Page 26 of You're so Bad

No.

“You’ll be relieved to hear that I got to the fries soon enough,” I say, evading the question. “They’re still delicious.”

He mimes wiping sweat off his brow.

“Did someone really steal your truck?”

“You don’t think much of me,” he says, his voice serious now. He holds my gaze, pausing before he continues. “But I wouldn’t lie to your grandmother. I like her.”

It’s obvious he means it, and I feel a prick of guilt. There’s no denying I haven’t been very nice to him. It’s just…there’s something about Leonard that cuts under my skin, like he’s a human sliver. He sets me off. And I’m attracted to him, which sets me off more.

I’m far from sure why I’ve agreed to this arrangement—except for the obvious. I already committed to going, and I’m too stubborn to back down now. So, I might as well have someone on my side.

“I’m just surprised someone took it.”

“I know,” he says with a grin. “The dumbass who took it is going to be real surprised too, when it breaks down after ten miles.”

“So, do you need a pickup on Friday night?”

He nods. “If that’s okay, Tiger.”

“You’re really going to call me that?”

“Does Milquetoast have a special name for you?”

My scowl returns. “Bean.”

Something resembling a laugh escapes him. “He call you that because you can only come with your clit?”

I choke on a French fry and cough several times before I swallow it. “That’s none of your damn business.”

He waggles his eyebrows. “It is if they’re supposed to think I’m the one making you come.”

“There is absolutely no reason for you to tell anyone about our fictional sex life.”

More brow waggling. “Don’t you want to make them jealous?”

“Let’s table that. And no, he doesn’t call me that because of a sex thing.” To be honest, Colter wasn’t great at making me come, but from my experience, the only men who can make it happen every time are made of silicone and come in party colors. “He calls me that because I’m little. Like a bean.”

He scoffs. “That’s stupid. Beans aren’t little. Those vines will climb twenty feet high if you let them.”

“Thank you,” I say, waving a French fry. “I hate it. And he still uses that nickname, even after everything. It’s infantilizing.”

He squeezes the arm of his chair, and my eyes follow the movement, soaking in how his muscles respond up his arm. The dog on his bicep seems to be winking at me. “Let’s show him you’re more of a tiger than a bean.”

I give a slow nod. I don’t want Leonard to be right, but Idowant to show someone something. I’ve been holding back too much. Letting everything roll me along rather than swimming where I want to go.

“Why are you helping me, for real?” I ask. “I don’t know how much I can pay you. This place hasn’t even opened yet. I mean, we’re salaried, thanks to Sinclair, but without the storefront open—”

“I don’t expect any money. The clay lessons are enough.” He shifts in his seat, glancing at my desk. “Plus the fucked-up mug.”

A delighted laugh escapes me. “You want a broken mug and to learn how to make a clay dick?”

“Yes,” he says leaning back further. “Otherwise, I’d have to buy Danny a present, and now that I have the idea in my head, nothing else will do.” He tilts his chair, balancing one of his feet on the back of the desk. I did that when I was a kid, and my grandmother told me I was going to crack my head open. So I did it again—and fell down and whacked my head.

“You’re going to fall and hit your head,” I comment.

“Probably.” He grins. “I figure if I hit it enough, maybe it’ll be the reverse of a concussion, and I’ll learn some shit instead of forgetting it.”

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