Bad Love

by Jaci J

  Grabbing my bag from under the bench, I pull out a tee and put it on, the material sticking to my sweat-covered back and chest. Nine times out of ten, I take a shower here, but not while I’ve got Shay here needing me for something.

  “You think I’m gonna hand over the keys to my business to just anyone?” I get up and walk toward the exit without another word.

  Following, Shay growls, “I’m not just anyone. I fucking work for you.”

  She’s getting fired up. Angry. And I fucking love it. If she gets this worked up when I give her shit, I can only imagine how worked up she’d be if I fucked her.

  “So now you work for me?” I ask her, lifting a brow.

  Shay huffs loudly. “You know what I fucking mean.”

  “Do I?” I tease, holding the front door for her and watching her walk out, watching the way her ass twitches and hips sway. Fuck me.

  “You’re gonna make this hard, aren’t you?”

  “Wouldn’t be fun if I made it easy, now would it?” I smile and she returns it, shaking her head at me. She’s fucking adorable.

  On the sidewalk, hand out, she asks, “So, are you going to give it to me or not?”

  I can’t pass up the opportunity. “Oh, I’ll fucking give it to you, baby.”

  Her eyes roll so damn hard, it looks like it hurt. “Jesus, Niko. Are you done yet?” she asks, watching me walk off, me already halfway across the parking lot.

  “You want me to be done?” I holler at her.

  “Yes. Please.”

  Unlocking my car door, I pull it open, holding it for her. “Then let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  “To Custom.”

  10

  Shay

  “This isn’t Custom,” I say to the windshield, looking at the restaurant Niko parked in front of.

  Of course it’s not, you moron.

  We’re at Georgie’s.

  Somewhere nice, and somewhere I’m most definitely not dressed for. “I’m wearing my dirty hippie shirt.” I pull at the material in way of an explanation.

  “And I’m sweating through my tee,” he retorts, getting out of the car and walking around the front, and then to my door. Opening it, he waits for me to get out. “Let’s go eat, dirty hippie.”

  But at least he looks good while sweating.

  Getting out, I stop and stare at him, not sure I can go inside looking like a homeless woman. “Seriously, Niko, I can’t go in there dressed like this.” On top of my subpar outfit, I’m barefaced, and my hair is wild.

  Niko stops walking and turns back around to look at me. Expecting some smart-ass remark, I’m shocked when he says, “You’re beautiful, Shay. Now, let’s eat.”

  Not sure what to say to that or how to feel, I follow him, silently stewing on such a word coming from his mouth and directed at me. Niko thinks I’m beautiful, and something about that means more than it should.

  Georgie’s sits on the rocky shoreline of the coast. Surrounded by dune grass, shore pines, and sand dunes, it overlooks the never-ending Pacific. It’s beautiful and serene, but most of all, it’s classy. “They’re not gonna let me in,” I whisper as I walk through the door he’s holding open for me. “I look like a homeless lady.”

  “A sexy homeless lady,” Niko chuckles, walking up to the front counter. “My usual spot?”

  The waiter nods. “Sure thing.”

  It only takes a moment before we’re being led back outside and around the building, down a gravel driveway and to the backside of the restaurant. Right along the cliffs, nestled between the dune grass and large windswept trees, is a small weathered cedar table.

  “You gonna stand there starin’, or are you gonna sit, sweetheart?”

  I sit down, facing the ocean.

  The waiter hands Niko a couple of menus, and tells him he’ll be right back with water.

  “Is this because of my dirty hippie tee?”

  We’re outside, alone. Segregated.

  Niko laughs loudly. “Yeah. They keep the riff-raff out here.”

  I smile. “That’s a good idea. We’re trouble.”

  Grabbing the bench across from me, Niko lifts a brow. “Who said anything about me?” he retorts, cocky, twisting the fitted he’s wearing backward as he sits.

  “What can I get you?” the waiter asks, returning with our waters. I look to Niko for help. I’ve only been here a handful of times, and Niko seems to know the place well, so why not let him take the lead?

  “You like seafood? Pasta?” I nod for both, and Niko orders for the both of us.

  “So,” I start, looking down at the Pacific Ocean crashing into the beach. “Do you bring all your dates here?”

  “This a date?” Tattooed arms crossed and leaning on the table, he waits for an answer.

  “I don’t know...is it?” Inquiring minds and all that.

  “Depends. You gonna let me fuck you after I feed you?”

  Not one to usually shy away from sex or talking about it, I’m thrown by his words, my cheeks heating from his bluntness.

  Taking a drink of my water, I hide my embarrassed smile behind my glass, because as much as I don’t really like Niko, I think I might let him fuck me, and that scares me. I’m bad at love, bad at the whole relationship thing, but the fact that I’d let a man I don’t even like fuck me, well, scares me half to death.

  Niko chuckles. “That’s what I thought. This isn’t a date, baby. If it was, you’d know.”

  “Oh...okay.”

  “You sound disappointed.”

  I cough, choked up on the idea. “Nope.”

  I’m such a bad liar.

  Niko

  SHAY WANTS ME TO FUCK her. I can see it in her eyes. Jesus, I can practically fucking smell it on her. Her cheeks are pink, her lip chewed between her teeth, and her chest rising and falling quickly, breathing harder. What she wants is all over her pretty fucking face, and there’s not a goddamn thing I’m gonna do about it.

  Shay’s not a one-night stand. She’s weeks, months. Hell, she might even be years. None of which I can or will give her or any woman. Been there, done that. Not looking for a repeat.

  But Jesus Christ, my cock aches just thinking about sinking balls deep into her. Fucking her into my headboard, long and hard.

  “So...” Shay clears her throat, looking up at me from over her glass of water. “How long have you owned Custom?”

  I guess this is how we’re gonna do this—pretend I didn’t just basically proposition her for sex, and she didn’t damn near beg me for it. Fine with me.

  “About ten years.”

  “How old were you when you opened it?”

  “Twenty-one.”

  She smiles. “You’re thirty-one?”

  “And your twenty-seven,” I counter, my face flat, because it’s the only goddamn look I can give her that won’t give away how fucking bad I want to toss her ass on this table, strip her naked, and fuck her until we both come hard.

  “How’d you know?”

  “I just know.”

  Shay laughs, squirming in her seat. She’s nervous, and a little uncomfortable. Good. “Are we friends now then? Since you seem to know me so well?”

  “Why? You wanna be my friend?” I ask her, watching her over the waiter who’s setting our food on the table.

  I don’t have friends. I’ve got brothers—some blood, and others by choice. Friends is not something I want to be with Shay.

  “Well, since this isn’t a date, and if we’re not friends, then what is this?”

  “I’m just hungry, baby.” That’s a loaded fucking statement. “That’s what this is.”

  The disappointment that flashes across her face gets me, but not enough to tell her otherwise. We’re not friends. We’re not anything.

  Not one to give up or let her feelings show, Shay asks, “What are you doin’ tonight? Anything fun since the shop’s closed?”

  Finding someone to fuck, someone to take this frustration out on, pops into my head. I’m an asshol
e, and usually I’d tell her that, but I think I’ve pushed her far enough today. For the both of us, I keep that shit to my goddamn self and tell her, “Nothin’.” I know she’s trying here, so I ask, “You doin’ anything fun?” in return.

  “I have a date, even though I shouldn’t. I’m bad at it, ya know.” She’s rambling, and I miss half of what she says, but the one thing I do get is the word date.

  Setting down my fork, I narrow my eyes on her. “Say again?” Is she winding me up? Fucking with me for fucking with her?

  Shay looks confused. “I have a date.”

  Jesus Christ.

  Rage boils in my gut at the idea.

  “Oh yeah?” Clearing my throat, I try real goddamn hard not to act like an asshole and say something fucked up. But I won’t lie, it’s not fucking easy. “Why are you bad at it?”

  “I don’t know. I always end up dating bad guys and assholes, Mama’s boys and cheaters.”

  The idea that someone would cheat on her makes no goddamn sense. There’s not a woman out there worth losing Shay over. I don’t even like the bitch and I know that shit. Shay is quality. “You’ve been cheated on?”

  “Yes, and I’ve had dates with men I later found out were in a relationship, or married with kids.” She looks embarrassed, staring down at her plate. “I didn’t keep dating them once I found out, though.”

  “Didn’t figure you did. So why keep dating if you keep getting assholes?”

  She shrugs. “I’m either an idiot or a hopeless romantic.” I don’t tell her it’s probably a little of both. If she wants to believe in love and all that shit, then that’s on her, but I’m not gonna be the one to burst that bubble. Love is a bunch of bullshit, a waste of fucking time and energy.

  “You almost done?” I ask her, watching her twirl a piece of pasta around her fork and pop it in her mouth.

  Frowning, she looks down at my plate. “You’re not hungry?”

  Not any fucking more.

  “Nah. I had big breakfast.”

  “You sure? Something wrong?”

  Other than thinking about some fucker getting a taste of what I’m starving for? “Not a goddamn thing, baby. Just eat your food.”

  And Shay does just that. She eats, talking about this and that, asking me questions and smiling at my answers. I hate how easy this shit is with her. I didn’t even want her in my shop working, and here we are, eating lunch together and having a good time, even if my mood is shit. Shay has a date and there’s not a goddamn thing I can say or do about it, because we’re nothing, and that’s exactly how it’s gonna stay.

  11

  Shay

  Standing in my closet, pondering outfits, I hear my phone ding from somewhere on my bed, lost in the unmade sheets and crumpled-up comforter.

  Digging through the fabric, I find it.

  Looking down at the screen, I feel my eyebrows migrate up my forehead in surprise.

  Niko texted me.

  You didn’t end up painting today.

  I debate on whether to text him or not. But after a few moments of staring at the words, I reply with, I didn’t feel like it. Which is true.

  You didn’t feel like it?

  Not after how lunch ended. After I told him about my date, Niko shut down. I mean, he answered my questions, but he was short, and I tried my best to carry the conversation through the awkwardness. We finished eating, he paid the bill, then drove me to the shop and dropped me off, handing me a spare key. I even joked about not trusting me with it and that did nothing. He told me I could hang on to it until I was done because he didn’t want to have to do this again. This being spending time around me I guess. It hurt more than it should have.

  My fingers hover over the keyboard, something profound and cutting on the tips of my fingers, something that’d say exactly what I’m thinking. But instead, I simply type, Nope, and hit send before I change my mind.

  Watching my screen, I wait for something and get nothing.

  Niko doesn’t text me back, so I wander back into my closet in search of date night attire, phone in hand. I want so desperately to put it down and not worry about him or his text, but I hold onto it and hope, because I’m an idiot.

  I find shoes and a cute bag, but the dress is proving to be a pain in the ass.

  I begin studying every article of clothing I own when my phone dings again.

  Be careful tonight.

  Why?

  Because you say you like assholes. That’s why. That’s the fucking truth, with Niko being the biggest one.

  I don’t know what to say to that, so I say nothing at all, wishing I had never said anything in the first place.

  I’ve never met a more difficult man.

  I drop my phone into my purse and head back into my closet, choosing the sexiest dress I own. Fuck Niko and these confusing feelings.

  “WOW. YOU LOOK GREAT,” my date tells me, looking me up and down, a smile stretched across his face. “Short dress, huh?” he teases, smirking down at my legs.

  “Thanks.” I have to agree, I do look good. Wearing my smoky gray mini halter neck shift dress and a pair of chunky wedges, I feel damn good. My hair is loose and wavy, my makeup is natural, and my lips are a statement red. “You look great too.”

  Liam is handsome. At about five-eleven, he’s a good-looking, muscular guy, with dark hair and light eyes, as well as a strong nose and nice smile. Liam’s everything a girl could want, but I find myself comparing him to Niko and hate it. I don’t know Liam well, but he seems nice enough. Sweet and kind. He picked me up and opened my door, holding it for me. He complimented me and my shoes. What could be better?

  The snarky little voice in the back of my head says, Tattoos, a backward cap, and muscles could be better. That snarky little voice is a bitch.

  Sliding into the passenger seat of his nice pickup, I eye the dash, all new and shiny, and start thinking about Niko’s stupid old car with the basic stereo and no sun visor mirrors.

  “You have a nice truck,” I tell Liam, touching the armrest.

  He chuckles, and I have to force myself not to compare it to Niko’s laugh, because Liam’s is nice. “Thanks, Shay.”

  “So, where are we going?”

  “A buddy of mine is having a party,” he tells me, pulling onto the highway and leaning back into his seat. Getting comfortable, he throws an arm over the back of the seat, his hand close to my shoulder, and I hate how much I wish it was Niko’s tattooed hand instead.

  I repeat what he said in my head, thinking I heard him wrong. “We’re going to your friend’s party?”

  “Yeah. Should be a good time.”

  Well, shit. That’s debatable.

  STANDING IN A SMALL galley kitchen, in a house I’ve never been to that belongs to Liam’s friend I have yet to meet, I sip on my drink, hiding from the crowd. Vodka and lemonade, the only other adult beverage they have other than beer.

  I know no one here outside of my date, and I’m seriously wishing I didn’t even know him either. He’s ignored me all night, too into his games of beer pong and pool to offer me anything outside of a backhanded compliment.

  He’s a douchebag.

  I should’ve known better.

  Some obnoxious rock song blares from a set of speakers on the kitchen table, with people trying to talk over the wailing lead singer’s shrill voice.

  For the hundredth time tonight, I look at my phone, look for Niko’s name on my screen, wishing he’d text me.

  I know I shouldn’t. It’s a waste of time, because seriously, he’s an even bigger asshole than my date. But here I am, rereading the texts he’d sent me previously.

  A breaking glass catches my attention. Looking up from my phone, I see a guy stumble into the kitchen, a beer bottle shattered at his feet all over the floor.

  Laughing, the guy shrugs, stepping over the broken glass.

  The guy spots me, a sloppy smile on his face. “Yo, baybay. What’s your name?” he slurs, walking toward me.

  Jesus. T
hat’s my cue to exit.

  Dodging him, I head for the bathroom.

  I need to hide.

  Niko

  HOW’S YOUR DATE? I text Shay. Yeah, I know I shouldn’t, but I need to know if she’s okay, because the not knowing was driving me to drink, and if I’m drinking and Shay’s on her date, I might just drive my ass over and put a fucking end to it.

  Taking a pull from my beer, I wait for her to reply, which doesn’t take long. She texts me back right away, and it’s a small victory.

  Okay.

  Okay? What the fuck does that mean? I hate that goddamn word. That shit leaves so much room for interpretation. Okay is what women say when shit’s not going okay. And if Shay’s not okay, then I’m not okay, and if I’m not okay, then her date is fucking dead.

  Are you okay? I text her back, finishing off my beer and cracking another.

  Just bored. What are you doin’?

  Sitting on my roof, watching the boats come in and out of the harbor, drinking my beer and listening to my brothers talk shop, about Andre’s upcoming fishing season and Alek’s bar opening. Drinkin’ a beer. Thinkin’ about you on your lame ass date.

  How do you know he’s lame? I can just hear her saying that shit with so much goddamn attitude and sass in her voice. She’d be giving me a nasty look, lip curled and eyes narrowed. It’s a look I want to see from her right before I bend her over and fuck her.

  If he wasn’t, you wouldn’t be texting another guy while on your date. If she was on a date with me, she’d be eating good food and enjoying good conversation. I’d compliment her, and then I’d fuck her. But that’s not going to happen because I don’t date, and I definitely don’t fuck Shay.

  Fuck you, Niko.

  If it was me you were dating, that’s exactly what you’d be doin’ right now. I know I’m pushing it, but I’m buzzed, and feeling a little fucking territorial.

  Are you ever nice? Because if you are, it’s not to me.

  I’m nicer to you than anyone outside of my mother. And that’s the fucking truth.