Page 9 of Broken By the Bad Boy

“Earning it.”

My brows knit. I wriggle out of Ben’s arms, head falling back to assess his face. He is a smartass, but what’s he talking about?

“Earning what?”

Ben blushes, and the evidence of his embarrassment covers his entire face. It’s an unusual sight. I lean up to kiss his cheek, and they grow redder. “Your forgiveness. You said I had to earn it.”

I pat his head like a good boy. I also said I forgave him. Too many times to count.

“You ripped your shirt,” I say instead.

My brows shoot up, and he nullifies the fierceness of my glare by wiggling only one of his brows and stretching my cheeks. How is he so manly in such feminine attire? Does that even make sense?

“To make a crop top,” he finishes.

I glance at Ben’s white top a second time. His smooth skin is on display, with the crop top stopping a few inches shy of his belly button to reveal the other part of his tongue-swiping good abs. Laughter rolls up from my belly, stopping short at my throat before it bellows out of my lips.

“Oh, Benny.”

His face pinks. I squash him in a hug, and he mumbles into my hair, “You said you would wear one if I did. I didn’t have any, so I had to improvise. Now, you have to wear one, but not today. Whenever you’re ready.” Stepping back, he spins in a small circle. “How do I look, babe?”

I pinch the tip of my thumb and forefinger together. “Like a hundred bucks, Mr. Carter.”

“Just a hundred, Miss Mower?” His arms drop to his waist. The ripped crop top doesn’t do so well with his jeans. If it were high-waisted, it might have worked. Ben walks me to my side of the car and opens the door. “Really, Gracie? Only a hundred, not even a thousand or million?”

“Maybe a hundred and ten.” He nudges me into the driver’s seat, and I shake my head.

“Let’s take a picture of you, Benny.”

So I can make it my new homescreen.

I place a finger over Ben’s lips to quiet his incoming protests. Shutting the door with my foot, I drag his hand over the roof of my car. He completes the pose by crossing his legs at the ankles, and my heart pounds faster and faster. This boy is honestly too much. He allows me two more shots before pulling me against his chest. I pout at the camera as he takes selfies of us. We make different faces. Tongue out, one eye closed, lips pouted, cross eyes, and wrinkled noses.

“Do you want me to take a picture of you?” Ben asks. I feel his gaze on me while he pretends to filter the many pictures of us on his phone. He doesn’t have to complete my bucket list with me.

A corner of my lips twitches. I push out my foot and take a deep breath. “Okay. Just one.”

“Do you want to show some skin?” he mutters. “For my eyes only.”

Exhaling, I fold the hem of my shirt. One more look at Ben and I draw enough strength to fold it up to my belly button. His smile makes me giggle. It feels like I did more than show a bit of skin.

“Just one, okay?” I whisper.

Ben takes a picture of me with my vitiligo on display. I don’t stop him from taking another. My poses aren’t as Vogue cover worthy as his, but he clicks away until I grow comfortable in my skin. The next time I peek at my wristwatch, it’s twenty-five minutes past seven. If we don’t leave now, we will be late. I slide a hand through his elbow and tug him to the other side of the car.

Once we are both in the car, we fasten our seatbelts. I steal a few glances at the boy who owns a part of my heart, unable to stop the fluttering in my lower abdomen and the redness that crawls up my neck. His backpack sits on his legs. He hugs it to his chest, his jaw buried in the material.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Do what?” Ben asks.

My hand sweeps over his outfit, and my gaze rakes over his frame slowly. He might be the cool, collected Ben, but he wouldn’t want to do this, right? “Go into school dressed like this?” I ask.

People will take pictures and make nasty memes. He will be on BGC for all the wrong reasons. It could ruin his badass reputation. He leans back on the door, his elbow jutting out of the window.

“Sure, babe,” he replies.

His confidence stifles the rest of my doubts, and I put the car on drive. The ease with which he sits back like it’s normal to have the school’s bad boy in a crop top with frayed hem and regular waist jeans has my insides in a twist. I spin the wheel, my foot on the brake to keep us at a slow pace.

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