Page 63 of You're so Bad

He shrugs. “It’s an hour-long drive. Figured it would go faster if we made conversation.”

But I suspect there’s more to it. He’s worried that I’m softening toward him, become less tiger and more kitty cat, and he’s warning me not to. I wonder if he shares his rap sheet with all of his girls, but I don’t ask. I’m afraid the answer will be no—and also that it might be yes.

“Sure,” I tell him. “Why don’t we ask each other some getting-to-know-you questions?”

“Don’t you think we’re past that?” he asks, his voice low and throaty, almost a growl, and I feel it quake through me. Just like it was meant to.

“No, I don’t,” I tell him through clenched teeth. “What am I going to say if someone asks me what your favorite color is?”

“You can tell them it’s a stupid fucking question.”

“I probably would,” I agree, “but you’re right. It’s a long drive, and I don’t think we need to spend the whole time talking about how much you suck. I agree, it’s been a favorite topic of mine in the past, but after a while it starts feeling repetitive.”

A laugh escapes him, and I feel a sense of…relief, or maybe victory that I managed to lift him out of his mood, even if it’s just for a while. “Well, I wouldn’t want to bore you. Should we sing ‘Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall’?”

“Stop it with the good ideas, already,” I say, reaching out to give his arm a shove. It feels perfect, solid and hot, and my fingers start to wrap around it on reflex, like they don’t want to let go. I remember in short order that I’m driving a car and will be for the next thirty-five minutes. When we get there, though, we’ll be in a cabin all to ourselves, a cabin that will almost certainly only have one bed.

I know we’re both thinking about it.

I steal a glance at him and find him watching me with those hazel eyes full of mischief.

“Blue,” he says.

“What?” I glance back out the windshield. Both because I don’t want to kill us and his gaze has rattled me.

“My favorite color. It reminds me of the Blue Ridge Mountains. It’s the color of home.”

“But you’re not originally from here, are you?”

Part of me hoped he’d offer up that information willingly, but he gives his head a little shake that I see in my peripheral vision. “No, Tiger, but where you’re from isn’t the same thing as home. I think you know that.”

Suddenly, I feel like crying.

I tell myself it’s only because he’s right—I didn’t feel like I had a home when I was a kid either, not until something horrible happened. It’s awful to only have found happiness because of something so horrible. So final.

I tell myself it’s not because this impossible man is the only one who seems to really understand me.

Then, because he’s Leonard, he really does start singing “Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall.”

Damn him, he has the voice of an angel.

ChapterSeventeen

Leonard

I’m a mess inside. Reese hasn’t answered any of my messages, and he could be who-knows-where. He could bedead.

I don’t know the kid well, and he’s now stolen both my cereal and my shoes, possibly my truck if he’s more wily than I’ve given him credit for, but it’s very important for him to be all right. I guess I see myself in him, a kid who’s lost and lonely and doesn’t know his ass from his elbow. When I was that age, I needed someone to step in, and no one did. I want to be that person for him, but I don’t know how.

Then there’s Bean. I’m still in knots over what happened at the shelter. Whoever heard of killing kittens?

I’ve told myself it’s okay, that maybe Constance will want to keep her and the problem will resolve itself. But there’s an aching inside of me—a sense of wanting.

I’ve been feeling more of that lately, and that kitten is just the tip of the iceberg that’s going to sink me. Because Shauna, sitting beside me, has brought on a whole different kind of wanting—one that feels dangerous as hell. If I have no business keeping a kitten, I have even less business doing whatever it is I’m doing with her.

Fucking around, sure, but it’s not that simple. I’m…protective of her, and I want her to be happy. That’s become more important than doing Constance a favor and having fun while doing it. Maybe it was always more important.

She glances at me as she pulls into Camp Smileshine, beneath a huge-ass sign of a bear smiling like it’s high on mushrooms. It looks like the kind of place a mass murder would go down in a slasher flick, and I say so. “I think we need to rename it from Camp Nightmare to Murderland.”

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