Bad Love
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Bad Love
Acknowledgements
Playlist
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
Epilogue
Also Available
Bad Love Copyright 2018 Jaci J
All Rights Reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below
jaclinjean@gmail.com
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, any place, event, occurrence, or incident is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created and thought up from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any clubs, names, organizations, or groups of people are one hundred perfect fictitious and made up by the author and in no way, represent or reflect any actual real person or group of persons.
Cover: BigStockPhotos
Cover photo – LightField Studios (photo ID 228953620)
Editor: Rebel Edit and Design (Dana Hook)
Cover Art: Rebel Edit and Design (Freya Barker)
Beta Reader: Chris Kovacich
Acknowledgements
As always, a very big, very appreciative thank you to my people. Dana. Freya. Chris. My family. And to my readers, the most important people on this journey, because without you and your support, I’d just be some crazy lady in sweatpants dealing with the character voices in my head alone.
Thank you!
Playlist
“Sit Next to Me” – Foster the People
✤
“Mine” – Bazzi
✤
“Bad Love” – RY X
✤
“Tonight” – Black Atlass
✤
“Narcissist” – No Rome ft. The 1975
✤
“Love” – Kendrick Lamar ft. Zacari
✤
“I Fall Apart” – Post Malone
✤
“Heaven’s Gate” – Fallout Boy
✤
All of these songs brought me inspiration.
Prologue
Shay
“I’m bad at love,” I muse into the phone, sipping my wine and staring out into the empty parking lot of my apartment. Midnight, and just like my love life, there’s not much action happening. It’s boring, lame, and most of all, lifeless.
Love. Something I’m horrible at.
Lucy snorts into the phone. “Not bad, just challenged.”
Challenged is an understatement. I think my love life is broken, as in DOA, expired, gone down the shitter.
If I’m not being cheated on, I’m being lied to. And if he’s not a liar, then he’s crazy. I’ve had them all. Kissed all the frogs, but never got the prince.
“More than challenged. I’m cursed,” I complain, feeling bad for myself after another failed date, which ended pathetically at seven o’clock.
“I would say it’s not you and that it’s them, but I’m starting to think it’s you,” she muses, chuckling. My best friend isn’t wrong, and that’s sad. A couple of bad boyfriends, maybe a year or two of unsuccessful dates, could be chalked up to bad luck. But it’s been ten years and countless disasters. It’s me.
“Very helpful,” I mutter dryly, watching a cat scurry across the deserted lot, another cat hot on its tail, ducking under a parked car. Even the cats get more action than I do.
“Hey, I can’t help that you attract the special ones.”
“Special doesn’t even begin to describe them. Crazy. Momma’s boys. Star Trek obsessed. Liars. Just to name a few.”
Lucy laughs loudly.
The guy I just went out on a date with—if you can even call it that—was married. A wife and two kids at home kind of married. A very angry wife and two very heartbroken kids. I met him on a dating app, that’s how desperate I am. I’m now dating via the web. It’s sad and pathetic.
“You’ll meet the right guy,” she tells me warmly, like only a friend could. So optimistic. So naïve. So not helpful.
“I’m twenty-eight. I think Mr. Right is already married and living blissfully in suburbia.” He probably drives a sensible car and works in an office building, with a dog and a couple of cute kids, all wrapped up in a white picket fence.
Lucy sighs as she turns on the water in her kitchen. I can hear it hitting dishes and her clanking around in the sink. “I mean, my Mr. Right wasn’t always Mr. Right, if you know what I mean.”
“John has always been a good guy, though, and always good to you,” I argue. The man had it bad for Lucy from the moment he met her. College sweethearts. He might’ve needed a little work, but he wasn’t married, he wasn’t a cross-dressing stalker, or a high school dropout living in his mom’s basement collecting beer signs. He had potential and a good heart.
“He used to leave his dirty underwear all over the house, and couldn’t hit the toilet bowl if he tried,” she tells me, like that’s helpful. “He was also a major Mama’s boy.” I’d take a semi-pudgy Mama’s boy with bad aim any day over the douchebags I’ve been dating, especially lately. “I’d take your John over the married man I had dinner with tonight any day.”
Lucy gasps. “How married was he?”
“Like, his wife showed up at the restaurant in her PJ’s with her kids in tow, thinking he was working late since he’d texted her only twenty minutes before.”
“How’d she find out?” Lucy loves to hear her some drama. Hell, I love to hear some drama, I just don’t want to be a part of said drama.
“Apparently, a family friend was at the same restaurant and saw him—saw us.”
“Damn. What a fucking weasel.” I appreciate that she’s mad for my sake, but still.
“Pretty much,” I tell her, popping open the white Styrofoam to-go container I managed to snag as my date came to a crashing halt halfway through my meal.
There I was, sitting at a nice restaurant with a nice guy, or so I thought. We were talking, drinking, and sharing food, when some lady in sweatpants and two kids trailing behind her came bursting through the doors. Hair crazy and eyes wild, she looked right at us, and I swear I saw her head spin when she spotted me sitting across from her husband.
“Randy! How could you!” she sobbed, grabbing at him from over the table, catching him by the shirt and shaking him. I looked at him, expecting shock or confusion, but he didn’t look either of these things. Instead, he seemed pissed. Pissed for having his date ruined by his wife? I’m not sure. But they started to argue and I sat there, like an idiot, watching the show. The whole restaurant did. They tossed insults, with her complaining about what a lowlife cheat he was, and him telling her that she just didn’t satisfy him anymore. It was a damn nightmare. She ran out the restaurant, and when he followed, I got the rest of my food to go, and here I am, eati
ng cold pasta with my fingers out of a container like a giant fucking loser.
“John has a friend from work named Bobby.”
I stop her right there before she even gets going. “Nope. Say no more.”
“Well, you’re acting all desperate, so I thought I’d try.”
“Stop trying. I don’t need John’s weird work friends in my inbox asking me who my favorite football team is, or if I can send them a picture of my ass.”
Lucy scoffs. “Okay, okay, I get it, Debbie Downer. I mean, I think Bobby’s weird, but he has a nice ass.”
“A nice ass is not worth weird.”
“I don’t know what to tell you then, friend. I’m out of guy friends.”
“I think I’m done.” I feel resolute in my declaration. No more dates. No more late-night booty calls. No more DMs and weirdos in my inbox. No more liars, cheaters, or scumbags. I’m done. Done trying and done looking.
“You’re done?” I can hear the skepticism in her voice. She doesn’t believe me, and that’s fine. Truthfully, I’m not sure I believe me either. After all these years—ten plus of looking—I think I’ve finally hit my wall.
“I’m gonna buy a cat.”
“A cat?”
“Start my collection now.”
I can practically hear her eyes rolling. “Okay, friend. Buy a cat and some stock in wine.”
“Plan on it,” I reply, popping a cold noodle into my mouth. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“Night, babe.”
“Night, Luce.”
Hanging up, I pocket my phone, grab my wine and cold pasta, and head inside for my computer.
Grabbing it off the kitchen table, I sit down on the couch and pull up Google, typing in the search bar, ‘the best cat breed for single ladies.’ I figure tonight seems as good as any to start my spinster lifestyle.
1
Shay
Sitting on my little back patio enjoying the sun, I hear the ping from my social media alert. A message. I want to ignore it. Considering I’m on my dating hiatus, I should. But I can’t. I can’t because...well, because there’s something fucking wrong with me.
Clicking off the website I’m browsing—which is definitely not for clothes I can’t afford—I see the little red icon alerting me that I have a new, unread message.
I click on it, expecting a dick pic, or maybe a marriage proposal from some Saudi prince with a large inheritance he’d love to share with his new American bride. But instead, I’m met with a plain ol’ message.
All it says is, “Hey.” Yet how many of my disastrous dates and one-night stands have started out with that one simple word? Probably seventy-five percent of them.
Hey? I type back, the three little bubbles popping up as soon as I hit enter.
Name’s Alek. Saw your art on your page.
I’m a little surprised by his message. No corny pick-up line. No sexist comment or asking to see my ass. No broken English jibber-jabber.
Not yet anyway.
Oh, is all I can muster, shocked that I’m not having to ward off insulting comments left and right. If this is an opening line for his next message, which says something like damn, baby, your ass is fine, then I’m throwing myself off the closest bridge.
Drumming my fingers on the plastic armrest of my chair, I wait for his reply, which doesn’t take long.
Oh? Lol. Your work is phenomenal. Ever think about selling it?
My heart rate picks up. Phenomenal? Whoa.
Have I thought about selling any of my art? Only every day of my damn life. It’s a dream of mine to make a living off my passion.
Absolutely, I answer immediately, my fingers flying across the keyboard.
Great. Would love to buy the one of the skull, the landscape, and the nude. Got an account I can shoot money to?
I think my eyes pop out of my head. He wants them now? This man I don’t know wants to buy my art? Just like that?
Taking a sip of my water, I calm myself down. He only wants a few pictures. No big deal.
Would rather have cash, I reply, not sure of how to go about this, and hoping I don’t offend him with my response. My art has always been for sale, but never over the internet. Not really sure where or how to sell it. I only displayed it there, hoping to make connections. Small galleries and shows are more my normal, but at this point, I’ll sell it anywhere. I’m sick of eating ramen and frozen pizza.
Cool. Whatever works. You’re local, right?
Yep.
Know where Custom Tattoo is? I shake my head, even though he can’t see me.
No, I answer, staring at the screen. Clicking over to a new browser tab, I type Custom, Newport Oregon, into the bar, and up pops about a million links and articles. But there it is, a tattoo shop, and a pretty popular one at that.
We’re on the docks. About a block from the jetty, he tells me, even though I’m currently staring at the address and a Google Map image of the building. Come by tomorrow. Anytime, he adds.
Just like that?
Don’t you want to know my price? I’m surprised at how fast this is going, and how unexpected it is.
Good art ain’t cheap, he replies, adding a winky face. I laugh, wistfully wishing everyone felt that way. What’s your price?
Hundred for each. I hit send and instantly regret it. One hundred seems like a lot, but then again, not enough at the same time. Art is subjective. One person’s million-dollar piece might not be worth pennies to someone else. This guy might think I’m out of my fucking mind for asking a hundred for each.
Sounds good, he answers, and of course, I can’t see him or read his face. Maybe he thinks I’m nuts, and maybe I am. Bring by some more of your stuff tomorrow so I can take a look, see if I want more.
I don’t question it or him, I just type, Okay. See you tomorrow, ending our chat, feeling oddly good about it.
Someone is interested in my work, and someone wants to pay me for it. My head is swimming.
Grabbing my phone, I call Lucy, needing the feedback. The phone rings three times before she answers. “Hey, friend. How’s the cat buying going?” she laughs. “Find a new furry companion yet?
“You’re an asshole,” I huff into the phone. “Have you ever heard of Custom Tattoos?” I ask, staring at a picture of the building on my computer screen.
“Yeah, I think so. That’s the one that was on the news a few months ago. Kind of a local celebrity thing.” She sounds disinterested, or at the very least, distracted.
“Am I interrupting something?”
“Yeah. Only interrupting me trying to run these stupid assholes over!” She shouts the last part, pulling the phone away from her mouth and beating on her horn.
“You’re gonna get shot.”
“Good,” she grumbles. “Then I won’t have to deal with this bullshit.”
“Where are you?”
“In the fucking city, dealing with stupid ass drivers.”
I laugh. Her road rage is humorous. Not that I’m much better. The freeway makes me stabby.
“But anyway, they’re a pretty big deal around town. Heard some guys at work talking about how long it takes to even get in for a consultation.”
“Really? They’re, like, a really big deal?”
“Yeah, guess so, but I don’t have any tats. Why?”
“One of the artists wants to buy some of my art.”
Lucy whoops loudly into the phone. “No shit! That’s awesome, Shay.”
“He messaged me on social media.”
“Who’s he? The owner?”
“I have no idea.” Scrolling back up and through our messages, I find his name. “Alek?”
“No clue, but that’s a sexy name.”
“Then why’d you ask if you don’t even know their names?” I laugh. The girl is nuts.
“Just curious. But that’s damn exciting, girl. It’s huge news.”
“Should I be weirded out about going to a place I’ve never been to, to meet a guy I don’t know?”
/> She scoffs. “How the hell is that any different than all the dates you’ve been on in the last ten years?”
She has a point. “Yeah, okay, I see where you’re goin’.”
“Go. Sell your shit, sister.”
“Okay.”
“Oh shit,” she grumbles. “I missed my exit. Call me when you’re done there. Tell me everything.”
“I will. Later, tater.”
“Bye.”
Niko
THE SHOP IS BUSY. THE waiting area is full, every chair occupied. I haven’t had a break since I walked through the fucking door, and I think I’ve lost all feeling in my legs from sitting for so goddamn long. But it’s my job. It’s what I love to do.
Someone knocks on my door. “Yeah?” I call over the music. It opens slowly, just a crack. “Want some water, Niko?” Kendra asks, peeking her head into my room.
“Sure.” Although, I’d rather have a shot or two of whiskey.
She walks in and hands me a bottle, glancing down at my client. “Looks incredible,” she compliments, looking over the side piece I’m working on of an intricate black and white eagle with a fuck ton of shading. This is the guy’s second sitting and he’s taking it like a pro, when I know damn well it hurts.
“Need a break?” I ask him. We’ve been at it now for two hours.
He nods, sitting up and stretching out his arms. “Yeah. Could use a smoke.”
“Sure. Come on back when you’re ready.”
Kendra leaves, following the guy out, but I’m not alone long, as Alek walks in. “What’s up, asshole? How’s the piece goin’?”
“It’s goin’,” I tell him, pulling off my gloves and chucking them into the trash can in the corner. Getting off my stool, I stretch before walking out the door. “You need something, Alek?”
“Found a new artist to do some work for us.”
That shit stops me in my tracks.
“You’re shittin’ me, right? You’re still talkin’ about this shit? We do our own art.” Alek’s been on this fucking kick lately, looking to change things up, bring in new talent and styles. Things are good the way they are. We don’t need anything new. We’re busy as fuck, so I’m guessing our clientele is happy enough with how we do shit around here and the art we pump out.