Page 30 of Bad for You

Lennon Shepherd.

But he would rather slit his own throat than talk to me ever again.

That night all those years ago changed everything.

The boy can hold a damn grudge. But I know it’s more than that.

He felt betrayed. He put his trust in me—something he’s not done since—and in return, I made an example out of his compassion, making him appear weak, which Gianna despises.

That day changed things for me as she didn’t look at me like a feeble young girl. She saw my spirit and trained me accordingly.

She trained us both.

But day by day, he slipped further and further away from me and before long, I only ever saw him when we trained.

He made clear we would never be what we once were. And I was the one to blame.

I try not to care, but when I see him, I know I’m fooling myself because I care. I care a lot.

Lenny is now eighteen years old.

He has always been attractive, but he has grown into himself and no longer is the boy I once knew.

Lennon Shepherd is all alpha man.

His mussed brown hair is long on top with shorter sides. The longer strands of hair fall in just the right way, framing hischiseled face, a face I usually want to slap as he lifts those full lips into a knowing smirk when he catches me watching him.

He always seems to have a five-o’clock shadow. Never clean-shaven, which just adds to his bad-boy vibe.

His arms are inked. The pieces on his body are well-thought-out and map imperative events, objects, and times in his life that impacted him.

He’s literally a work of art.

To complete that perfection, he has a silver hooped nose ring that just seems to accentuate that strong, perfect nose.

His style is typical Lenny—Hawaiian shirt with the buttons halfway done up to expose that broad chest, ripped black jeans, silver rings and chunky linked bracelets, and boots. Something which sounds so simple looks anything but on Lenny, and that’s because of the attitude he sports. He turns heads the moment he enters the room.

He knows it.

The girls he’s snuck into the house also know it.

The thought of those girls has images of them floating in the pool, belly-up, crashing into me, and a giggle slips past my lips.

On cue, just like always, the sound alerts Lenny, and he turns to look at me.

He may hate me, but the connection we’ve had since the moment we met still runs strong. Most days, the angst between us makes me want to kiss and slap those cheeks.

When our eyes lock, he looks at me how he always does—with the perfect poker face.

His expression doesn’t change.

He gives me absolutely nothing.

And I hate him for it.

How can he be so unaffected by me? While I am burning up inside.

The sun catches the compass pendant from his neck. I wonder if he’s found what he’s looking for. His shirt seems to be unbuttoned more so than usual, revealing a tanned expanse of his broad chest. I know what he’s packing beneath that shirt.

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