Bad Intentions (Bad Love #2)(4)

“Nah, I don’t smoke.” Pretty much everyone in my life does, but I’ve never seen the appeal. I can’t tell you how many times I was made fun of as a kid for smelling like cigarettes at school. I hated my mom for smoking inside—though that was nothing in comparison to her crack habit. But, in my selfish twelve-year-old mind, the drugs didn’t affect me, at least not my social life. The smell of smoke did. My hair, clothes, everything, always reeked. You spend money to kill yourself and smell like an ashtray in the meantime. No thanks.

“Yeah, I don’t usually, either. It’s one of those days.”

I nod. “I’ll take a job, though. Got one of those for me?” I’m half-joking, but if it works, it works.

She blows out a cloud of smoke and looks over at me, eyeing me up and down.

“What’s your name?”

“Logan,” I say, holding out my hand, and unlike the guy next door, she shakes it. “But everyone calls me Lo.”

“I’m Sutton. You new in town?” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. She’s gorgeous with straight jet-black hair that doesn’t quite hit her shoulders and is slightly longer in the front.

“Yep.”

“Are you here for good or just temporarily?”

“For good…ish,” I answer honestly. We’ll be here until summertime at the very least. Who knows what the future holds after Jess graduates. I don’t see us going back home anytime soon.

“We do need someone, but not if you’re going to bail in a couple weeks or a month. It’s slow now, but we’re about to hit our busy season, and we’ll need you till at least March.”

“Sold.”

“Do you have any experience bartending?”

“Bartending, serving, closing, opening, cooking, hosting, bussing…you name it, I’ve done it.”

“Can you work weekends?”

“I can work whenever you need me.”

“I’ll talk to my boss, but no objections to working weekends and a great rack to boot? Pretty sure you’re Jake’s dream employee. Got a number where I can reach you?”

Sutton puts out her half-smoked cigarette then holds out her phone. I program my number before she pockets it back into the tiny apron tied around her waist.

“Thanks. You’re the first nice person I’ve met here.”

“Don’t thank me yet. This is the calm before the storm.”

It’s meant to be a warning, but what she doesn’t know is that this job is already a million times better than anywhere I’ve ever worked. I can tell that much without even stepping foot inside. The uniforms aren’t skimpy, for one. Black leggings and a white tee with the Blackbear logo on the right breast. Beats the last bar I worked at that required me to have my tits and ass on display for every drunk asshole to grope. I can handle the long hours and tired feet.

“Challenge accepted.”





* * *





“I’VE GOTTA GET TO THE car shop before they close. You good to close tonight?” I ask Cordell, who’s finishing up on his client. It’s a weekday, so I usually stay until at least twelve. Sometimes as late as two a.m. on weekends to catch the crowds at closing time, but tonight, Cord is closing up shop for me.

“I got it.”

“Thanks, man.”

I pull my hood onto my head and step outside. It’s the end of October, which means two things. One, winter is coming. Two, tourists are coming. Well, it’s always tourist season here—with the lake and the river for the summer and the snow for winter sports—but December and January are notoriously brutal. Good for business. Bad for my whole not liking people thing.

I jog over to my truck, needing to be at the shop before it closes in—I check my phone—six minutes. Fuck. I can make it, as long as I don’t hit any traffic. I fucked up my tire on a pothole, and this place is the only one in town that carries the right tires for my truck. Driving on it is sketchy, but I had to be at Bad Intentions for a twelve o’clock appointment.

I jump in, throwing it in drive, and haul ass toward the shop. The sun is already setting over the lake, and I squint my eyes against the rays peeking through the pine trees that stab at my vision. I pull up with a minute to spare and hope that the old bastard didn’t decide to close early. Businesses here run on River’s Edge time. Which means, you can’t fucking count on anything to be open when they’re supposed to be. If they’re not busy—or if they want to pack it up and call it a day early—they can, and they will. I like money too much to run my shop like that. More than that, I know what it’s like to have none. And I don’t ever plan to go back to that life.

The door chimes when I walk in, but it’s not Doris, the eighty-year-old smart ass that usually works the front desk that I see. It’s someone much younger and, I’ll admit, much better looking. It’s the chick from the shop earlier, and she’s standing with her arms folded across her chest, facing the door behind the desk. I can see her profile, not missing the generous curve of her ass in those tight pants, but she doesn’t notice me.

“Well, that was fast,” I say, pushing back my hood, then tugging the beanie off my head and running a hand through my hat hair. Her head whips around, and her scowl deepens at the sight of me. So she remembers me. I’m flattered. “Found a job already?”