Page 17 of Broken By the Bad Boy

“Still a doctor.” We stare at each other until he sighs in defeat. “Fine. All I’m saying is, protect yourself.”

Ben snaps out of the control of whatever is holding him and says, “We are not having sex.”

For the first time, Dad smiles genuinely at Ben. He points his fork at him. “Keep it that way, and we will get along just fine.” Ben nods, and the urge to laugh takes over me. Some teens my age already have babies, but he needs to give me more credit. We will have safe sex. “Good boy.”

We continue our meal. Dad throws simple questions at Ben, mostly about football and soccer.

Minutes later, Ben’s plate is empty, and he pushes it aside. “Thank you for the meal, Mrs. Mower.”

Mom’s hand flies to her chest, and she pales like she encountered a ghost. “Oh, dear. Call me Theresa.” Yep, I am named after Mom, and Hayden got Dad’s middle name. Ben stiffens. His face loses color, and he grips my hand so tight my knuckles turn white. “Mrs. makes me feel so old.”

None of us laughs like Mom expects, and her smile falters. A lump collects in my throat when Ben offers her a tight smile. His hands ball into fists on his lap. I try to pry them open, but he doesn’t budge. It’s the name. He hates that name and won’t tell me why. Who is she? Noting the change in his countenance, Mom’s gaze seeks mine. We can spot a fake smile from a mile radius.

“In Ben’s house, it’s forbidden to call parents, relatives, or anyone older by their names.” Dad raises a brow that almost disappears into his hairline. I’m not sure he likes Ben, but if Mom likes my boyfriend, it’s easier to convince Dad to like him too. “So, he cannot call you that, Mom.”

Her lips move into an apologetic smile, and my heart clenches in gratitude. I am the worst liar at home. It’s something I didn’t have to do often, so I never got good at it. “Mrs. Mower is perfect.”

“So was the meal,” Ben says after his recovery. “It was delicious.”

I agree. Mom is the best cook I know, but I bake better. Dad is a great taster. Ben reaches for my hand with a sweaty palm, but I lace our fingers, and he visibly deflates. “Thanks for having me.”

“Thank you for coming,” Mom replies. “Maybe next time you can invite your mom and brother.”

She might have planned our wedding and reception in her head. Ben’s nod is stiff, but thankfully, no one notices. We finish the food, and Ben and I are automatically assigned kitchen duties.

My parents leave us to clear the table, and my heart thumps erratically like it’s our first time alone. He carries the plates to the kitchen in silence. I follow behind him with the empty glasses.

“Your mom’s name is Theresa,” Ben whispers in the kitchen. That faraway look blankets his features, and his nails dig into his palm to the point of drawing blood. I inch closer to him to cup his face, but he doesn’t notice me. “Her name is Theresa, too. So many Theresas all around me.”

“Babe.” I snap my fingers in his face. His eyes lower, but they seem to see through me. Sliding my hands up his cheeks feels like déjà vu. My breath warms his lips. “I’m here. Gracie is here.”

A yelp escapes me at the sudden contact of our bodies. Ben’s scent envelopes me first before his arms sneak around my waist. He hugs me so tight I have trouble breathing, but I don’t pull away.

“You are here,” he whispers repeatedly. I nod against his chest, giving him some of my strength. I’m always here for him. He presses a kiss on my hair. “You are here, Gracie. You are here.”

When we disengage, Ben’s lips quirk in a half-smile. He shakes his head as soon as my mouth opens to question him. I don’t want to be the nosy girlfriend, but if we don’t talk about it now, when do we? Growing uncomfortable under my gaze, he moves to the sink to start on the dishes.

Leaving a small gap between us, we finish the dishes in silence. Sometimes, I catch Ben staring at me through the window, but he doesn’t say a word, only grins, and my heart skips a beat each time. I’m in love—like with him. We step out through the backdoor after he bids Mom and Dad farewell.

Hand in hand, we amble to his bike, and he tucks his helmet under his armpit. A smile tugs at my lips but doesn’t reach my eyes. I don’t want him to leave yet. Does that make me clingy? No.

Ben leans on his bike. “Do you think your parents will be okay with you coming home late?”

I look back at our house, and my smile turns real at the silhouettes dancing in the living room. They act worse than two teens in love. I like it. I send Mom a text so she doesn’t worry about me.

Giving Ben a thumbs up, I mutter, “Yeah, it’s fine.” I collect the helmet he stretches to me and hop in behind him. He doesn’t start the bike, and I plant a kiss on his neck. “Where to, Benny?”

The wind ruffles my hair, flipping strands into my mouth and eyes. I pull the helmet over my head, and my arm loosens around his waist. Ben kicks the bike to life, and it vibrates under me.

“It’s a surprise,” he whispers.

Seven

Motorbikes are dangerous.And if Dad were here, he would tell me the number of people who die from bike accidents yearly.

We zoom past a car, and I clamp my eyes shut.

This is Ben. He is a great biker; he won’t do anything to jeopardize my safety. I can trust him.

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