Discovering Zhara: Bad Girl Training (Bad Boy Rebels 4)

“Really? Not a know-it-all?”

He shakes his head. “Not at all. You never seemed like that.”

“Well, that’s what everyone else seems to think of me.”

“Well, I’ve never thought about you.” He smiles. He has a nice smile. Sweet and not at all dangerous looking like the rest of the smiles I’ve seen lately.

Granted, not all of those dangerous smiles were bad to look at either.

“You have a nice smile,” I tell him and for some strange reason a blush spreads across his cheeks. And for some stupid reason, that makes my cheeks flush.

Oh my Gosh, just stop, Zhara!

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The noise smacks me away from giggling, blushing, fairytale land and back to memories of being in the SUV, sitting on Wilder’s lap, while Goatee Guy touched himself.

“What is that?” I ask, sitting up straighter.

“Huh?” Ridge blinks at me.

“That beeping.” I nod at his computer. “I think it’s coming from your laptop.”

Ridge’s eyes widen. Then he lets out a series of very colorful words as he springs to his feet and collects his computer. When he looks at the screen, he visibly relaxes.

“It’s okay. It’s just a false alarm.” He sits back down and places the computer onto his lap.

“What is it?” I want to look at the screen, but worry that it might make me come off as rude. But he turns the computer toward me anyway.

“I’m tracking Benton, Xavier, and Jackson,” he explains, pointing at three blue dots on a map of roads, rivers, and mountains. “This is their current location.”

“Is that Honeyton?” I lean forward to get a better look.

He nods. “But if they were to leave Honeyton, the map would change to show wherever they were.”

“That’s cool.” I examine the map. “So, right now, Benton, Xavier, and Jackson are down by the cemetery.” That seems a bit strange. Do drug lords typically hang out at cemeteries?

Perhaps if they’re burying dead bodies.

I shiver at the thought, which causes Ridge to glance up at me.

“Are you cold?” he asks worriedly. “Maybe you should lie back down and pull a blanket over you. I could have Jackson make you some soup. And hot chocolate.”

“I’m fine,” I promise him. “I can eat whatever Jackson brings me.”

“Are you sure? With what happened, I don’t want you overdoing yourself.”

Worry stirs in my chest. “Will there be side effects?”

He shakes his head and strands of his brown hair fall into his eyes. “They’re shouldn’t be. In fact, normally when someone gets injected with devil’s poison, they’re fine within minutes of waking up.” His brows furrow. “But with how long you were out, I want to keep a close eye on you. And your body temperature…”

The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. “Devil’s poison?”

“It’s the name of the tranquilizing drug Axel injected you with,” he says then hurriedly adds, “Don’t worry. The name sounds worse than it really is.”

“Oh…” My heart pounds deafeningly inside my chest.

Ridge must notice my sudden uneasiness because he asks, “Zhara, what’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing.” I fidget with the hem of my shorts. “It’s just that, when Axel whispered into my ear, he said something about my mom liked the taste of devil’s poison.”

“Oh.” He grows quiet. Like really, really, uncomfortably quiet.

I don’t want to ask, but I feel like I have to. “Can people get addicted to this drug?”

“It’s sort of becoming a growing problem and part of the reason why we were put on this job. But honestly, the addiction usually isn’t a choice.”

“What do you mean?”

He wavers with uncertainty. “It means that the people who usually get addicted to it are being forced to take the drug, either through experiments or simply because people like Axel use it as a form of punishment.”

“Oh.” My heart thrashes in my chest as a single thought races through my mind.

Was my mom addicted to devil’s poison?

Nicknames

“You don’t need to worry. You won’t get addicted from one dose,” Ridge says, misinterpreting my silence.

“I wasn’t really worried about that,” I tell him. “I was just thinking, or more like wondering, if my mom was addicted to it and maybe that’s why Axel said she liked the taste of it.”

He hesitantly takes my hand. “Remember what I said about people in this world lying. Well, Axel is definitely one of those people who would lie to you, so I don’t think you should stress yourself out about this.”

“But what happens if he was telling the truth?”

“If we find out he was, then we’ll worry about it then. But there’s no point in worrying about things if you aren’t sure they’re even true. It’s a waste of time and energy.”

“Okay, I’ll try to stop,” I tell him. But I’m unsure if I can. It’s just not really in my nature. Although sometimes I wish it was.

“Good.” He gives my hand a squeeze, but then creases line his forehead. “God, your skin is so cold.” He pauses, deliberating something. “I know you said it’s normal for you to run this cold, but maybe we should run some tests.”

I squirm at the idea of being prodded and poked. “What sort of tests?”

“Nothing too severe. I promise,” he reassures me, moving the computer aside. “Just some blood work. That’s all.”

“And you’d do it?” I ask. “I wouldn’t have to go to a hospital?”

He nods while studying me carefully. “I can draw the blood and then have my mom run the tests… Do you not like hospitals?”

“I don’t know.” My gaze lowers to my hands as my eyes sting with tears.

I stare at the lines in my palms, willing the tears to go away, but instead, memories press at my mind.

When I was younger, my mom went through a phase where she decided she was going to learn how to palm read. She practiced on Alexis, Annabella, Jessamine, and I and we’d stay up all night telling fortunes and pretending we could read Tarot cards. I always thought it was sort of a strange hobby for a mom, but I liked that she was a little different and weird sometimes. But she wasn’t always that way and the older we got, the more those weirdo days faded. Then she started trying to mold me into the perfect daughter, when I would’ve much preferred being the weirdo girl who learned how to read palms and Tarot cards. And then she died and those weirdo days were nonexistent. And my dad, who allowed me to try to be who I wanted to be—even though I didn’t know who that was and still don’t—was gone too.

“I was in the hospital when I heard the news about my parents’ deaths,” I say quietly. “It was the last time I’ve been there and I… I don’t know. Going back there… I’d just rather not go, if I don’t have to.”

Sympathy fills his eyes when I look up at him. Or maybe it’s empathy. Has Ridge lost someone too?

“My dad died when I was six,” he says, confirming my speculation. “He actually worked in the organization and died on the job. I was at the hospital when I found out. I hate going there too.” A shaky sigh leaves his lips. “Unfortunately, my mom’s a nurse so I don’t always get a choice.”

“I’m sorry.” I scoot to the very edge of the bed, lean forward, and give him a hug.

At first, his muscles wind up tightly and I worry I’ve crossed some sort of line. But then he unstiffens and hugs me back. Although he seems a bit uncomfortable.

“Okay, what’d I miss?” Wilder’s voice sails over my shoulder.

Ridge jerks back from me, as if he’s done something wrong. He moves so quickly I start to face dive off the bed.

“Crap,” Ridge mutters as he scrambles to catch me.

His arms envelope around my waist right before I eat a mouthful of carpet. As he struggles to rebalance me, he loses his grip and I tumble forward, my face landing right in his crotch ar

ea. My cheeks flame with heat as I push back and plant my ass back on the bed. The only thing that makes the awkward moment easier to handle is that Ridge’s embarrassment seems equivalent, if not worse, than mine.

“Wow, Ridge. I mean, I know you suck when it comes to girls, but that was the least smooth move I’ve ever seen,” Wilder says in a teasing tone. “And if you want a girl to put her face near your dic—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Ridge interrupts him, his voice loud, his cheeks bright red. “Or I swear to God, the next time your computer crashes, I won’t fix it.”

“Oh fine. Ruin my fun.” Wilder wanders into the room and hands me the plateful of food he’s carrying, along with a cup. “Your highness, here’s your meal.”

I giggle as I take the plate and cup from him. “Thank you.”