Bad Intentions (Bad Love #2)(7)

“I never said it wasn’t Lacey,” he says mischievously.

“Jesse, I swear to God…”

“I’m just fucking with you. It was some girl from my math class. Who called your phone a minute ago?” In true Shepherd fashion, he flips the topic back to me to take the heat off him.

“What?” I ask, clearing my throat.

“Was it him? Eric? Is he fucking with you again? I swear to God, if you go back to him…”

I get his concern. Every single time he warned me about Eric, I brushed it off. At first, it was the money. He had it, and we needed it. He gave me whatever I needed. But then, it became more complicated. Lines were crossed, and morals were blurred. It wasn’t pretty, and I’m not proud, but I am done. I never want to be the person I was when I was with Eric again.

“Nah, I think it was one of the places I applied to earlier.”

“Weird, because you got that same panicked look in your eyes that you get whenever that piece of shit is involved.”

“It wasn’t him,” I say firmly. I stand abruptly, causing my chair to scape across the cheap wood flooring. “Why is it so goddamn cold in here?” I change the subject once again, pulling my shirt closed. “I gotta take a hot shower. My tits are going to freeze off.”

Jess shakes his head, and he doesn’t believe me for a second, but he doesn’t say a word as I make my way up the steps.

Once I peel off my clothes and stand under the scalding hot water, my mind drifts back to the hot guy with tattoos. And I allow my fantasy from earlier to run wild, in the privacy of this bathroom, because it can’t happen in real life.




The buzzing under my pillow cuts through my dreams, forcing me into reality. I open one eye, waiting for the sleep to clear to be able to focus on the words on the screen.

You’re late.

Late? It’s from a local number. It takes a minute for my brain to catch up and remember that I’m supposed to pick Dare up. How the hell did he get my number? Tired eyes drag up to the time displayed in too-small numbers on the top of my screen. It’s nine twelve. Shit. Jess is late for school. I scramble out of bed and dig through my bag, only to realize I don’t have any clean jeans. Or leggings. Or underwear. Or anything, really. I really need to ask Henry if he has a washer and dryer. I haven’t seen one, and this place isn’t exactly a palace, so it doesn’t look promising.

I have no choice but to go in what I’m wearing, which happens to be rumpled gray sleep shorts and a white tank top. I end up throwing on fuzzy striped socks that go up to my knees and Jess’ oversized hoodie that fits me like a dress. I run down the stairs and into the living room, skidding across the floor, expecting to find Jess comatose on the couch.

Instead, I see a piece of paper on top of his pillow that reads Henry took me to school. No, you’re not being punked. He offered, and you looked tired.

Henry took him? Huh. Maybe coming here was the right move.

I walk over to the table and grab my purse and keys. As I’m slinging the tattered brown messenger bag over my shoulder, I notice the paperwork with Henry’s signature that Jess was supposed to take back to school.

“Dammit, Jess,” I mutter under my breath before swiping it off the table. I tuck it inside my bag and add it to my list of shit to do today. I’m starving, but I don’t have time to eat, so I take a bite of a piece of toast that was left out from someone’s breakfast, stuff my feet into my boots, and then I’m gone.




“You didn’t have to get all dressed up for me,” Dare jokes as he takes in my wild hair, baggy sweater, and face free of makeup. He’s amused with my ragamuffin state, but then his eyes land on my bare thighs, and I swear his nostrils flare at the sight. I’m tempted to spread my legs a little farther just to push him. To gauge his reaction. But I don’t do that.

“Only the best for random strangers who force me to be their chauffeur,” I say snidely instead as I pull out of his driveway and head toward Henry’s shop. Dare’s eyes, still locked on my thighs, snap up to meet mine. They’re filled with something I can’t put into words so much as feel. It’s not transparent, overt lust like most men. But something…more. Something intense. And I want to know what it means. But before I can decipher it, he schools his expression and looks away.

“How did you get my number?”

“Your dad gave it to me.”

“How nice of Henry to give my number out to strangers.”

“Stop calling me a stranger. I’ve known Henry longer than you have,” he points out.

“Touché,” I say, nodding, because what else can I say? Other than ouch. He’s not wrong. He may have known him longer, but he does know him better than I do.

“That was a dick move,” he says after a minute. “Sorry.”

He chokes out the word sorry like he’s swallowing a handful of nails. As if the word is foreign to him, and he’s never had to apologize for anything in his whole life. It almost makes me laugh.

“Nah,” I shake my head, aiming for nonchalance, “it’s true. So, why am I picking you up so early?”

“Need to eat. There’s a restaurant next to your dad’s shop.”

Ignoring the weird feeling that comes from someone referring to Henry as my dad again, I ask, “Are you asking me out for breakfast?”