Page 35 of Bad Boys Don’t Date Clumsy Girls

He mops for so long that I think he isn’t going to defend his stance. I’m just about to disappear into the next kennel when he finally speaks. “The bad boy thing, as you put it, started in seventh grade. I was missing a lot of school and…there was stuff going on at home that had me on edge. Some kid teased me about something one day.” He stops mopping and leans on the handle, looking at the wall like he’s seeing the whole thing again. “It was that creep, Tito Bernard. Do you know him?”

The pain of the memory etched on Dylan’s face makes me breathless. I nod.

“What was he teasing me about?” he asks hypothetically. “It was something so stupid. Oh! My shirt was wrinkled.”

“That jerk used to tease me about my clothes smelling,” I whisper.

I can see the question in Dylan’s eyes. He’s curious about what I said, but he stays on track. “Then he teased that my mommy wasn’t taking good care of me, or something like that.” His expression is haunted as it drops to the floor. “I remember that he mentioned my mom though, and because of what was going on at home, I lost it. All over his face. I beat him up so bad.” Dylan shakes his head. “Man, I got in so much trouble at home, but everybody at school was afraid of me after that. So, I was dubbed the bad boy.”

I stare at him, trying to remember other examples as to why that reputation stuck. “You mean it was only because of that one fight?”

Dylan sighs. “Yep.” He starts mopping again. “Don’t get me wrong, I’ve perpetuated it with the leather jackets and motorcycle and stuff. But I don’t meet people in the dry wash to drag race, like the rumors say. And my gang and I don’t beat people up for messing with our women. Heck, I’ve never even dated anyone.”

I gawk at him. “You dated Teresa Walberg.”

Dylan’s head snaps up. “No, I haven’t.”

All the writings in Teresa’s textbook flash through my mind as I stare wide-eyed at him.

“What has she told you?”

“Nothing!” I shake my head adamantly. “I’m not even friends with her.”

Dylan squints. “Ava.”

I swallow at his gravelly tone. Suddenly, I want to beg him to say my name again. And again.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

“No. I mean, it’s just…” I whimper like the cowardly baby that I am. “Oh god, I don’t want to tell you.”

Dylan laughs. “Now you have to.”

I slam my eyes shut and assure myself it will be okay. It isn’t like he’ll be mad at me. I didn’t do it. “Okay, so, I had to borrow her math book one day, and I found some things written in there that indicated you two had been a couple and that she was sad you weren’t anymore.”

“Written in the math book?” Dylan asks. “Like what?”

“Some standard stuff, like, “I love Dylan.” “Dylan Scott makes me hot.””

“Hey, that rhymes,” Dylan says, ironically.

“That’s what I thought!” I grin.

Dylan purses his lips and studies me. “What else did you find?”

I blush, totally giving away that there’s more. “Well, something about you being a two-timing douche bag.”

He laughs, raising his hands in the air. “How can I two-time someone I’ve never dated?”

“Yeah,” I grimace. “And that Lydia is a whore.”

Dylan’s smile falls away. “That wench. Pulling Lydia in on her fantasies. Is that all she wrote?”

“Oh, you know, there were just a couple anatomy related ones.”

He cocks his head. “Anatomy? Like I’m a good kisser?”

I squirm. “Well…um. She said you have a big–you know.”

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