Wanted: A Bad Boy Romance (4 page)

“You know there’s going to be a
quiz over all of this when we’re done?” I point my pen toward the TV screen.
“Maybe you should focus on something a little more appropriate right now
instead of figuring out how to get laid here.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Thad rakes
his hand through his sandy brown hair and flashes a million dollar grin. “Who
said anything about trying to get laid.”

“You’re practically undressing me
with your eyes.” I lean forward, resting my chin on my hand and scooting my
chair away from him. “Psh. And telling me I’m pretty. You think that’s the way
to get me? I’m not that vapid. Please.”

I’m flirting.

I shouldn’t be.

I’m presenting a challenge.

Setting up the chase.

Guys love to chase.

Until they
catch you, and then they move on to the next thrill.

I sigh, recalling the handful of
guys who’d come before Thad. They all started with a wink and a smile and a
benign compliment,
then
transitioned to some flirty
banter and suggestive innuendo until my resolve had melted like rain on chalk.

And when I finally caved in?
That’s when it would all end.

No more dates. No more texts. No
more stealing smiles in quiet lecture halls.

Thad is just like the rest.

I’m here to pass my internship
and hopefully get a job.

That’s it.

“I know you’re not vapid,
Jordana,” he says, cutting through the tension that lingers in the space
between us. “That’s why I’m asking you to have dinner with me. You’re different
from most girls.”

I roll my eyes. “Nice line,
Romeo. But I’m still going to say no.”

He doesn’t wither and wilt. He
sits up tall in his seat, pinning me with his iron-strength determination.
“It’s all right. I’ve got all semester to make you mine.”

“I don’t typically hire felons.”
The body shop own leans back in his creaky chair, raking his palm across his
five o’clock shadow.

I’ve been pounding the pavement
since dawn, a stack of pathetic little resumes in hand. I’m wearing a button
down shirt I stole from my father’s closet and a simple blue tie with khakis.

I look like a fucking schmuck.

But I need a job.

I’ve got to get out from under my
father’s roof and away from that absurd situation he calls a family before I go
insane.

“But times are hard,” the guy
continues. “Money’s a little tight. Business is slower than usual. Government
gives me a little kickback for hiring your kind, so, uh, what the hell.”

He reaches across the table and
offers me a limp handshake. I immediately lose all respect for the asshole, but
I don’t let it show. This is the tenth place I’ve stopped into today, and he’s
making me a job offer.

“Thank you, sir,” I
say,
squeezing his hand tight enough elicit a wince from his
weathered face.

“Just don’t go stealing nothing,”
he ads.

I pull in a sharp breath and
force a smile.

“I’m not that kind of…felon,” I
say.
I fucking
hate that I’m a convicted felon. Once upon
a time, I was a good guy.

Still am.

Just not on paper.

“Ten bucks an hour to start,” he
says. “You’ll be doing lube and filters all day. Maybe someday you can work
your way up to minor repairs.”

I nod.

My life’s ambition right there.

Minor vehicular
repairs.

I should be designing bridges,
not draining oil from Mazdas and Nissans.

A guy roughly my age struts into
the office. His oil-stained,
pin-striped
shirt has
“Kyle” embroidered on the name-tag.

“Titan, this is my oldest boy,
Kyle.” Terry, my new boss, says his son’s name in one, quick syllable. “Kyle
this is Titan. He’ll be doing lube and filters for us. He’s a convicted felon.”

My teeth grit, and I resist the
urge to clock him across the face on the spot.

“Ooh, what’d you do?” Kyle is
amused. I’m not sure which is worse, being judged or being seen as
entertainment for some pussy working in his dad’s shop because he couldn’t go
out on his own and get himself a real job.

It’s right there, on the tip of
my tongue, begging to be said.

I
almost killed a man.

But I really, really need this
job.

“Assault with willful injury,” I
said. I have to be honest. They’ll see it if they ever run a background check
on me, though judging by the way Terry runs this hole-in-the-wall establishment
he’s probably the one-man HR department. I doubt he’s the kind of guy who runs
background checks. “Someone hurt two people I cared about, so I hurt him.”

Kyle purses his lips and nods. “I
can respect that, man.”

And then he sizes me up, taking
me in from head to toe the way a person might stare at a lion if they were
separated by a thick plate of shatterproof glass.

“Hey, let me show you around,”
Kyle says, suddenly taking me under his wing. “When you starting?”

“Tomorrow,” his dad yells after
us, as we leave the room.

Kyle shows me around the shop,
giving me a tour of tools and showing me where the garage door levers are and
pointing out the hoists and drills, and then he takes me back to the supply
room where they keep all the filters.

“You change oil before?” He
scratches the spot just above his right ear.

“They taught us basic auto mechanics
in the pen,” I say. “Took a few classes.”

“Good, good,” he says, his eyes
darting back and forth between mine. He glances around, like he wants to ask me
a question but doesn’t have the balls to do it quite yet. He’s trying to find
the words.

Fucking pussy.

Whatever it is, just say it.

I don’t have time for fucking
games.

“The fuck you want, KJ?” Kyle
glances over my shoulder as a scrawny guy a little younger than us shuffles in.
He treats him like he’s just imposed, when clearly all the guy wanted was a
goddamned filter.

KJ grabs a filter off the shelf
and holds it up in the air, saying nothing before he turns and leaves.

“Fuckin’ KJ.” Kyle shakes his
head.

“That your brother?” They almost
look like twins except Kyle is broader in the shoulders with lighter hair, and
he’s clearly the stronger of the two in both brute and personality.

“Not by choice,” he huffs.

“Always wanted a brother,” I say.
“Someone to beat the living shit out of when I’m pissed at the world.”

I’m being flippant and slightly
sarcastic, but Kyle doesn’t pick up on it.

“Anyway,” Kyle says, eyeing my
shoulders. “You do any fighting in the yard?”

“In the yard?”

“Yeah, when you were locked up.
You fight at all?”

“A little.
In
the beginning.
Why?”

He eyes the perimeter once more
and then leans in. “You want to make a little bit of extra money? I know Dad
don’t pay worth shit here.”

“Not looking to get sent back.” I
shake my head, resting my hands on my hips. This guy’s fucking crazy if he
thinks I’m that stupid.

“A thousand bucks a fight,” he
whispers.

I do the math in my head and
figure out that it’s almost the equivalent of working three weeks in this dump.

“All underground. No rules. No
cops. Nothing to worry about.” Kyle licks his lips, like he’s hungry for a
sale.

“And what if something goes
wrong? What if someone gets hurt?”

“Ain’t been caught yet. Been
doing
this
seven years now. And shit, someone always
gets hurt,” he chuckles. “But nothing ever goes wrong. We’ve got everything
covered. All you gotta do is show up and beat the fucking shit out of the sorry
asshole we pit you up against.”

Kyle slaps his hand across my
bicep, gripping the girth and squeezing his bony fingers into my flesh.

“These are fucking lethal.” He’s
grinning like a man who placed a bet on a winning horse at the Kentucky Derby.
“You could make a lot of money with these.”

“I’m not doing it for a thousand
bucks.” Not worth the risk.

“Fifteen hundred.” He crosses his
arms across his skinny chest and cocks his head back like we’re negotiating a
used car.

I back up, placing my hands in
the air. “I’m not doing this. Sorry. You got the wrong guy. I’ll see you
tomorrow, man.”

I turn around to leave, but he
grips my arm and pulls me back.

Or rather…

He tries to.

I jerk my arm out of his pathetic
grip and press him up against the wall, breathing down with a clenched jaw.
“Don’t ever fucking touch me again. Do you understand?”

His eyes grow round and his jaw
slacks. Kyle’s hands fly up in the air in protest. “Sorry, dude. Chill the fuck
out.”

“I’m not trying to go back from
where I came,” I sneer.
I back away, tired of breathing his
greasy scent.

“Two-thousand bucks,” he says.
“Just to whet your whistle. I’m willing to take a loss on tonight. Give you my
share. Try it once. This could be very profitable for you. We fight once a
week, sometimes twice. You’d get a grand per fight until you work your way up
to the regional division. Our top guys get up to ten grand per fight, fighting
once a month.”

I pause. I’ve never lost a fight,
at least not in the yard. And the only reason that drunk driver lived was
because I allowed it. I easily could’ve killed the bastard.

“How long until I work my way to
the top?” I ask.

His lips curl into a victorious
grin. “Not long.
A few months if you’re really good.
A
year if you’re just alright.”

“Two grand if I fight tonight?”
Two grand could get me an apartment in this town tomorrow. I’d be out of my
dad’s hair so fast it’d make his head spin.

“I’m sorry. I should’ve
clarified. Two grand if you win.” He rubs his hand along his jaw. “Losers walk
away with nothing.”

“I never lose.”

“Okay then,” Kyle widens his
stance. “Meet me outside the Hammerhead bar around eleven. I’ll take you to the
basement.”

I’m not usually the kind of man
who lets a weasel like Kyle talk me into changing my mind, but in this case,
I’m not exactly in a position to turn down copious amounts of easy money.

“If you make so much money doing
this, how come you still work here?” I ask before I leave.

Kyle shrugs a shoulder and juts
out his bottom lip. “Cause I make good money here too.”

“Ten bucks an hour is not good
money.”

“Nah, I make double that,” he
snickers like the cocky son of a bitch that he is. “It pays to be the boss’
son.”

Smug bastard.

I turn to leave, salivating at
the amount of money that should be pouring into my immediate future. I’ll have
enough to get a decent car, get a place of my own, and buy more time until I
look for a real job.

Shit, maybe I’ll be able to go
back to school. I’m sure I could at least pay for an associate’s degree since
my father so nobly cut me off.

I leave Rasmussen Auto with a
tiny sliver of hope for the future. For the first time in a long time, it feels
like things might actually work out for once.

The glaring red numbers of my
alarm clock tell me I’ve been lying in bed for three hours now.

I’m not even remotely tired, and
I didn’t drink an ounce of caffeine all day. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day,
especially if I have to fend off advances from Thad all day.

Hopefully we won’t cross paths.
I’ll just stick close to Kent and hope I avoid Thad.

I smile into the pillow, thinking
of how shameless and forthright Thad was. He wants me. He really wants me. I’ll
admit it feels good. My ego certainly isn’t complaining. What girl wouldn’t
want a handsome man telling her she’s beautiful and dying to take her out on a
date?

I resolve to allow myself to
enjoy it, but I refuse to let myself act on it.

Footsteps shuffle outside my
door, startling me into an upright position. My bedroom is on the opposite end
of the hall from my mother and Lewis, and they’re definitely sound asleep by
now.

“Shit. Titan.” He’s only been
here a little over a day, but I keep forgetting he’s back. He was missing at
dinner tonight. Lewis said he was out all day job-searching and never came
home, though the way he said it, between slivered bites of filet mignon and
sips of red wine, gave me the impression he didn’t care if Titan ever came
back.

I climb out of bed and rush to my
door, flinging it open to see my future stepbrother standing in the hall
bathroom across from me washing his hands with the door wide open. My eyes
adjust against the dark hall and the bright light of the bathroom until they
focus on the cuts and bloody crusts covering his knuckles.

“What happened to you?” I fold my
arms and lean against the doorway.

His eyes dart my way. “Fuck, you
shouldn’t come up on people like that. I didn’t see you there.”

“Did I scare you?”

“Nothing scares me.”

“Right.” I press the side of my
head against the doorframe. “You going to tell me where you were all night?”

“What are you, my parole
officer?”

I resist the obvious comeback in
lieu of, “We were all just worried about you, that’s all.”

There’s no way I’m telling him
that his dad didn’t seem to care.

“I worked out at the gym tonight.
Hit the bags a little too hard.”

“Liar.” I shake my head.

“God’s honest truth,” he snorts,
drying his hands on one of the white hand towels. It’s going to have to be
bleached now. He may as well throw it away unless he wants my mother asking
questions. “Not that I give two shits if you believe me or not.”

His forearms flex and bulge as he
moves and my eyes follow the round curve of his shoulders down the deep arch of
his lower back and then slide down the length of his long, muscled legs. Every
muscle in his body is ripped to shreds, and his body is fifty tons of solid
dynamite.

I’ve never been with a guy like
him, not that I’m entertaining this, but for comparison’s sake, he’s everything
I’ve always steered clear of.

He’s dangerous.

Alluring.

A big, red warning sign wrapped
up in a package of masculinity and unapologetic brawn.

“Where’d you go to school?
Before…” I start to ask, trying to break the awkward tension with a generic
question.

“It’s too damn late for small
talk, Jordana.”

He seems annoyed with me, like
I’m some pesky little sister.

At least he got my name right.

And then his eyes land directly
on my cleavage. He doesn’t even try to hide it.

Shameless.

“If you’re going to stand there
with your tits half hanging out your shirt, the least you can do is wiggle you
ass a little too.”

“You’re an asshole, Titan.”