by Grey, R. S.
Make Me Bad
R.S Grey
Make Me Bad
Copyright © 2019 R.S. Grey
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This book is a piece of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.
This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
Published: R.S. Grey 2019
[email protected]
Editing: Editing by C. Marie
Proofreading: JaVa Editing, Red Leaf Proofing
Cover Design: R.S. Grey
Contents
Copyright
Author’s Note
Make Me Bad
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
Excerpt
A Place in the Sun
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Stay connected with R.S. Grey
Author’s Note
Author’s Note:
Make Me Bad is a full-length standalone novel. At the end, I’ve included an excerpt from my bestselling romantic comedy A Place in the Sun.
Make Me Bad concludes at around 90% on your device.
Happy Reading!
XO, RS Grey
1
Ben
It’s been quite a while since I threw a punch. The last time was in high school.
A part of me worries I’ve forgotten how to do it, but it seems intuitive: put some heat behind it, aim well, and be prepared for the consequences. Simple enough.
Normally, I don’t find myself in situations like this: at a seedy bar on the wrong side of town, seconds away from losing my temper. I glance down at where my hand grips my drink. My knuckles are white. The glass is about to shatter into a million pieces. My palm will be a bloody mess.
My friend Andy notices. His hand lands on my shoulder in a gesture of solidarity. “C’mon, dude, ignore them. They’re idiots.”
Idiots is exactly right. At the table behind me, there are three guys I’ve known since we were kids. Usually, the only emotion I feel toward them is pity. If I grew up with a silver spoon in my mouth, they grew up with dirt stuffed in theirs. Since the days of little league and Pop Warner football, our paths have rarely crossed, but tonight, Andy wanted to get a drink at Murphy’s. “It’ll be fun,” he said. “We’ve never been there. Maybe it has a cool atmosphere.” So, here I am on a rickety barstool, drinking cheap beer and listening to these Three Stooges run their mouths.
It starts with low-hanging fruit.
“…pretty boy came to our side of town…”
“…thinks his shit don’t stink…”
“…too good for us…”
I ignore them, drink, and watch the Rockets game on TV, but they’re growing restless, getting impatient. They want a reaction, and the longer I sit here with my back to them, the more they dig for it.
“Hey Ben!” one of them shouts, trying to force me to pay attention.
I ignore them.
A low whistle follows and then another one speaks up. “Ben, we’re talking to you.”
I tell myself to keep my focus on the TV. The Rockets are up. I had a good day at the firm. My clients are happy. My beer is only half empty. Life is good.
“It’s okay if he doesn’t want to talk, guys.” It’s their ringleader piping in now—Mac. He’s a big, burly guy with a thick scraggly beard. We played on the same little league team and he wasn’t so bad then, but I remember his dad usually yelled at him a lot during the games. Guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. “He’s probably sad about his mom.”
His taunting words are a poison dart.
My vision tunnels and Andy turns on his barstool, jumping in before I can. “Hey, what’s this about? Can’t we all just watch the game? Let me buy you guys a round.”
That’s my best friend: level-headed, cool to a fault. He once sweet-talked his grade up from a 75 to a 93 on a law school paper. He still brags about it to this day.
The guys behind us laugh at his offer, and I finally turn to assess them over my shoulder. Mac meets my eye, and it’s just as I suspected—he needs to lay off the fast food and find a dentist. He spits tobacco juice into a Styrofoam cup and sends a yellow-stained sneer my way.
I get it.
These guys are pissed at the world—high school dropouts, the outcasts of society—and we offered them a gift by stepping in here tonight. I’m everything they despise. To them, I’m the rich prick with my foot on their backs, holding them down. I’m the reason their lives suck. Maybe I would have let them take jabs at me all night just to ease their suffering a little bit, but the second they decided to bring my family into it, there was no going back. My dad and I have been through hell these last few years, and now that I think about it, I wouldn’t mind taking out my anger on these guys. In fact, it sounds kind of nice.
I slide off my stool and shrug out of my suit jacket. It’s new and I happen to like it enough to keep it clean. I toss it back onto my seat and then smile at the group while I roll up my sleeves.
“My friend offered you a drink,” I say, my voice calm and even despite how hard my heart thunders in my chest.
The guy closest to me is wiry with oil-stained coveralls. I forget his name, but it’s not important. He’s leaning back and only two of his chair legs touch the ground. It’s a cocky pose. He’s daring gravity to get him.
He spits on the floor at my feet. “We don’t want your fuckin’ charity.”
Andy frowns. “Now that’s just not nice.” He points down. “You got spit on his shoes. No one wants spit on their shoes, man.”
Wiry guy makes a real show of hacking up more phlegm in this throat and then he takes careful aim at my feet again. To anyone else, it’d be enough to elicit a reaction, but I don’t give a shit about this guy and his overproduction of saliva.
It’s Mac who finally hits the target.
“Did you hear me, Ben?” Mac prods, sitting up to his full height. “I asked about your mom. She still fuckin’ crazy? Oh, wait, that’s right, I forgot she’s—”
The rubber band inside me snaps. Without an ounce of hesitation, I step forward and kick the legs out from under wiry guy’s chair.
Consequences be damned.
2
Madison
Today is my 25th birthday and I’m standing in the middle of the children’s section at the library while my coworkers serenade me. This is my official birthday party, the only one I’m going to get. I wish I were in Vegas at one of those clubs where the Kardashians have their birthdays. Strobe lights would be flashing, my dress would be killer, and I’d stumble upon a billionaire financier who just
so happened to have the body of an NFL player in the hall on the way to the bathroom. I’d accidentally trip and fall—oops!—right into his path. He’d fall too, for me, instantly. My life would forever be changed.
As it is, here in reality, there’s a small cake and a few streamers hanging haphazardly from the ceiling. Most have already fallen to the ground, crunched beneath our shoes. To his credit, my friend Eli brought in a fancy fruit and cheese tray this morning, but there’s really only a few blue cheese crumbles and sad melon left since we’ve been taking swipes from it all day.
“Happy birthday to you,” he sings loudly, trying to carry the torch for the other two partygoers. He even waves his hands back and forth like an orchestra conductor as if that will energize them a bit. “Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday dear Madison—”
A lone voice breaks out from the pack. “Madeline…er…Madison.”
Our intern, Katy, still doesn’t know my name, and she’s been here for six weeks. Also, she’s currently texting.
Eli shoots her a glare and carries the song home for everyone. “Happy birthday to youuuuuu! Woo!” He claps uproariously. “Make a wish!”
My lone candle is seeping blue wax down onto the cake, which is homemade courtesy of Mrs. Allen. She’s admittedly not a baker, but her heart was definitely in it, and she even wrote my name across the top in shaky white cursive. I love it.
I close my eyes and try to think of a wish right when Katy whispers to Eli.
“Do I have to be here? Like, am I still getting paid?”
All day, I’ve been carefully avoiding the urge to take stock of my life, a universal instinct on birthdays. I’ve stayed off of social media lest a stray engagement or birth announcement catch my attention. I’ve removed all temptation to text old flames (of which there are exactly 1.5) to see if they want to “catch up” by locking my phone in my desk drawer. Now, though, in the span of one millisecond, I’m struck with the quarter-life crisis I’ve so desperately been trying to fend off.
HOW IS THIS MY LIFE?!
I keep my eyes closed, tumbling through a wormhole of disbelief. How did I get here? As a preteen, I thought by the time I turned 25, my life would have really come together. I’d have a sleek red convertible, a three-story dream house, a hip-to-waist ratio under .75, and a boyfriend named Ken. Admittedly, I now see that was Barbie’s future, not mine.
I blink one eye open, praying that, by some miracle, I’ve teleported myself to that club with the Kardashians and the billionaire, but unfortunately, my life is still the same. There are three people at my birthday party: Mrs. Allen, the 75-year-old library administrator; Katy, the uninterested intern; and Eli, my best friend who works up in Fiction on the second floor.
We’re quite the motley crew.
I lean forward and blow out my candle, not bothering to make a wish that won’t come true anyway. “No, Katy, you can head home.”
She grins and I can tell she barely stifles the urge to punch the air with glee. With a pop of her gum, she adds, “Is it cool if I take some cake for my boyfriend? He has a total sweet tooth.”
That’s cool. Her boyfriend likes sweets and my boyfriend doesn’t exist. I grumble at her to take as much as she wants and then get to work slicing it. It feels good to stab something.
“What flavor is this, Mrs. Allen?” Eli asks, inspecting the strange, murky brown color of the cake sitting on his paper plate.
“Pumpernickel.”
Makes sense. Why wouldn’t you make someone’s birthday cake out of rye bread? Vanilla? Pah. Too generic and delicious.
“But,” she continues, “I didn’t have any baking soda, so I just added an extra cup of flour.”
Oh dear. I force down exactly one forkful, plaster on a large, appreciative smile, and am eternally grateful when Mrs. Allen flakes out soon after Katy with an excuse that her bunions are killing her. The second she turns, I spit the cake into a napkin and shudder from the taste.
“Oh my god, make it stop,” I groan, dropping my head to Eli’s bicep.
He pats my arm as if to say, There, there. “Wish I could, but birthdays are birthdays. We all have to endure them. Besides, this one isn’t so bad. Remember when Jared left me on my 23rd and I got so drunk I cried on his front porch and then puked on his doormat? When he asked me about it the next day, I lied and told him some high school kids were going around town doing that as a prank.”
“Yeah, that wasn’t your best moment, but now you have Kevin and he’s great.”
His features immediately glaze over as he adopts a lovesick swoon. “True. He was worth the heartache. Which reminds me…”
He turns to me, his thick black-framed glasses barely hiding the guilt lurking behind them as his frown turns into a blatant please-don’t-kill-me smile.
He’s about to ditch me on my birthday.
“Don’t hate me, but Kevin called after work. Apparently, he’s had a terrible day and—” I must look pitiful because he cuts off his sentence, shakes his head, and reaches for his phone in the pocket of his jeans. “No. You know what? I’m just going to tell him I’ll be home later. It’s your birthday! We have movie plans!”
I reach out and rest my hand on his forearm. “No, you should go. Kevin needs you, and I’m sure it’s important.”
His brows scrunch together. “You sure? I really don’t want to leave you—”
His phone rings and I know it’s his fiancé because his face drops. I urge him to take the call and the second it connects, I can hear Kevin upset on the other end. He’s a fireman. He does important work. I feel terrible, and I won’t let Eli stay to help clean up the party. Besides, there’s not much to do—most of the streamers have already been ground to dust. I gesture for him to go. Get. I’d kick his butt if I was flexible enough to reach it.
He shakes his head and mouths, “It’s your birthday!” but I scoot around him and plant my hands against his shoulder blades so I can shove him toward the door. He turns back and covers the phone with his hand. “I’m sorry, Madison. I’ll make it up to you. I promise!”
I stand at the door, watching him leave, thinking to myself how adorable he and Kevin are. They’re both good-looking and in shape. They have a dog they dote on, and they frequent farmers markets and brunch spots. Their life is worthy of a magazine spread, and my life is maybe worthy of a footnote near the back, after the Sudoku puzzles and spot the difference pictures. My gaze catches on my reflection in the glass door.
Oh my god.
Surely that’s not me.
This woman standing before me has a mustard stain on her blouse from her lunch. Her jeans are loose around her hips and a little too long. Her dark brown hair is a wild mess, going in every direction as if each strand is trying to jump ship.
I hold my hand up and my reflection does the same.
NO. Ugh. I whip around, turning my back on the terrifying image.
If you’d told me half an hour ago that my birthday party could get even sadder, I wouldn’t have believed you.
It’s already close to eight o’clock, but I don’t rush with cleanup. There’s no point. I tear down the streamers one at a time and toss them into the trash. The fruit and cheese tray goes next. I feel guilty throwing away Mrs. Allen’s cake, so instead, I put it in Tupperware to take home. Just during the transfer process alone, I audibly gag three times. There’s no way I’m eating another piece, but she doesn’t need to know that.
After all evidence of the party is gone, I tidy up around the library, tucking away the toys in the toddler play area and re-shelving the books that were left out on the tables. I straighten my name placard—Madison Hart, Children’s Librarian—and then bend down to eye level to wipe away a microscopic smudge.
When all of my duties are done, I still can’t muster up the will to leave, so I sit at my desk and play a few rounds of solitaire. The library is absolutely silent except for the clicking of my mouse. Lenny, the security guard, isn’t even making his usual rounds.
When the cle
aning crew comes in, toting their vacuums and mops, I know it’s time for me to leave. I can’t hide out here any longer. It’s time to face facts: a three-game winning streak in solitaire is as exciting as my birthday is going to get.
I stand and grab my stuff. With my Tupperware, purse, birthday present from Eli (an early edition of Pride and Prejudice), and winter gear, I’m loaded down. I shuffle everything into one arm then lean down to turn off my computer monitor, pausing when I spot my blue birthday candle lying on the floor under my desk. It must have rolled off when I was cleaning up. I frown, overcome with pity for the candle, forgotten on the ground, and for me for never getting to make a real wish on it. It’s silly, but I drop everything onto my desk and reach down to retrieve it.
There, all alone on the floor, I hold it up in front of my mouth, close my eyes, and make the only wish that comes to mind.
Please make this next year more exciting than the last twenty-five.
And then I blow.
* * *
I only live half a mile from the library, so I walk to and from work most days. When people ask me about it, I say I like the exercise, but really, I just don’t have the money to blow on car payments and insurance. I’m saving every penny I earn. For what? I’m not sure.
It’s late February, and even in Texas, there’s a biting chill in the air. I wrap my arms around myself and burrow my face down into my coat as I trudge along the sidewalk.
