surprise at my continued staring, her confident posture shifting slightly to a more defensive stance as she finally addressed me directly. "Sir! What's wrong with you? Why are you staring at me like this?" The girl questioned with genuine curiosity rather than the affected interest I was accustomed to receiving. Her direct approach took me further aback, as most people carefully calculated their interactions with me, weighing each word for maximum positive impact rather than speaking so bluntly. "Do I have something on my face?" she added when I didn't immediately respond, touching her cheek self-consciously in a gesture that seemed entirely authentic rather than designed to draw attention to her admittedly striking features. "Or is this just how you typically greet strangers—with silent staring?" There was a hint of challenge in her voice now, suggesting she wasn't intimidated by me despite my obvious advantage in age, size, and the deference I received from the staff around us.

I shook my head slightly as if clearing an unexpected fog and I furrowed my eyebrows in concentration, trying to control my facial expressions that had apparently betrayed more interest than I had intended to show. "Nothing is wrong," I replied with forced casualness, regaining my composure with practiced ease. "You ordered before me while I was clearly in the middle of speaking to the bartender!" I explained, attempting to redirect the interaction back to her social faux pas rather than my unusually strong reaction to her. "That's generally considered rude in establishments like this one," I added, gesturing vaguely around us at the upscale bar. "I was merely surprised by your... directness." I straightened my posture, reclaiming the air of authority that typically surrounded me like an invisible but palpable shield. "Most people would wait their turn, particularly when interrupting someone else's conversation," I continued, though my tone had lost some of its edge, softened by a curiosity I couldn't entirely suppress.

"HUH!! So what?!" She gasped with genuine surprise at my objection, her eyes widening expressively in a way that somehow made them catch the light even more beautifully than before. "The bartender wasn't actively making your drink yet, and I only need a quick beer, not some complicated cocktail that requires his full attention and artistic expression," she justified with surprising confidence, clearly unintimidated by my evident displeasure. "Besides," she continued with a small shrug that somehow managed to be both dismissive and oddly charming, "you looked deep in thought, staring into your empty glass like it held the secrets of the universe. I figured you needed a moment to decide what philosophical quandary to drown next." Her lips quirked up in a slight smile that suggested she might be teasing me, an experience so foreign in my daily interactions that I found myself momentarily unsure how to respond appropriately. "Would you prefer I stand three feet back and wait for your royal permission to approach the bar?" she added with a raised eyebrow, her tone making it clear she had no intention of doing any such thing regardless of my answer.

"Don't you know who I am?" I raised an eyebrow in genuine surprise, speaking from the tip of my nose with the egotistical confidence that came from years of being treated as someone special, someone above normal social rules and expectations. I was kind of sure that she must know me and was simply pretending ignorance as some kind of strategy or game, perhaps a novel approach to getting my attention in a sea of more obvious admirers. "Everyone in this place knows who I am," I continued, gesturing subtly around us where several patrons were indeed watching our interaction with undisguised interest. "So either you're new to this city or you're playing some kind of game that I don't find particularly amusing." I signaled to the bartender for another drink, noting how quickly he abandoned serving another customer to attend to my request. "See?" I added, nodding toward the bartender's immediate response. "Everyone here understands the hierarchy." I studied her face for any sign of recognition, any crack in what I still suspected was a carefully constructed facade of ignorance, but was totally wrong in my assessment, finding nothing but genuine confusion and growing irritation in her expressive features.

"Miss, I'm sorry but I can't give you anything alcoholic or prepare your beer order, because you appear significantly underage," the bartender interjected apologetically but firmly, his professional demeanor returning as he addressed the young woman beside me. "I would need to see proper identification before serving you any alcoholic beverage," he continued, looking genuinely sorry to disappoint her but unwilling to risk his job or the establishment's license. "However, I could certainly offer you something from our extensive non-alcoholic menu if you'd prefer," he suggested helpfully, reaching beneath the counter to produce an elegantly bound drink list filled with mocktail options. "We have several delicious signature virgin cocktails, or perhaps a fresh juice blend would be to your liking? Our house-made strawberry lemonade is particularly popular." He glanced at me quickly, perhaps wondering if I might override his decision given my status, but I merely watched the interaction with growing interest, curious to see how my mysterious companion would handle this unexpected obstacle to her desired beverage.

The girl frowned visibly and crossed her arms over her chest in a defensive posture that somehow made her appear even younger than the bartender had suggested. "FRESH JUICE!!!!!! What kind of suggestion is that?" she exclaimed with evident frustration, her voice rising slightly before she consciously modulated it, perhaps aware of the attention we were already attracting. "I'm 17, not a child ordering off the kids' menu!" she protested, though her declaration of age only confirmed the bartender's refusal was entirely appropriate. "Everyone I know drinks at seventeen," she continued, gesturing vaguely toward a group of young people seated in a corner booth who quickly averted their gazes when I glanced in their direction. "It's practically a cultural tradition," she added with less conviction, her argument weakening under the bartender's professionally sympathetic but unmoved expression. "Fine," she conceded after a moment, "I'll take the strawberry lemonade, but I want extra strawberries and none of those pointless little paper umbrellas that just get in the way of drinking."

"So what do you want from me exactly?" I asked with genuine curiosity now that the bartender had moved away to prepare her non-alcoholic beverage, moving my fingers over her cheeks in a forward gesture that would have been inappropriate with a stranger but felt somehow natural in this unusual interaction. I leaned slightly closer, lowering my voice to ensure our conversation remained somewhat private despite the interested onlookers. "Are you here with friends?" I asked, glancing again toward the group of young people who seemed to be watching our interaction with poorly disguised interest. "Or did you come alone specifically hoping to encounter someone interesting?" I studied her expressive face, still finding it refreshing to interact with someone who didn't immediately fawn over me or try to leverage our conversation for personal gain. "Because if you're looking for interesting company, I might be persuaded to oblige," I added with a small smile that was more genuine than my usual practiced charm, intrigued despite myself by this young woman who seemed utterly unimpressed by the status that typically defined my interactions.

She pulled her body away from my touch immediately, her expression transforming from mild annoyance to genuine outrage in an instant. "What! I don't want anything from you at all!" she exclaimed loudly enough that several nearby conversations paused as people turned to observe our increasingly dramatic interaction. "Go to hell with your assumptions and inappropriate touching!" she continued, her voice rising with indignation. "Who are you to talk to me like this and put your hands on a complete stranger? I'm not some groupie or opportunist or whatever kind of woman you're clearly used to dealing with!" the girl shouted without restraint, throwing deadly gazes in my direction that contained genuine anger rather than the calculated displays of emotion I typically encountered. "I was literally just trying to order a drink, not audition for whatever sleazy role you think I'm playing in your personal drama." She took another step back, increasing the distance between us while maintaining unflinching eye contact. "Has no one ever taught you about personal boundaries, or does your apparent wealth come with a free pass to harass teenagers?"

I widened my eyes in genuine shock at her vehement rejection, completely unprepared for such an unfiltered response to what I had intended as a friendly, if somewhat forward, gesture. In my surprise and embarrassment, I reacted poorly, dramatically smashing a whiskey bottle on the floor with a sweep of my arm that sent glass and expensive alcohol scattering across the polished marble. "Fuck!" I exclaimed loudly, drawing even more attention to our already spectacle-making interaction. "Then why did you come stand so close to me in the first place if not to get my attention?" I demanded, unable to process that someone might approach me without ulterior motives, so conditioned was I to people seeking proximity to me for personal gain. "Do you always go around interrupting strangers' conversations at bars if you don't want their attention?" I continued, my voice rising to match hers as my wounded pride sought some explanation that preserved my ego. The bartender hovered nearby, clearly unsure whether to intervene in what had become a scene that threatened to disrupt the entire establishment. "Should I call security, Mr. James?" he asked quietly, but I waved him away, unwilling to escalate the situation further despite my momentary loss of composure.