Page 6 of You're so Bad

A snort escapes her, like she wanted to laugh but didn’t let it happen. “He and his mother run a craft store, actually.”

I shrug. “Crafts, cars. Same difference. He looks like a salesman.”

“You’re one of those people who uses ‘literal’ for things that aren’t literal, aren’t you?”

“Nah, that’s a five-dollar word. I prefer not to blow my load that quickly.”

She shakes her head and then takes a swig of beer, her expression too sad for my liking. “You don’t know me, Leonard. And you don’t know Colter. You barely even know my grandmother.”

I ignore the sting of that last sentence and say, “I forgot that was his real name. Why didn’t his parents save everyone some trouble and just call him Douchebag? Because they all but ensured he’d be one with that name.”

“You don’t have to get involved,” she says with a sigh. “This is my life, and my grandmother had no right to tell you anything about it. But, for the record, it’s incredibly weird to me that you’d want to be friends with a woman in her eighties. You know she doesn’t have any money to speak of, right?”

That accusation doesn’t sit well either, but I don’t let it show.

Raising my eyebrows, I say, “My best friend is a millionaire. If I wanted to steal from someone, why go any further? Hell, Burke and I are in business together. It would be easy.”

She rubs between her eyes and curses under her breath. “That was a shit thing to say. But you have to admit it’s weird that you and my grandmother—”

“Oh sure, it’s weird as hell,” I say, rocking. “But she’s my friend, no question. And being a good friend to her, I obviously care about her personal life. So, your business is my business. I’m going to help you.”

Her nose crinkles with amusement, and fuck me, it’s cute. “What are you going to do to help me? Put a hit on Colter?”

I lift my hands. “Whoa, that’s not the kind of trouble I like to get into. But if you decide you want to stir up a little shit and get even, I’m your guy.” I grin at her. “Let’s give these jokers a wedding to remember.”

“You really want to go with me?” she asks, seeming surprised. “I figured I’d pretend you were off saving lives overseas or something.”

“I’m going to save you from the trouble of making up a shitty lie and give you a better one.”

She makes a sound like a growl and runs both hands through her purple hair, instantly making it messier—and hotter. That sound does things for me too. “What’s the point? I don’t even like Colter anymore. It might have taken me a while to realize it, but Nana’s on to something with the whole milquetoast thing. To be honest, I have no idea how I let things go on so long. I definitely wouldn’t want to be with him if they broke up. So shouldn’t I just keep pretending I don’t care?”

“Why don’t you start off by telling me what happened?” I say.

She angles her head and gives me an almost sly expression that I like more than I should. “I thought you already knew everything.”

“Probably about 75%, but Constance always thinks she knows more than she does. Except about cheese. She knows a lot about cheese.”

She gives me a blank look, decides she doesn’t care about the cheese, and then shakes her head. “My story is more pathetic than epic.”

“All the better. I live for other people’s pathetic stories. It makes me feel better about my own life.”

ChapterThree

Leonard

Shauna swigs her beer, then says, “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

“I’m guessing it’s because you need to talk to someone, and I stumbled along at the right time.”

She nods slowly. “I met Bianca at a craft fair about six years ago.”

“You sell your stuff at craft fairs?” I ask. I like the thought. It’s…wholesome, and Shauna’s not a wholesome kind of broad. I can see it in those monsters she makes, in the gleam in her eyes when she’s putting me in my place. There’s something wicked about her, like she’s just waiting for someone to push her over the edge, or maybe up against a wall…

I get a flash of her like that, her head tipped back, her throat begging for my lips and teeth, her tits—

Constance’s granddaughter, I remind myself.

“What the hell else am I supposed to do with a hundred mugs?” she asks.

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