Make Me Bad(10)

“Andy!”

He ignores me. No doubt he’s going over to talk to Arianna.

Out of the two of us, he’s more easily distracted by the opposite sex. I’m pretty sure he loves women more than life itself, and it shows. On paper, Andy is more of a ladies’ man. He dates. He Tinders. He swipes on every available app and prowls the gym every time we’re here on the off chance his soul mate is within reach. Tonight, he’s in luck. She’s actually here.

As for me, I’m not really interested in dating at the moment. For the last few years, women have served a singular purpose in my life. I’ve been happy with nights spent with tourists I’ll never see again. It’s easier than the alternative: sleeping around with women in Clifton Cove. We all grew up together, and I’ve watched them become the debutantes their parents always wanted them to be. There’s a mold they all adhere to, and while it’s not a bad mold, it is a boring one. Even though I know it would make my dad happy to see me settle down, I can’t seem to want a single one of them.

Just because I don’t want to marry them doesn’t mean I couldn’t give in to temptation and accept the offers a few of them have made crystal clear since I returned from law school. That said, I adhere to the old adage Don’t shit where you eat. Clifton Cove is small, and word travels fast.

I tell myself I’m not interested in dating and relationships because I have a lot on my plate with work. I enjoy burning the midnight oil, tearing through files and emails and prepping for meetings until my vision blurs from reading and my fingers ache from typing. I’m hungry for success even though it’s all but destined for me, so love and women have naturally taken the back seat.

The truth is more complicated than that. After my mom entered a permanent facility, after we were sure her dementia would worsen, after she forgot my name, who I was, what I meant to her—something inside me split in two.

A more romantic person would say it was my heart, but I think it was my optimism, my hope for an easy, happy life. Watching a person suffer like that, enduring that suffering myself…I’m not sure I’m willing to take the risk again.

Then, for some insane reason, I think of Madison Hart.

Just thinking her name makes me frown, confused—no, baffled. She’s impossible to forget, and believe me, I’ve tried. During the day, I can mostly put her out of my mind. Work and my social life keep me busy enough. Besides, we only had one brief, albeit crazy, encounter. The chances of our paths crossing again are slim to none. We don’t run in the same circles. Her family despises me. And yet…at night, she keeps finding her way into my dreams.

The same few moments play out again and again. She’s kneeling down on the sidewalk, underneath the streetlamp, just like that night. She’s looking up at me and her eyes are so big and green, a swirling mess of a color that digs at something deep inside me. The green is so vibrant, the color of grass just after it rains, the color of life.

Sometimes I work up the courage to step closer and touch her. I cradle her cheek in my hand and she accepts the comfort so willingly. Other times, I jerk awake before I get the chance.

Either way, I’m frustrated in the morning.





It’s been a few weeks since my arrest. My lip and eye have healed up, and other than a small scar beside my eyebrow, I’m good as new. Life has carried on as normal except for the misdemeanor charge hanging over my head. Much to the chagrin of my father and Judge Mathers, I stuck with my guilty plea and accepted my sentence: 100 hours of community service. After I’m done, I’ll have the misdemeanor expunged from my record. It’s silly that I’m going through with all this—I didn’t assault Mac and his friends. We were all in there, throwing punches, taking our anger out on each other. Andy even had a few bruises to show for it, and he wore them proudly around the office before they faded. I swear he was a little sad to see them go.

I don’t have to do the community service. Mac isn’t going to know whether or not I weaseled out of my punishment. Hell, he probably assumes I did, but I’ll know, and I guess, for some stupid reason, that matters.

Normally in situations like this, the courts would demand that the offender volunteer or pay restitution to the organization directly impacted by the crime itself. Since mine was a misdemeanor involving a simple assault, and since Judge Mather’s heart wasn’t really in it for the sentencing, he tossed a list of organizations at me and told me to pick one. I skipped over the soup kitchen, hospital, and retirement home. The last option on the list was the local library, a place I haven’t set foot in since I was a kid.

I chose it on a whim and now here I am, ready to report for my first day. It’s 5:00 PM on Friday and I’ve had a long week at the firm. Andy and I currently have more clients than we can handle. We’ve brought in four junior associates in the last two years, but somehow, the workload just keeps piling up. I could use a break, a night of just kicking back and shooting the shit with my friends, a real weekend where I’m not holed up at the office.

In truth, the last thing I need is another commitment on my plate, so now, more than ever, I’m kicking myself for getting into this mess. Was it really worth it to land that solid punch across Mac’s face?

Yes. Yes, it was.

I park in the visitor’s lot and hop out, glad I changed clothes before I left work. I’m not about to show up to volunteer in a suit.