Bad Intentions (Bad Love #2)(65)
I laugh, sagging against him. “I love it,” I say honestly, ignoring that pang in my chest that tells me it might not be the only thing I feel that way for.
“Are you coming over tonight?” Dare asks, nuzzling into me, his stubble scratching against the thin skin of my neck and shoulder. I want to feel it between my thighs.
“I can’t,” I breathe, feeling raw and vulnerable from the crying, the tattoo, the closeness, the orgasm—all of it. “I need to be with Jess tonight.” We need to figure out our next move. I honestly don’t know which way he’ll lean, but I know he deserves to be included in the decision.
Dare nods, kissing my forehead. He bends over, retrieving the forgotten basketball shorts and slides them up my jelly legs, careful not to touch the fresh ink. We walk back into the main room, and I pull my hoodie back over my head, hearing my keys jingle in the front pocket.
Dare gives me instructions about caring for my tattoo. He tells me to take off the wrap in a couple of hours, then wash it with a mild soap and water. I thank him again, promising to call him later tonight. I have a lot to think about.
* * *
WHEN I GET BACK TO Henry’s, Jess is freshly showered, his hair a mop of damp curls. He’s sitting on the couch with his eyes glued to the phone.
“What’s up?” I ask, kicking the door shut behind me.
“Watching Mad Men on Netflix,” he says, dropping his phone to the couch.
“We have Netflix?” I ask, doubtful.
“Nope. I just keep creating different email accounts to get the free trial.”
“Seems legit.”
“What the fuck are you wearing?” Jess asks, looking me up and down.
“Oh, I got this today,” I say, pulling the loose fabric up to expose the tattoo. “I’m part of the no pants club for the next few days.”
“Hell yeah,” Jess says, examining the ink through the plastic wrap. “Think he’ll do me next?”
“When you’re eighteen,” I say, raising an eyebrow.
I head into the kitchen and make all his favorites—eggs, sunny-side up, pancakes, and bacon, mentally weighing the pros and cons of moving in with Dare.
“Do you like it here?” I ask as we eat our breakfast-for-dinner on the couch, since there is no kitchen table to speak of.
“Yeah.” Jess shrugs, crunching on a piece of bacon. “Coach wants me to play lacrosse in the spring. I think I might.”
“So, you wouldn’t be okay with going back home?”
“Like, home home? Like Oakland home?”
I nod.
“Fuck no. Why would we do that?” he asks, seemingly offended that I even brought it up. “We’re both finally doing good. I have friends. Ones who’ve never even been to jail,” he deadpans. “I have a shot at college.”
I almost start crying again, knowing how much he really has going for him here, and how much it would kill me to have that taken away. College wasn’t even on his radar before. Just knowing that he’s considering it is huge.
“What is this about? The money? Because I can pick up an after-school job. Coach might even let me work for the club.”
“No—well, yes and no. There just aren’t any homes or apartments available to rent. I thought I had something, but it fell through. We’re shit out of luck unless we can swing twenty-five hundred a month on rent.” I was hoping to find something for half the price.
“So, what? We go back to Mom’s? Pretend we didn’t send her ass to jail and go back to living life in the fucking hood?”
“No.”
“No? What the fuck else can we do, Lo?”
“There is one other option,” I hesitate, not knowing how he’ll feel about it. “Dare wants us to move in. We’d pay him rent and have a written agreement with him. And it would only be temporary.”
Jess sits back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest.
“I’m for whatever the fuck keeps us here.”
“Yeah?” I ask, still not sold. “You sure?”
“I’m not going back, Lo. This guy…you say he’s legit. If your fairy fucking godmother wants to help, then why the fuck not?”
“I’ll think about it.”
* * *
IT’S BEEN FOUR DAYS SINCE I threw out the offer, and I haven’t heard a word about it since. The first two days, I figured she was just thinking it over, but now, I’m wondering if she’s just trying to figure out a way to tell me she’s leaving.
At least I know she’s not staying in a house with no heat. I pocketed the past-due invoices from Henry’s the night I busted Eric’s car up and paid them the other day. Lo told me the power was back on, but she never asked if I had anything to do with it, and I never told her.
I haven’t had a chance to fuckin’ breathe this week. My books are jam-packed with appointments. Tourist season is in full swing now. Between that and Lo working over at Blackbear, we haven’t seen each other in the past few days, except in passing. Even when she comes in, we’re both so busy that we don’t get anything other than stolen glances.
My phone vibrates from my pocket. I pull it out to see a picture of Lo waiting for me. A picture of Lo’s tattoo, more specifically. She’s on that pathetic excuse for a bed at Henry’s, legs bent, showing off the curve of her perfect ass. She’s wearing those knee-high socks she likes. No pants. No underwear. Her shirt has ridden up, exposing fingertip-shaped bruises in various stages of healing that go with the scratches down my back and teeth marks on my shoulders. My dick is instantly hard, which is unfortunate, seeing as how I have a girl in my chair who’s eyeing my lap like it’s hard for her.