Bad Intentions (Bad Love #2)(3)

“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 walkins 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.

“Okay,” he repeats. “I’m a dick. You’re an asshole who can’t take no for an answer. Glad we’ve established that. Nice to meet you. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” He dips his head and walks away. The other guy—Cordell, I think—snorts and shakes his head. There’s no bite or malice in his tone. He basically just told me to fuck off with a polite smile on his face.

I blow out an exasperated breath before turning for the door, and right as I’m about to walk out, he speaks again.

“Oh, and welcome to River’s Edge.”

I flip him the middle finger and push the door open. I’m supposed to go pick up the spare key Henry said he’d make for me, but I’m starting to think I might have to take him up on the offer to put me to work. I was really hoping I wouldn’t have to resort to working with him, but it’s not looking good. I don’t want to feel like I owe him anything. I’m already staying at his house.

Just as the door is closing behind me, a girl stumbles out of the place next door, almost face-planting onto the sidewalk. I throw out my arms in a useless attempt to catch her before she goes down.

“Holy shit,” she breathes, catching her balance and smoothing out the mat in front of the door with her foot. I look up to see the sign that reads B.B.B. with Blackbear Bar written underneath—a silhouette of a bear behind it.

“Drunk already?” I laugh. “It’s like two in the afternoon. My kinda girl.”

“I wish,” she mumbles, leaning against the wall before opening a pack of cigarettes and bringing one to her lips. “I always trip over that damn mat. I keep telling my boss to get one that doesn’t bunch up. Want one?” she asks, holding out the gold and white pack as she takes a drag.