Page 54 of You're so Bad

“As long as the wound’s not puffy or full of pus, you should be good.”

“Are those underwear?” he asks, his eyes wide as he points at the floor.

“Thanks for looking out, man,” I say as I stoop to grab them, then stuff them in my pocket. I have no intention of giving them back. “We’d lost these.”

He looks impressed.

Then Shauna’s dragging me out into the living room. She stops in front of the couch, glances at the open doorway to the kitchen, then apparently decides it’s not far enough because she tugs me into the damn bathroom and closes the door behind us. There’s nothing in here but a can, a sink, and a mirror, and all of a few feet for us to fill together.

“Good thinking. It’ll be a tight squeeze, but we can make it work.” I reach a hand up the skirt of her dress. She slaps it away, which is fine. It was a joke anyway, or maybe a fourth of one.

“Who is this kid?” she asks. “How old is he? Did you stitch him up?”

I sigh and run a hand through my hair. “He’s a runaway, like you’re probably thinking. Says he’s gonna be eighteen in a few weeks.”

“Have you checked?” she asks.

I have to admit that I haven’t, and from the expression on her face, she’s not surprised.

“Why’d he run?”

“His foster father’s been beating him.”

She flinches. “Is he the one who made him need stitches?”

“I don’t think so, but the kid might have lied.”

“Could he have lied about the foster father too?” she asks, studying me.

I can feel myself raising a wall. “I believe him. I checked with Mrs. Ruiz too, the lady who owns this house. She said the foster father’s no good. Besides, I don’t see why he’d lie to me about that when he was upfront about fleecing supplies from a couple of stores.”

“So he’s been living off stolen goods,” she says flatly.

“Most likely.” I flex my hands. “Don’t you think he needs somewhere safe to stay, someone he can go to if he needs help?”

“He needs someone to get him out of trouble, Leonard,” she hisses in an undertone, as if she’s suddenly worried Reese is listening at the door. “He doesn’t need an adult enabling him.”

I have to laugh, maybe at myself, for having made such a bad impression on her. It stings more than it should, like stepping on a nail last week at the flip house. You’d think by now I’d be used to people thinking little of me. “I’m not teaching him the tricks of the trade. I could, though, if that’s what you’re getting at. I’m not good at a lot of things, but I do have a couple of special talents.” I fake a smile. “You already know what one of them is. I’m also good at freeing fools from their money. Have been since I was a good bit younger than him.”

My mouth wants to lift into a real smile, maybe at the surprised look on her face. She’s been calling me trouble for weeks, but she wasn’t expecting me to flat-out admit it, I guess. “I’m less good at keeping the money, obviously. But no. I wasn’t planning on leading the kid into a life of crime. I figured I’d be here for him if he needs help or a place to crash.”

“It’s not enough,” she insists, and no bullshit, she stomps her foot. “He could get in trouble out there. Killed.”

“You think he’s going to listen to a single thing you say if you march out there telling him how it’s gonna be? He’ll be on the first bus out of town. I know I would’ve been.” I pause, looking away. Then I shift my gaze back to her. Suddenly, I have a new awareness of how small the room is, how close she is to me, and the taste of her still on my tongue. I swallow, tracking her eyes as they follow my throat. “I can’t let you call the cops on him, Shauna.”

“What are you going to do?” she asks, leaning forward, her voice and eyes full of challenge. “Tie me up?”

“I think I’d like that,” I say, feeling the blood pulse hot to my cock. “But not tonight. I’m telling you it would be the wrong move. That kid’s got no one. You think he’d be here, relying on me, if he had any other choice?”

A corner of her mouth twitches, and I’m sure she’s going to tell me I’m right—Reese must really have shit luck if he’s relying on me. But she gives her head a small shake, then says, “Maybe. You’re going to bat for him. So, you really stitched him up?”

I lift a finger to my lips. “I can’t answer that. HIPAA.”

To my surprise, she starts laughing.

“Does this mean you’re not going to tell?” I ask.

Her laughter cuts short, which sucks, but I still need an answer. I don’t want to throw Reese into the giant’s mouth. “No, I’m not going to say anything to the authorities. But telling him he can break in if he needs a place to stay is not a solution. What about giving him a key?”

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