Page 17 of Kind of a Bad Idea

“No, it’s not. Hands off,” I snap, the words out of my mouth before I can think better of them.

Instantly, I know I’ve fucked up, but even I’m not prepared for the suddenness of the storm that sweeps into Binx’s eyes.

“What?” she demands, in a tone that makes it clear, the word isn’t a question. It’s a statement on my epic tomfoolery.

I lift my hands in surrender and take a breath. “I just meant…” I trail off, my thoughts spinning, sending up sprays of thought gravel.

What did I mean? What? My improvisational skills aren’t great at the best of times, and these are not the best of times. Not with Pierce standing there looking all smug and expectant, like a kid about to watch his bully get pummeled under the bleachers.

But I’m not the bully here—he is. He’s the one who talked about Binx’s “rack” and how he wouldn’t mind “tapping that ass” even though, at the time, she didn’t have any hair to grab, while he was “giving it to her” from behind. But I can’t very well call him out on that to his face, not in front of Binx. We all go to the same gym and run in the same social circles and Bad Dog is a small town. Spilling the dirt like this would make things uncomfortable for all of us.

I have to think of something else to say.

Some reasonable excuse.

Think, asshole, think! For fuck’s sake.

But I’ve got nothing.

Nothing but one ridiculous idea, it looks like I’m going to have to run with…

Chapter 6

SEVEN

“Contamination,” I finally blurt out, wincing a little.

It’s lame, so fucking lame, but I’ve already started down this path, and there’s no turning back now.

“I was worried about…food contamination,” I continue, feeling my cheeks heat as I continue to pull nonsense out of my ass. “If Pierce is prepping food, he shouldn’t get his um…” I pull in a breath, wishing I could turn back time and think of something, anything less stupid to say. “Shouldn’t get his hands dirty,” I finish in a softer voice as Binx looks at me like I’ve grown a second head that speaks exclusively in pig Latin.

“There’s a sink right there, dude.” Pierce nods to the wall behind Binx as he studies me with an expression that’s both amused and pitying. “And I’m done with the prep anyway. I just have to pull the wieners off the grill.”

“Right, I… Well, that’s good,” I say, wishing I had an excuse to punch him.

I really want to punch him.

So much.

The urge only gets worse when Binx pats his chest with an easy affection and says, “You should do that, Pierce. I’m sure the savages will be hungry for more than chips soon. But take a look at the area I roughed-in when you get the chance. See if that’s big enough. We can always go bigger if you want, but I think this size will give it a nice feeling of movement without showing above your collar when you put on a dress shirt and pretend to be a corporate douchebag.”

“Aw, thanks,” Pierce says, shooting a smirk my way. “But it’s not pretend. I am a corporate douchebag. I’ve already sold three franchises for Chickie Fingers, one of them in Iowa. Pretty soon, I’ll be nationwide.”

“That’s awesome, douchebag, congrats,” she says, summoning a snort of laughter from Pierce as she moves toward me.

“You’re a character, McGuire,” he says to her back.

Or to her ass, rather. As soon as she turned away, he was right back to ogling her like a piece of meat. There’s a way to appreciate a woman’s body without looking like a cartoon wolf drooling over a turkey leg, but Pierce hasn’t mastered the craft. Not even close.

But before I can say something I shouldn’t—again—Binx grabs a fistful of my sweatshirt and mutters, “Come with me. I need to talk to you about something.”

“Yeah, me, too,” I say, glaring at Pierce’s smug ass face one last time before following her outside.

I warn him with my eyeballs that this isn’t over, and that I’m not going to let him sneak into Binx’s affections through the tattoo studio’s back door.

He glares back, his eyeballs telling me that he isn’t going through the back door, he’s going through the front, and there’s nothing I can do about it. Then he makes a gross joke about enjoying “back door action” that makes me want to punch him again.

And yes, I’m aware that eyeballs don’t actually talk, and I’m imagining all of this, but it feels real.

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