Bad Intentions (Bad Love 2)

“I’ll let your guidance counselor know you’re here so you can set up your schedule.”

“Thank you,” Jess says in a low voice with a dip of his chin, and I swear she blushes.

“Don’t even think about it,” I warn once she rounds the corner and is out of sight. “Don’t fuck this up. We’re going straight. No hacking. No backtalk. And absolutely no seducing the faculty. Not even flirting,” I stress. “This is our last shot, okay?” This is a small town with one high school. We can’t just enroll him into another school if he gets caught having an inappropriate relationship with a teacher’s aide or smoking weed in the bathroom. Like I said, Jess is brilliant, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t also kind of an idiot.

“What?” Jess asks, feigning innocence. “I wasn’t doing anything.”

“Mhm,” I say, thumping him on the forehead with the palm of my hand. “Behave.”

I sit down and scribble in the blanks, agreeing that I’m the responsible party for the “child” and that I’ll be taking over parental duties and giving the school permission to contact me for any reason, blah blah blah. It takes all of two minutes. Lacey returns, looking over the forms.

“Everything here looks good. You can see Mr. Hansen now,” she says to Jess. “Just get me the rest of those forms tomorrow,” she adds, looking in my direction.

“I will. I promise.”

Jess picks his backpack up off the floor and shrugs it onto one shoulder.

“See you at home,” he says.

“How are you going to get there?”

“I’ll find a way,” he says, lifting a shoulder. “If not, I have my board.”

“Good luck,” I say, and then he’s walking out the door, but not before tossing a wink in Lacey’s direction.

Jesus Christ.

The bad thing about small towns is that it’s near impossible to find a place that’s hiring. I’ve been to every damn grocery store, café, and little clothing boutique in a twenty-mile radius. No luck. I swing into a parking lot near what I guess would be considered the downtown area, right on the Nevada border. A couple of shitty casinos, some restaurants, a bar, and a tattoo shop. Hmm. A tattoo shop. I’ve had a lot of jobs in my twenty-one years of life, but I’ve never worked in a tattoo shop.

I walk toward the neon pink sign flashing on the glass door that reads Bad Intentions. I push it open, and the door dings, announcing my arrival. There are two guys tattooing, and one holds up a finger, letting me know someone will be with me shortly before he goes back to his client. The other one doesn’t even look up.

I decide to check out one of the portfolios on the coffee table in front of two black leather couches. I sit down on one of them, flipping through the pages of tattoos. These are gorgeous. I mean, there are the run-of-the-mill zodiac signs and tramp stamps, but some of these are so intricate and…beautiful. Most of the tattoos I’ve seen are the kind you get in prison or your friend’s basement. This shit is art.

“Can I help you?” a deep, aloof voice asks. I snap the book closed and stand before looking up at the man who greeted me. He’s wearing a black hoodie pushed up to his elbows, exposing two tattooed forearms, black jeans, and a slouchy beanie that hangs off the back of his head. His eyes are ice blue and intense, cutting right through me, framed by thick eyebrows the color of coal that are pulled together expectantly. Or maybe that’s irritation I detect.

He lifts a brow, waiting for my response. Shit.

“Hi,” I say, snapping out of it, extending my hand and pasting my brightest smile to my face. He pulls off his latex gloves, tossing them into the trash can next to the front desk, but doesn’t take my hand. “I’m Logan.”

“Sorry, no walk-ins today. All booked. We have a couple openings next week if you want to leave your name with Cordell,” he offers, jerking his chin toward the guy tattooing an elaborate rose onto some girl’s calf as she white-knuckles the edge of the table she’s lying on.

“Actually, I was looking for a job. You guys hiring?”

“You an artist?”

“No, I mean, like answering calls or something. Anything, really. I just moved here, and I’m a quick learner.”

“Definitely a no, then.”

I should take the rejection and leave, but I’m desperate. And clearly, they could use the help. I’m sure potential clients would feel awkward, wondering what was expected of them if no one was there to greet them and give some direction. Especially if they’ve never gotten a tattoo before. I know I would. “Come on, you guys need someone at your front desk,” I say, all false cheer and good-natured.

“There’s the door,” he says, pointing two fingers in the direction of said door. The counterfeit smile melts off my face, and the irritation that’s been brewing all day finally comes to a boiling point.

“Aren’t small-town folk supposed to be welcoming, and I don’t know, nice? You don’t have to be a dick about it.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Who the hell responds with okay? His lackadaisical response only frustrates me further.