Page 5 of Kind of a Bad Idea

I’m obsessed with Binx. I think about Binx at least twenty times a day and dream about her every night. I’ve drawn fifteen different versions of her mouth in my sketch pad, call her way too often, and keeping my hands off her is basically my third full-time job.

Even tonight, with fear for my daughter burning through my blood and terror clutching at my throat, a part of me still sat up and took notice of “my bestie’s” see-through sweater and the black bra beneath.

That kind of attraction is fucked up. Dangerous. I learned that lesson the hard way. And while I can’t pretend to be the poster child for good decisions, I never make the same dumb mistake twice.

I will never lay a hand on Binx. I will never be anything but her friend, no matter how good she smells or how sexy she looks dancing by the jukebox at my mother’s bar or how many times her eyes light up when she looks at my baby girl.

I love Sprout too much to ruin that relationship for her.

I would ruin it, there’s no doubt in my mind. That’s what I do when I fall like this. I hold on too tight, cling too hard, dive too deep. I scare people away, even good people. Even the best ones, like Binx.

She’s right behind me. I can hear her footsteps hitting the ground. She’s probably as scared as I am. I feel bad about that, and about barreling up to her family’s party like a rampaging barbarian, but not bad enough to waste my breath speaking to the older woman who asks, “Can I help you?” in a passive-aggressive voice as I push past her, moving swiftly toward the dance floor.

I have one mission, one focus, one?—

“Oh, thank God,” I mutter, my shoulders sagging as my stomach turns itself inside out.

She’s there, at the far corner of the dance floor, bouncing around with several other kids to the band’s cover of Do You Believe in Magic. My daughter, my reason for living, is safe.

And now I’m going to make her wish that she was never born.

Or at least that she never thought about leaving the house without permission and will never do so again.

“Wait,” Binx pants, grabbing my elbow and holding on tight. “Don’t make a scene. You’ll embarrass her.”

“Good,” I say, glowering down into Binx’s bright blue eyes. She’s rimmed them with eyeliner and some kind of sparkly eyeshadow that makes them even more striking than usual.

She’s fucking gorgeous tonight. But then, I knew she would be. Even in sweatpants and one of my ratty old t-shirts hanging to her knees, she’s beautiful. Dress her up for a wedding reception and she’s irresistible. That’s why I didn’t come. I know better than to put myself in situations that test my resolve.

“No, not good, you don’t want to do this,” she says, tightening her grip on my arm. Even the feel of her fingers pressing against my skin through my sweatshirt is enough to make me ache to wrap her legs around my waist and take her against the nearest tent pole.

Something I’m sure her family would love.

They’re already staring and whispering. Some speculate about who the angry man in jeans and the tattered Tool sweatshirt is. Others hiss all the details of my dive-bar-owning mother, garbage father, and time spent in prison into their friends’ ears as quickly as they can vomit up the hot gossip.

It’s been over twenty years since I was that stupid, messed up kid who got into trouble with his friends and ended up paying the price—and I didn’t even live in Bad Dog at the time—but to most people in this town, I will never be anything but a piece-of-shit ex-con. They wouldn’t want their daughters sitting next to me at the diner, let alone dating me.

Binx hasn’t even told her parents that we’re friends, but I can’t blame her. Her mother has a pole stuck up her ass, and from what I’ve seen at the hardware store when I stop in for renovation supplies, her father isn’t much better.

That’s another reason I ignored her invitation. I didn’t want to get her into an uncomfortable spot with her parents.

But looks like it’s too late for that now…

Everyone is staring, and I mean everyone. I’m sure her mother and father are getting an eyeful, and that Binx is going to get an earful later.

It’s that, as much as Binx’s gentle insistence that we talk before I push through the crowd to snatch Sprout up in my arms, that convinces me to follow her out of the tent. We step into the shadows outside the brightly lit gathering, but Binx keeps going until we reach what looks like a mini carnival.

There are games set up in the grass beneath softly glowing solar lamps, a photo booth, and what looks like…

“Are those punching bags?” I ask, already headed that way.

“Yeah. They’re for my mother,” Binx says, falling in beside me. I shoot her a confused look and she adds, “Not for her to punch. For me to punch, when she drives me crazy.” She stops beside the closest bag, holding it lightly on either side. “Listen, I know you’re angry, and you have every right to be. What Sprout did was wild and dangerous and wrong, and she deserves whatever punishment you, as her father, decide is best.”

“I know,” I say, my hands curling into fists.

“But you also know that she’s had a hell of a time making friends,” she adds in a softer voice, clearly mindful of the older kids playing frisbee golf not far away. “And she’s so happy right now. She’s having a great time dancing with kids her own age for the first time ever. I don’t know about you, but I feel like there’s a way to honor that, to let her have a little win, while also holding her accountable for her actions.”

I shake my head. “She snuck out of the house at nine o’clock at night.”

---