Page 28 of The Bad Boy Rule

The hallway that leads to my bedroom is lined with jagged, fist-sized holes. A constant reminder that my life will never be normal. Not until I get out of this place.

It wasn’t always like this.

At least the few memories I have of before. We were never rich, we didn’t have much. Secondhand shit, but at least my father wasn’t a drunk and addicted to pain pills.

That’s what I can thank Edward Rousseau for.

He’s the catalyst that set my fucked-up life into motion.

If it wasn’t for him, my dad never would’ve fallen from that scaffold. He never would’ve gotten addicted to the pain pills the doctor prescribed him, and he wouldn’t have added alcohol into it. Abuse.

None of that would have ever happened if Rousseau had taken responsibility for his company’s negligence. Instead, he falsified those accident reports, claiming my dad was already an addict and high on the job, andthat’swhy he fell.

All because he didn’t want his fucking company to be seen in a bad light or to shell out money to compensate his employee for a faulty fucking tie-off that the safety foreman should have checked.

My father wrongfully lost his job, and suddenly, everything happened at once. We had a mountain of medical bills that no one could afford. He couldn’t work because he was hurt, and he was denied unemployment since he technically “quit” his job.

On top of it all, he was addicted to the pain pills the doctor prescribed to help him.

None of it should have happened. Except it did.

And the millionaire got the easy way out while we’ve been living a fucking nightmare.

Now, it’s his turn.

FOURTEEN

LENNON

“You’re late,” I say through clenched teeth the moment he pulls up on that death trap he calls transportation and cuts the engine.

To no surprise, he’s not wearing a helmet because that wouldn’t fit the cliché bad boy image he’s got going on.

Danger, living on the edge, might end up splattered on the pavement… oooh, ah.

Rolling my eyes, I cross my arms over my chest, completely and utterly annoyed that I’ve been waiting out here for almost twenty minutes when wejusttexted about this last night and he confirmed our plans. It’s early September in southern Louisiana, and I’m nearly drowning in my own sweat from the humidity, and I’m feeling slightly emotionally unstable after the conversation I had with my dad this morning.

It was the first time we’ve spoken since the night of the gala with Chandler, and he truly has no grasp on understanding why I’m beyond upset at him. If anything, he blames me for “making a scene” and embarrassing him in front of his friends and colleagues. Hearing that out of his mouth instead of an apology only made me that much more angry, frustrated… and most of allhurt.

I almost felt a sliver of guilt for skating in secret behind their backs, but after talking to him today, I only feel like it’s one step toward gaining back everything he’s taken from me.

“This might surprise you, but my schedule doesn’t revolve aroundyou, Golden Girl. I had practice, and I barely had time to shower before coming all the way over here,” he grunts as he swings his leg over his bike and shoves his keys into the pocket of his athletic shorts. Now that he mentioned a shower, I see his dark, unruly hair is still wet and curling at the ends around his nape, and it looks like he hasn’t shaved since the last time I saw him, a dusting of hair covering his chiseled jaw.

Not that I allow myself more than a second to look because… No. I am not going there.

This is strictly a mutually beneficial business arrangement.

“Well, my schedule also does not revolve aroundyou, Satan. You’re like thirty minutes late,” I retort.

“I’m here, aren’t I? You know, I’m starting to think you’ve got a degrading kink or something with how much you like to talk shit to me. Does it get you hot?” he asks, a lopsided grin pulling at his full lips.

I haven’t a single clue why, but his crass words cause my pulse to race.

I push down the strange feeling swirling in my stomach and scoff. “You wish. Seems like something you’d be into.”

His shoulder lifts. “I’m into a lot of things. None of which you could handle.”

Like… what? I want to ask, even though I shouldn’t care.

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