Page 41 of The Bully's Dare

Donovan

The water sucks.

So does sunshine.

Cloudless days. Salty air.

I judge all of it from Healing Touch’s stern.

The sun beats down on me. My uniform shirt is made with thick threads and it’s not long before I’ve got splotchy sweat stains on my pits and my back. I’ve got a jar of polish beside me and a washcloth in hand.

Polishing these monster boats is the worst task in the marina. It’s pure manual labor. No way to speed up the process. Just hours of rubbing hard, clockwise circular motions into the fiberglass, and then repeating the same motion to clean the wax off.

A fucking pain in my ass.

The sound of a familiar voice makes me get to my feet. Across the dock, I see Kenzi on Terry’s boat.

My heart lifts when I see her. Until I realize who she’s talking to.

Jason King grips the mesh on her boat. They’re chatting, leaning close. She’s giggling.

Giggling.

Her eyes flicker upwards and she spots me. She looks guilty suddenly. Like she’s been caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

I try a wave. She gives me a small smile and waves back. Then she says something else to Jason before turning around and vanishing below deck.

So much for a happy reunion.

My chest is full of thorns when Jason climbs onto the Healing Touch. There’s no way to avoid him—we’re stuck on the same boat together now.

“Sup?” he says.

I don’t answer. I just ask: “How was your date?”

“Well.” Jason stops to think about it, and then says, “Really well, actually.”

My heart is hammering now, my blood charged.

“I guess you got what you wanted, huh?” I say.

Now, Jason shoots me a look. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Not like what?”

He contemplates his answer, then says: “We didn’t have sex.”

If relief were a scent, it would be salt-sweat, thick polish, and the words we didn’t have sex.

Of course she wouldn’t. Kenzi has standards. Principles. Kenzi is better than the likes of Jason King.

“Rejection is a bitch,” I tell him, and try not to sound quite so happy about it.

He’s staring off into the distance, though, with a far away look in his eyes. “She’s different. I think we really made a connection.”

I laugh. It’s the worst sound I’ve ever made—a bitter bark of a noise. “You’ve got to be kidding me. The great Jason King. Felled by a pair of green eyes.”

He shrugs. His non-response is almost worse than anything he could say.

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