Bad Intentions (Bad Love #2)(25)

“Just wanted to give you a heads-up. Got word today. We’re out at the end of the month.”

And the remainder of my earlier optimism is gone. Just. Like. That. “Already?”

“Sorry, kid,” he says, clearing his throat uncomfortably. “I, uh, I gotta get back to work. I just wanted to give you as much notice as possible.”

“Yeah. Thanks,” I say quietly before stuffing my phone back into my pocket. Tears prick my eyes, and I squeeze them shut, willing them not to fall. “Fuck!” I yell before kicking the wall. Hard. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” That hurt like hell. I squat down, back against the wall with my elbows propped on my knees, forehead leaning against my steepled fingers.

I hate this feeling. Helpless. Useless. Inadequate. But I’ll make it work. We always do. It’s just bad timing, and when it rains, it pours.

“What’d the wall ever do to you?”

I don’t need to lift my head to know the source of that deep, sarcasm-coated voice. I look up at him for a second, to see him standing a few feet away, all crossed arms and creased brows.

“It had it coming.”

He nods, wordlessly walking over and sitting on the ground next to me, ass on the hard pavement with his knees up. He doesn’t speak. Just sits in silence, waiting for me to compose myself.

“Jake cut my hours,” I finally divulge. Forehead still in my hands, I swivel my head to face him. “I really fucking needed those hours.”

“Prick.”

“It’s not his fault. But yeah.”

“He’s still a prick.”

“Henry’s lease is up, too.” I don’t elaborate. He can put two and two together.

We’re quiet again, and if I wasn’t so worried about coming up with cash, it might be awkward to be around him. We haven’t spoken since Halloween. Haven’t so much as exchanged a single text. But I’m too preoccupied to care right now.

“Work for me,” Dare surprises me by saying.

“What?”

“Work. For. Me,” he says again. “I need an assistant, and someone who can man the front desk. You need the money. It’s a win-win.”

“Pretty sure I already tried to work for you and you made it clear that you weren’t hiring.”

“Well, I know you’re a local now. We locals gotta stick together, right?”

I want to ask him why he’s helping me, because I don’t buy that for a second. I don’t want pity. And I definitely don’t want this to turn into another situation where my boss thinks he can throw money at me and expect me to be his fuck toy at his disposal.

“What happened the other night…it won’t happen again.” If I’m going to take this job, it has to be said. No matter how much I want to feel his mouth between my legs and his hands on my waist again.

“Maybe.” He shrugs. “If it happens, it happens. But anything that does or does not happen won’t affect your job. You have my word on that.”

“Not happening,” I reiterate, raising a brow.

“Do you want the fuckin’ job or not?” he asks, exasperated. I do. Of course, I do. But this has the potential to get complicated. I make a promise to myself right here and now that I’ll bail before anything has a chance to get messy.

“Yes. Thank you,” I say sincerely, meeting his icy eyes.

Dare nods. “Meet me after your shift tomorrow. We’ll go over everything then.” He stands, and I crane my neck to see him as he runs a hand through his thick black hair.

“Okay.”

“Okay,” he repeats, and then he turns and disappears inside Bad Intentions.





* * *





I STAND IN FRONT OF the mirror in the Bad Intentions bathroom and lift the front of my work shirt to my nose. Ugh. I smell like cheeseburgers and the beer that a drunk customer spilled all over their table…and me. I strip off my work shirt before digging around in my backpack, thankful that I had the forethought to bring an extra shirt for my first day. I toss my shirt onto the porcelain sink and notice a framed cross-stitch photo that reads Please don’t do cocaine in our bathroom. Surrounded by flowers, it looks like something someone’s grandmother would have hanging on their wall. I laugh out loud and take a picture with my phone to show Jess before I pull my plain black V-neck over my head.

I don’t know what I expected, but I’m surprised at how clean everything is here. I’ve only been inside a couple of times—the last time it was dark, and I was drunk on Dare, so I didn’t pay too much attention. I guess a tattoo parlor would need to be a sterile work environment, so it makes sense.

I tie my red and black flannel around my waist before I pull the hair tie from my ponytail. I let my hair fall around my shoulders and shake it out with my fingers. Good enough.

I leave the bathroom and go back to the front desk, where Dare is waiting for me. I’m not boy crazy. I don’t swoon or lose my mind when an attractive guy comes along. Looks don’t matter much to me—I know firsthand that some of the most beautiful people are ugly on the inside—but Dare is on another level. His inky black hair is perfectly disheveled like it was on Halloween, and I have the urge to run my fingers through it. He’s tall, probably a good eight inches taller than my five foot three. His eyes seem impossibly blue, his jaw sharp. Thick, black eyebrows. Full bottom lip, the top one slightly thinner.