Bad Boy Rebels 1-3 (Bad Boy Rebels 1)

It’s something I have to live with every day, the guilt over those horrible words I said to her, all because she was trying to turn me into the person she wanted me to be. And while I still don’t think she was right, I’ve done my best to live up to her expectations. I’m still the same good girl who spends most of her free time doing extracurricular activities and making sure her brothers and sisters stay out of trouble. But I’ve struggled to maintain my good girl image. I want to let loose just a bit and for once see what it’s like to be carefree, instead of this wound-too-tight person.

That’s what tonight is about. Going to one party and experiencing something I’ve only ever been able to experience by listening to Taylor’s wild stories.

Boy oh boy was Taylor shocked when I told her I wanted to go with her tonight. She looked at me like I sprouted a unicorn horn in the center of my forehead and said, “Are you sure? Benton’s parties can get really intense.”

“I want to go,” I said, battling to ignore the voice in the back of my mind that told me I wasn’t a party girl. Maybe I wasn’t, but how was I supposed to find out if I didn’t go to a party? How was I supposed to figure out anything when I hardly did anything? “Unless you don’t want me to.”

A smile broke across her face and she let out a squeal. “Hell yes, I want you to go.” She clapped her hands together excitedly. “I’ve been wanting us to party together for, like, forever. I just never thought it was going to happen.”

And just like that, I found myself stepping out of my comfort zone and into a new, unsteady, tight-rope zone, where I can’t quite get my footing and where I feel extremely guilty all the time.

If my mom knew what I was about to do, she’d be so disappointed in me.

More guilt chokes me, but I bury it down as we reach Benton’s apartment door, the music on the other side is booming so loudly that the floor beneath my feet shakes. I haven’t been to a party before, but my mind conjures up all sorts of wild ideas of what could be happening inside.

It sounds so loud in there, I think. That thought is followed by, holy crap, I sound like an old lady who lives with ten cats and never leaves her house.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Taylor asks, noting my wary expression.

I wipe my damp palms on the sides of my pale pink shorts and force a smile. “Yep. Let’s do this.”

She grins, lifts her hand, and knocks on the door. When no one answers, she knocks harder.

“What are we going to do if no one answers?” I ask, biting my nails.

“Walk in.” She reaches for my hand and gently tugs my fingers out of my mouth. “No nail biting tonight. Got it?”

I bob my head up and down, an anxious breath rushing from my lips. “Sorry. I do it when I’m nervous.”

“I know.” She points a finger at me. “But you shouldn’t be nervous. You’re supposed to have fun at parties. You know, let your hair down or whatever.” Her eyes light up. “Speaking of hair.” She reaches toward my head and steals the clip from my hair.

My long, brown, curls spill across my shoulders in a wildly untamed mess. I hastily comb my fingers through the locks, attempting to tame them. But it’s no use. As usual, my dang curls are untamable.

“Please give me the clip back,” I beg, sticking my hand out. “My hair looks like crap.”

“No way. Your hair is sexy.” She touches her shoulder length red hair with her fingers and pulls a face. “God, I wish I had your curls. But no, I had to be cursed with thin, flat, lifeless hair.”

“Your hair looks amazing.” I motion for her to give me the clip, but she shakes her head. I grimace. “I didn’t even brush my hair today.”

“So what? You have this sexy bedhead thing going on. Guys love that.”

“I’m not trying to impress any guys.” I lunge for the clip, but she skitters to the side, moving out of my way, and I almost run into the wall.

“You say that now, but you’ll change your mind.” She flashes me a devious grin then chucks my clip over my head and down the three flights of stairs.

The cheap plastic breaks into pieces as it hits the concrete at the bottom.

I frown at her. “So not cool. That was my favorite one.”

“Then I’m glad I broke it. You shouldn’t have a favorite hair clip.” Smirking at me, she hammers her fist against the door again.

I narrow my eyes at her, trying to appear irate, but she only laughs.

“You trying to get pissed off is the funniest thing ever,” she says. “You’ve always sucked at it.”

That’s not true. I was angry at my mom for the entire day before she died and my inability to let go of that rage has haunted me for the last two years.

My shoulders slump. “I’m sorry. I just—”

The door swings

open and all the noise from inside spills out. My first instinct is to cover my ears, but realizing how lame I’ll look, I force my hands to remain at my sides.

Be cool, Zhara. Be cool.

Benton casually leans against the doorframe with his lean arms crossed. He doesn’t say anything, just stares at Taylor.

His gaze is intimidating, at least to me. But Taylor appears completely undisturbed by it, probably because she’s used to it. He does look that way a lot; every single time I’ve seen him in the hallways, whether he’s walking alone or talking to people. Most of his friends don’t get too fazed by it anymore, but if a stranger crossed paths with him at night, they’d probably run in the opposite direction—he gives off that scary of a vibe. And it doesn’t help he looks older than he really is.

Like Taylor and I, Benton just graduated high school, but with his tattooed arms and his I don’t-have-to-answer-to-anyone attitude, he looks like he should be in college. Or kicking someone’s ass at a biker bar. I remember the first time I saw him, back at the start of our sophomore year when he first moved to Honeyton. He’d actually lived in our town once before, back in elementary school, but holy wow he’d changed.

“That’s Benton?” I’d asked Taylor, gaping at Benton as he walked down the school hallway with an air of confidence that could only be envied.

She slammed her locker shut and eyeballing Benton like a piece of delicious chocolate she wanted to devour. “Yep.” She was practically drooling as he walked by us without so much as a second glance. “Good God, he’s so hot.”

I wasn’t sure I entirely agreed with her. I mean, sure, he was obviously attractive, in a rough, intense way. All bad boy I-don’t-give-a-shit, with his dark hair shaved short on the sides, tattoos, and facial piercings. But his eyes are what really made him seem older. They looked haunted, like he’d been through more difficult stuff than a lot of sixteen-year-olds.