Bad Intentions (Bad Love 2)

“What’s she pissed about now?” I ask tiredly, tossing my keys onto the counter and bracing my palms on the edge of it.

“You missed dinner,” Kelley says, an amused smirk on his face.

“Shit, my bad.”

Briar seems to think I’m going to self-destruct at any moment. She has this rule that I go to their house once a week for dinner, but “dinner” is really code for make sure Dare has some social interaction that doesn’t involve a client and has at least one meal that doesn’t come from a microwave per week. In the two years that I’ve known her, she’s somehow weaseled her way into my life, bringing my friend count up to a total of four. Five, if you include Adrian, Briar’s friend who is even more intent on befriending me than she was for some fucking reason. The guy doesn’t even live in River’s Edge, but you’d think he does by how often he’s here, in my shop, in my house. Why is it that the few friends I do have are always in my space, completely oblivious to my propensity to be a loner?

Briar gives me a sad shake of her head. I don’t like disappointing her. She’s like a little sister. An annoying sister, but a sister nonetheless.

“I’ve b

een distracted between my truck, and there was this fucking girl—”

“Girl?” Briar asks, perking up, and I roll my eyes. “There’s a girl? What girl?”

“Jesus Christ.” I should not have said a damn word.

“Dare, did you meet a girl?” Briar asks again, coming to stand next to me in the kitchen.

“Like, one you don’t have to blow up first?” Ash chimes in from his place on the couch.

“Fuck off. She’s just some chick who came in looking for a job.”

“Hmm,” Briar says, cocking her head to the side, looking for any sign of deception. “But she’s distracting you?”

“Drop it, Briar. There’s more chance of me dating you than this girl.” That earns me a pout from Briar and a death glare from Asher. It’s true, though. I don’t date, as cliché as that sounds. I fuck when porn and my hand lose their appeal. And I’m selective about who I fuck. I prefer them to be tourists for a few reasons. They’re never here for long, therefore can’t, or shouldn’t, rather, expect anything long-term—but that’s not to say I don’t get the occasional clinger.

For the most part, though, they come into town, the good girls looking for a night with the bad boy, and then go back home to their Ivy League boyfriends, feeling like they got something out of their system. Tourists also don’t know my history, which is an added bonus. I don’t like anyone knowing my business. Not even Kelley knows the extent of my past, and he’s the closest thing I have to family and the one person who would understand, given his own similar past. I’ve hinted at what happened when he was going through his own shit, but I don’t talk about it. Cordell and his brother Cam know because we were friends back then, but they know better than to bring it up. It’s an unspoken rule. I relive that shit in my head every single night. I don’t need to be reminded of my mistakes out loud.

“For the record, I don’t believe you. But I’ll let it go. For now.” She tacks the last part on, narrowing her eyes and pointing her finger at me in an attempt to look threatening. It’s hilarious, really, considering she’s about as intimidating as a pet bunny. “And you can make it up to me by coming to my party next week,” she says, blue eyes big and hopeful.

I groan. I hate parties. I’m already mentally preparing myself for our work Halloween party. All the surrounding shops have one big costume party at Blackbear. If I was the only owner who didn’t participate, I’d look like an even bigger asshole, and I’d never hear the end of it. I’d rather choke on a bullet than go to two parties in the same month.

“Come on, you know I wouldn’t ask you unless it was important to me,” she whines, and I shoot her a look. She invites me to every goddamn thing she attends.

“Okay, so I would invite you, but you know I wouldn’t push.”

“Briar passed her midterms,” Kelley says, coming up behind her, squeezing her hip and looking at her with his eyes full of pride, and she beams up at him. It’s still weird to see this side of him, but that’s the Briar Effect.

“Four people were dropped this semester alone. And passing is a big deal. I just really want the people I love to be there.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I say reluctantly, but I mean it.

“I love you, too,” Briar says before smacking a kiss onto my cheek. Ash walks over, scoops her up, and her legs wrap around his waist.

“Now get out of my house.” I’ve spent enough time with these two to know what comes next.

“He’s just mad because he hasn’t been laid in weeks,” Asher mumbles into Briar’s neck as he carries her toward the door.

“Leave him alone.” She giggles as he reaches back to close the door behind him.

He isn’t wrong. I haven’t fucked anyone lately, and it’s making me a moody son of a bitch. It isn’t because there’s a shortage of willing females, either. I just haven’t found someone worth the trouble.

My thoughts immediately turn to Logan. Her bare milky thighs. Her full lips. Her porcelain skin. I could probably fuck her. I want to fuck her. But I won’t, because girls like her—the beautiful ones with daddy issues—are pure chaos. And chaos is my kryptonite.

I push away thoughts of Logan and decide to shower. Afterwards, I’m too tired to sleep, as if that makes any fucking sense, so I sketch out some tattoo ideas. Drawing always relaxes me. It started as a coping mechanism when the guilt and intrusive thoughts became too much to bear. After turning to drugs and alcohol to numb the pain, I turned to creating art. Art is a generous way to put it. It was far from it when I first started, but now, it’s my lifeline.

I tried other career choices. Even started my own roofing business. I saved enough money to start Bad Intentions, then had Asher take over the roofing company when he moved back. I still technically own it and take jobs on the side every now and then, but creating keeps me grounded and sane in a way that even roofing can’t. It worked at first, because I was fucking angry, and it was a good outlet—throwing myself into physical labor, hammering away at shingles all day, getting my aggression out—but I’m not angry anymore. I’m resigned. I know what I did, and I’ll pay for it every single day for the rest of my life.