Bad Intentions (Bad Love #2)(85)

“I’ve never had to do it before.”

“Why does it feel like we’re saying hello and goodbye all at the same time?” After years of tugging at his sleeve and following him like a lost puppy, I’ve finally gotten Asher’s attention in the way I’ve always wanted. But I’m not na?ve enough to think that this could end well.

“Because once I leave, you’re going to forget this night ever happened.”

I lick my lips, and his eyes follow the movement.

“But you’re still here now, so…” I rise onto my tiptoes, circling my arms around his neck. Asher grips my waist and lifts. My legs automatically wrap around him.

“For once in my goddamn life, I’m trying to be the good guy, and you’re not making it easy.”

“I like you better when you’re bad.”

Something not unlike a growl is all I hear in response before his lips are on mine once again. Ash walks us over to the wall next to the window, still holding me by my ass. When my back hits the wall, his hands are free to roam. He smooths them up the outsides of my thighs and then either side of my waist. I hold on to his shoulders to keep from melting into a puddle at his feet as I feel it building again, and my hips shift in search of the friction I need, when I hear it.

Giggling. Feminine, annoying giggling.

“Shut the fuck up! You’re going to wake my parents,” says a familiar, albeit irritated voice.

“Fuck,” Ash whispers, dropping me like a sack of potatoes, right before Whitley, Asher’s ex, appears in the window. She lands in a pile at my feet, and she smells like alcohol and cheap perfume. When she notices me, her face morphs into one of total and utter disdain.

Dash climbs through after her—his preferred method of entry when he has a girl with him—and looks between us. It’s not exactly suspicion I detect on his face, but confusion. I feel the need to straighten my shirt or tame my hair, but I’m frozen, afraid of doing anything that will display my guilt.

“What’s going on?” he asks, concern coating his tone.

“A little help here!” Whitley slurs in her high-pitched, dolphin sonar voice. Dash rolls his eyes, reaching down to help her to her feet.

“She was looking for you. Wouldn’t take no for an answer,” Dash explains. “Figured you’d be here when we didn’t see your truck at yours.”

“I was just, uh, helping Asher with something,” I say. Dash reads the meaning of my words, and his head jerks toward Ash, assessing.

“You okay, man?” he asks, keeping it vague since Whitley is here.

“I’m good,” is all he says, and the two share a look that even I can’t decode.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Whit?” His tone is harsh, but hearing him call her by her nickname reminds me of the fact that they were close once.

“We need to talk,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest.

“The fuck we do,” Asher snaps. “Go home.”

“I can’t!” she protests, and I fight the urge to cover my ears. She’s always so loud. “I didn’t drive.”

“Jesus Christ,” Asher says, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Go wait for me in my truck. I’ll take you home.” Whitley wastes no time, probably knowing that he’d rescind the offer if she pushed her luck.

“Which is it this time? You pick a fight with some random asshole, or is your dad drunk again?” Dash asks once we hear the car door slam shut.

“The latter.”

“Does he look like you?” He gestures to his bloody appearance.

A devious smirk lifts the corner of his lips. “Worse.”

“Good,” Dash says solemnly. He hates this just as much as I do. It’s the most helpless feeling in the world, standing by and watching something so awful happen to someone you care deeply for, and not being able to do a damn thing about it. As much as I hate the thought of him leaving, I feel so much relief in knowing that there’s now an end in sight. “Call me tomorrow. I gotta take a piss.”

The moment my brother is out the door, Asher’s guilt-ridden eyes dart over to mine. “This was a mistake.”

“Bullshit,” I argue, moving toward him.

“Don’t,” he says, backing away, and I die inside, just a little.

And before I can pick my stupid, na?ve heart up off the floor and form a response, he’s gone.



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Preview of Misbehaved





Remi



LET ME START OFF BY saying I don’t hate my life. To someone from the outside, it might look like a bad life, but I don’t care. I know the truth. I have a roof over my head. I’m frying juicy steaks in the kitchen. My dad, Dan, isn’t abusive or in prison, which basically puts me at a huge advantage in comparison to the rest of the kids in my neighborhood. I have Ryan, who looks out for me, and, for the most part—albeit in an unconventional, fucked-up way—I feel loved.

Mostly.

But feeling loved doesn’t mean that I’m happy with my circumstances. It doesn’t mean I’m content with the street I live on that manages to taint every man, woman, and child that is unlucky enough to land here. It doesn’t mean that I won’t try to run away.