Good Girl Complex(Avalon Bay #1)(12)

She puts it to sleep and pushes it away.

So fucking predictable. Every rich girl from a good family wonders what it’s like to be with the guy from the wrong side of the gilded gates. It’s the closest thing to a thrill they’ll ever have.

“Is this a gag?” She looks around. “Did Bonnie put you up to this?”

“I don’t know any Bonnie. I’m Cooper.”

“Mackenzie,” she replies with a furrowed brow, still spinning her wheels wondering what the catch is. “But I really do have a boyfriend.”

“You keep saying that.”

This time when I lean in, she doesn’t back away. The gap between us falls to a few inches, the air between us growing thinner.

“In most of the civilized world,” she says slowly, “that matters.”

“And here I’m looking around, and I don’t see this guy you’re so concerned about.”

Her face is incredulous, if a bit amused. She knows exactly how hot she is and is used to men chasing after her. Yet I sense her unease. I threw her off-kilter. Which tells me she’s thinking about it. I’ve met countless girls like her, slept with a few of them, and right now, the farfetched fantasies and what-ifs are spiraling through her pretty head.

“I’m with my roommate tonight.” There’s still fight in her voice, the resolve to hold her ground, or at least appear to do so. This is a woman who’s never played the easy target. “It’s a girls’ thing.”

“Yeah, real wild night you’re having,” I drawl, gesturing at her glass of water. “Someone’s got a good girl complex, huh?”

“I’m dying to find out how insulting me is going to win you this bet.”

“Stick around and find out.”

She holds up her water. “This is called being a good friend. I’ve already met my alcohol quota of two drinks.”

“Whatever you say, princess.”

She twirls the straw in her glass. “I’m trying to watch out for my roommate tonight.”

“What if I thought you looked lonely?”

She cocks her head, eyes narrowing. I can see the gears working in her mind, analyzing me. “Why would I be lonely?”

“Let’s cut the bullshit.”

She nods with a smirk. “Yes, let’s.”

“You’re an attractive woman alone in a crowded bar with your face glued to your phone because there’s somewhere else you’d rather be. And wherever that place is, there’s someone who’s having fun without you. Yet you’re sitting here wearing your boredom as a badge of loyalty, with some misguided notion that being miserable proves what a good person you are. So, yeah, I think you’re lonely. I think you’re so desperate for a good time you’re secretly glad I walked over here. In the deepest, darkest part of your brain, you want me to give you a reason to misbehave.”

Mackenzie doesn’t answer. In the crackle of energy building in the tight space between us, I watch the indecision warring behind her eyes. She considers everything I just said, stabbing the straw into her glass of ice water.

If she’s going to tell me to get lost, this is it. I’ve called her out and anything less than shutting me down is an admission that I’m at least a little right. But if she doesn’t shut me down, then the path ahead of her is unmarked. There are no rules, and that’s dangerous territory for someone whose whole world is mapped out for them from birth. Being rich means never having to think for yourself.

If she chooses to follow me, it only gets less predictable from here.

“Alright,” she says finally. “I’ll take that bet.” I can tell she’s still skeptical of my motivations, but she’s intrigued. “But if you think this ends with getting me in bed, you might as well pay up now.”

“Right. Wouldn’t want to tempt you with a good time.”

She rolls her eyes, failing to hide a smile.

“I mean, I could feel the bummer energy wafting off of you from way over there,” I say, nodding toward the table where Alana and our friends are failing to pretend they aren’t watching us. “Honestly, this is a mitigation protocol. If your attitude doesn’t improve, we’re gonna have to ask you to leave before your bummer spreads.”

“Oh,” she says, putting on an expression of mock seriousness, “if this is a medical emergency, then, by all means, please.”

She’s got banter, at least. I was afraid she’d be another stuck-up priss who couldn’t string a thought together that wasn’t about clothes or nail polish. I assumed going into this I’d have to contend with a typical clone attitude of bitchy entitlement, but this chick seems mostly normal, with none of that pompous pretension.

“So, what did drag you out tonight?” I ask. The more she can talk about herself, the more her walls will come down. Gives her the idea she’s in control.

“My roommate is hunting a pair of twins,” she informs me.

Oh really. “For sport or meat?”

“Bit of both.” Her gaze travels the room, presumably searching the crowd for this elusive roommate. “She has a thing for socially unproductive boys who put their personality on their skin, and she’s got it in her head that twins are good odds. Personally, I think a bout of herpes isn’t worth the morning-after Instagram selfie, but what do I know?”