Page 15 of You're so Bad

Later that night, after I go to bed, a dangerous thought runs through my head.

I’ve always liked solving mysteries.

ChapterFive

Leonard

People are going to ask how we met, Shauna. I got an idea. Why don’t we say we both joined Farmer’s Only? You know, that dating site for farmers. You did it because you really wanted to fuck a man who knows how to rake up straw shirtless, like on those dirty books chicks love to read, and me because I had fantasies of meeting a milk maid with a couple of blond braids. So we arranged to meet, and hell, within five minutes it was obvious neither of us were farmers.

You think there are any actual farmers on that site?

WTF, Leonard. It’s 3 a.m. on a Thursday.

A farmer would be awake at 3 a.m.

Like you said, we’re not farmers.

But shouldn’t we have some sort of cover story, Sugar Baby? We’re supposed to go to that brewery tomorrow night, and we’re very far from being able to pull this off.

As if. You’re not old enough or rich enough to have a Sugar Baby.

So you’re admitting I’m a hot young stud?

I guess you’re right about the cover story.

I’m getting lunch with your grandmother at 12 Bones tomorrow. Or today, I guess. Want to come?

That’d be a no from me. I don’t want to discuss this in front of my grandmother. But you can swing by The Waiting Place afterward to talk to me. It’s not far. Now, leave me alone until a more reasonable hour. Shauna Lesson #1: I am not a morning person.

Leonard Lesson #1: I’m more of a middle of the night person, but if you’re in the mood for a good time, I’ll ride you right no matter what time it is. ;)

Goodbye, Leonard.

It happened again.

It happens damn near every night.

He was chasing me in this one. The salty old bastard had just wrapped his hand around my collar, a grunt of victory escaping him, when my eyes popped open and I woke up.

Nervous energy is pounding through my veins, and it needs somewhere togo.

I wasn’t going to think too closely about why my first instinct was to text Shauna. Reaching out to her at this hour was obviously a mistake, but I’ve been sending her messages all week.

I can’t seem to stop myself. I keep thinking about her sitting in that rocking chair on her porch, her hair all mussed. Smiling at me with a twinkle in her eye that made me want to make some mistakes. And I’ll never forget the way her nipples were poking at the shirt, like they had a mind to say hello. There are plenty of things I’d like to say back. I’ve been thinking about them so much, wondering what other parts of her might look like, that you’d think I’d have good dreams for once. But my old man’s not so easy to shake.

Sighing, I reach into the drawer for my glass pipe and ganja. My mind wanders to those pompoms we’re supposed to make on Friday night. What can I do to sabotage pompom-making? Bring a fucking cat?

Ding, ding, ding.

I’m grinning, my mind already working overtime on the crappy idea, but a sound downstairs makes me drop the pipe onto the carpet. Half the weed too. Dammit. I’m guessing Mrs. Ruiz will be able to sense the presence of a molecule of weed in her house like a homing pigeon.

I met my landlord through my buddy Drew Jones. She’s his fiancée’s grandmother. I only know her as Mrs. Ruiz, because she’s the kind of broad who won’t let anyone under the age of forty call her by her first name.

The place was a bit of a dump, although he’d already fixed it up some, and they agreed to let me stay here in exchange for fixing it up more. A good deal. I’ve enjoyed pulling the house into this century, although I’ve had less time lately since Burke and I just got started on a new flip project.

There’s another sound, this one more clearly from an intruder.

My mind whirls back to yesterday afternoon. I took out the padlock that was sticking in the back door, but I haven’t replaced it yet. So the only working lock is one of those thumb locks that’s so easy to get past all you need is a hairpin.

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