Mean Boy: Bad Boy Romance

by Amy Faye

  It's not exactly what she'd like, but the only answer that she's got left is the only answer she's got left, no matter what she wants it to be.

  She'll have to close the school, and that was all she could do. It stung more than a little. If she had a choice, maybe that would have made a difference. But she couldn't let anyone get hurt, and if the roof was falling in, she couldn't guarantee anyone's safety. It was as simple as that.

  She'd figure out what to do about the school building after she put up a sign that said they were closed. A deep breath in. A deep breath out. She stepped inside. The good news was, it hadn't gotten any worse in the ten minutes that she'd been out. She looked up uncertainly at the roof as she passed it by.

  With a little luck, maybe there wouldn't be any problem. She hoped. That didn't stop her from holding her breath as she crossed the room, certain that any minute, twenty pounds of debris would come crashing down on her head.

  She made the note with quick, smooth writing and tacked it up outside the door. It wasn't satisfying to have to cancel class. But it was necessary, and just this once, it was the right thing to do.

  The options that she had left open to her weren't as many as she'd like, and the ones that came to mind immediately weren't options that she liked.

  The church would be able to raise the money, no problem. The preacher would just get up on the pulpit and ask for donations. With it being for the school, it wouldn't be any trouble at all.

  That wasn't entirely true, though. Not even close to true. It wouldn't be any trouble at all for Mrs. Whittle. Or, for that matter, for anyone else.

  For a Catholic woman who'd wandered into town three months ago, and hadn't been going to a chapel outside the Church's grace… well, it was sufficient to say that she and the pastor weren't on good terms, and leave it at that.

  Marie looked at her options, and watched the list shrink. And then shrink a little more. And more still.

  Sure, literally speaking, she could wait a few weeks. Her wages would come in, and she'd be able to afford it, if she tightened her belt. But that would mean she had no place to teach the kids in the intervening weeks. So while it was perfectly doable, it wasn't perfectly practical.

  An idea flashed through her mind. She could do it, sure. It was just as believable as asking when the pastor passed his hat around. People would sympathize, right? Because it was the schoolhouse.

  The same people who had sent for her to come out from New Orleans would donate at least a little bit of money, no doubt about it. The idea, though…

  Well, it had its own downsides. She closed her eyes and let out the breath that she'd been holding. It had its own downsides without a doubt. But it wasn't about her, was it? She had to make the decision on the basis of the children.

  Eight

  Chris was beginning to feel, thankfully, that he wasn't going to run into that schoolteacher again. She had a pretty little face, and very much a woman's body. The coincidences had lined up for a few days to put them much closer together than he was used to finding himself.

  Worrying about the next coincidence that could come up, the next chance he'd get—it was a distraction, and one that he would have rather done without.

  If it were another time, a time when there weren't people pulling their pistols in the bar that he's supposed to be keeping watch over, maybe he'd have felt differently. But obviously he'd picked the wrong time to get a crush.

  Now, though—now, it seemed like there wasn't going to be another problem that arose. So it was with a little sense of self-satisfaction that he was standing, leaned with his back against the bar, rubbing a little shine into the thick-walled mugs they'd be serving beer out of later. Not that it would matter long.

  It faded when the door opened and he looked up. It seemed that fate had other plans for him, because there Marie Bainbridge was, as energetic as she'd ever been. And, it seemed, heading straight towards him. It was strange to see her in the bar, by itself. To see her there looking for him, well… it was all that much stranger.

  He watched her walk up. She must have noticed him watching her, but she walked up undeterred.

  "Mr. Broadmoor?"

  He set one glass down and picked up the next. "How can I help you, Miss Bainbridge? Drinks on the house, as long as the boss doesn't see me doing it."

  The look on her face was priceless. As if she hadn't even considered the notion of drinking, and now that she had, she wanted to walk out again immediately. Then she blinked and set herself straight again.

  "Not now, please. Thank you, though. That's very nice of you to offer."

  "If you don't want a drink, you just have to say so," he answered, his voice even. "Now, what can I help you with?"

  She leaned against the bar and chewed the inside of her cheeks for a second before speaking. "I need some money."

  "I don't know how I'm supposed to help you with that, ma'am."

  "It's not for me," she says, apparently not realizing that it wasn't a moral judgment that he couldn't help her. "I need it for the schoolhouse. The children, you see, they're—"

  "What am I supposed to do about it?"

  She looks at him wild-eyed. Apparently, somehow, he'd stepped on a nerve. As if he's not listening, rather than her not explaining. Then, very slowly and then all at once, it dawns on her that she hasn't explained a single thing about whatever plan she might have.

  "There's a hole in the roof, you see," she says, as if that helps. "Big hole."

  "That sounds like you need a carpenter. Or at least, someone who's willing to go up on that high roof of yours."

  Chris took a minute to appreciate the look on her face. She's so pleased, with herself or with him he couldn't say.

  "So you understand, then."

  "Not really," says he. "I still don't know why you came to me with that information. Couldn't the preacher help you out? Feel like he's probably got a community fund 'n everything."

  The look that crossed her face told a very specific story, but it was one that Chris couldn't begin to explain. Schoolteacher like her, she seemed very right and proper. There was no way she wasn't right with the church, so why did she seem so uncomfortable with the idea?

  "I thought you might be able to put up a collection. Maybe just a little jar by the counter, with a sign?"

  Chris didn't like the way the conversation was going, because he didn't want to have to tell her no. But it wasn't going to happen.

  "You want to talk to the boss about something like that. Mr. Davis. He'd probably be at his house, right about now. I could get you an address."

  He could see the expression on her face. Deflated. There wasn't much that he could do, though. Stan came in and saw something like that, he'd be pretty unhappy about it, if he wasn't consulted. Nor was Chris in the sort of position to be making suggestions about now. There were a thousand other people who might be able to talk the guy into it. Chris wasn't one of them.

  He'd probably be dismissed immediately. 'What, El Bandito is suddenly taking an interest in the children?' He'd bite down on his lip and not make a response. The man had a sharpness to him that cut deeper than Chris liked, and as much as he could deal with it when he had to, the bartender wasn't looking to stick his foot in it on purpose.

  The next words out of her mouth were exactly what he'd expected. "Can't you talk to him? He'll listen to you."

  She sounded so confident. Was that because she thought she knew something he knew not to be the case? Or because she was just trying to sound convincing? He didn't know, and didn't much care, either way.

  "No, he won't," Chris said with a quiet sort of confidence. "You can trust me on that."

  Her lips twitched, but she didn't say anything for a long minute. "So you won't, then?"

  There was a little twinge of guilt in his chest. No doubt it was exactly the twinge that she'd wanted to give him. It wasn't out of spite that he decided to ignore it.

  "I oughtn't. You ought to try, though."

  She took a
deep breath. "Alright, then. Thank you, Mr. Broadmoor."

  "I'm sorry I couldn't be more help," he said, to a retreating woman's back. She didn't turn to respond.

  Why did he feel so bad? There was nothing that he could do. If she wanted to take up a collection in the bar, it wasn't going to be good if they did it without talking to the owner. If it were Chris doing it, he'd laugh the idea right out of the room.

  It was the best advice he could give, that she should talk to the man herself.

  But the way she'd looked at him, the way she seemed so let down… it got to him more than he'd have liked. More than it should have.

  He leaned back again, set a glass down and picked up another, working the rag around and through. None of the self-satisfaction he'd felt before.

  There had to be something that he could do. If there wasn't, then there was no reason to feel bad. It might just be that he was making himself feel bad for no reason. That was more than possible, it was even likely. He didn't want to accept that logic. If he felt bad, it was probably for some reason. Something that he could be doing, but he wasn't. The only question was what it was.

  The idea took a few minutes to occur to him. But once it had, he was moving out the door before he had time to worry about it. Time was limited, and he'd better get to it sooner than later.

  Nine

  Marie's throat felt tight walking out. She shouldn't have tried this place, and she definitely shouldn't have expected that she'd get any kind of help from Christopher Broadmoor. Nobody had ever said a single thing about him that made the man sound remotely charitable.

  He wasn't a church-going type of man, for one thing. Nobody had ever seen him at church, not once. They hadn't seen her, either, but she had a good reason, which was a big difference.

  So it made no sense that she'd be surprised that he didn't want to give her the time of day. He had no reason to give her any special attention whatsoever. But somehow, it stung anyways. She closed her eyes and pressed the door open, stepped through into the morning sun.

  It was still low on the horizon, angled perfectly to point right at her eyes, somehow magnified by sitting just above the buildings across the wide main road. If she ought to go talk to the owner alone, then she ought to do it now, she supposed. There wasn't going to be a better time, and if she didn't want to do it now, she'd only want to do it less later.

  So Marie stood there a moment, gathering up her courage and trying to stifle the slightly sick feeling in her stomach at the thought of having to go in and ask someone for a favor a second time, after being so politely refused.

  There was a noise behind her, but since she was outside and the noise was inside, she ignored it. Then the door opened and someone stepped right into her, too absorbed in her own nerves to react. Her feet slipped a little and for an instant, Marie was afraid she'd fall.

  A pair of arms wrapped around her and caught her before she could lose her balance totally. That allowed Marie enough time to steady herself, to turn and see who had grabbed her. Her chest didn't seem to want to open itself up to air, as if there were something sitting on her chest.

  Chris's face, lightly stubbled, was only a few inches from her own. His masculine scent filled her nose, filled her entire head. She was a professional, and not the sort of woman to get involved with his sort, though. A crease between her eyebrows deepened.

  "What do you need?"

  His lips pressed into a thin line. "I have an answer for you," he said. He closed the door and stepped away.

  "Oh?"

  "If someone else did the work for free, then you wouldn't need so much money, yeah?"

  "Why, do you know a carpenter who works free?" The way his body language shifted was almost confusing for a moment. And then it was all too clear. "What do you know about carpentry?"

  "I know more than just how to pour a whiskey and how to shoot straight, you know."

  It might have sounded haughty if someone else had said it, but somehow the way that it came off when he spoke was neither boastful nor defensive. No different than if he'd said that the weather looked pretty clear.

  "Are you offering to do it?"

  "I'm not going to beg you," he said. The words were standoffish, but his expression wasn't. She'd almost have called him bored.

  Marie considered the idea for a moment. There would be certain advantages. Certainly, the main one was the cheaper labor. She wouldn't have to worry about whether or not the carpenter would do it. Certain disadvantages, too, of course.

  He'd be around more, for one thing. That wasn't necessarily a problem in itself. The little shiver that ran through her spine at the idea, on the other hand, was.

  If she were being honest with herself, it would be the best thing that had happened to her in at least six months. Years, quite possibly. Marie had made a policy decision to be honest with herself as irregularly as possible.

  The thought occurred to her in a flash, exactly how she could get out of it, and she spoke before she even had much opportunity to think about it.

  "But you'd still need materials, right? That would cost a fair bit of—"

  He smiled, like she'd stepped right into his trap. "Not a penny, ma'am. We got some out back, just going to make firewood at this point."

  "But that's not yours to use, is it?"

  He shrugged. "I don't know Mr. Davis even knows they're out there. Just sittin' in the shed."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Sure I'm sure."

  He made a convincing argument. The sensible thing would be to take him up on his offer. It was a good offer, no up-front costs, and she had to admit, there were more reasons that she'd come to him than just his convenient location.

  At least, she had to admit it to herself, because she sure wasn't going to admit it to him. She'd get to sit back, this way, and watch him working every day, for a few days at least. Maybe she'd to solve the riddle of what the hell the story of Chris Broadmoor was. Get to the core of all those rumors.

  More than that, she could get to why there were rumors in the first place. See if there was anything to them. If there was anything to him.

  She looked out across the way. Her schoolhouse didn't look nearly as pathetic from this distance as it had once she'd gotten close. Inside, it was almost heartbreaking.

  "I think I'd like that," she said, finally.

  He nodded and started moving before she could say a thing. The door flipped open easily and he disappeared inside. She waited a minute, and then another minute. She had begun wondering when she was going to decide that he'd just left her when she heard a voice call out from behind her.

  "Lead the way, then."

  He had a heavy-looking ladder slung over his shoulder, one that had the rough condition of a tool that had seen heavy use. She paused for a moment, thinking that he looked startlingly unlike what she'd expected from him. Then her brain caught up with her ears and she turned to start moving towards the school building.

  He followed a ways behind, but the ladder was almost long enough to sidle up beside her, a reminder that he wasn't far behind. She looked up at the roof as she got closer. It wasn't the tallest building in Applewood Junction, of course. That was the steeple on the church. But it was tall, for the little town. Nothing like New Orleans, of course, but it had its own sort of charm.

  Or, at least, it had its own charm before something had punched a hole in her roof. Now that she knew where to look, it was immediately, embarrassingly, painfully obvious to her. She took a deep breath and stopped once they were almost to the door.

  "The roof, you said, right?"

  It was the first thing he'd said to her since he'd reappeared with his ladder.

  "Yeah, there's a big man-sized hole up there."

  "Alright," he said. "I'll take a look."

  Ten

  It's been a long time since the apprenticeship ended. It was supposed to turn into a long and manageable life, same as Chris's father had led. It was supposed to be a nice, quiet life ahead of him.r />
  That wasn't what had worked out. Almost as much time had passed since the last time he'd picked up a hammer as he'd been alive when he'd put it down for the last time.

  The way he felt climbing up the ladder wasn't what he'd expected, though. He ought to have felt at least a little uncomfortable. Out of place, maybe. But that was the last thing that he felt.

  Chris took a deep breath. There was more to it than Marie had realized. It should have been obvious, but he was out of practice looking at framing, so the common problems had slipped out of his head. But the fact that there was a hole in the roof, maybe two feet across, more than wide enough for him to slip through if he put his mind to, it should have been obvious.

  It was going to take a little work. He had time, though. A few days off would let folks cool their heads, and maybe they'd get some ideas about him being a good worker, if they saw him working with his hands.

  There was one thing uncomfortable, though, about the job. He'd worn that pistol for so long, it felt like it was almost a part of him. He looked around as he climbed, worrying that someone would see him without it and get a funny idea in their head.

  It was completely nuts, of course. There wasn't anyone in Applewood Junction who tended that way. Even once they got a few drinks in them, he couldn't think of anyone who would like to tangle with him, whether he had that pistol sitting on his hip or not.

  But the thought still bothered him. Itched at the back of his mind, like. He kept his hands moving up the ladder and pulled himself free and up onto the roof. Once, the height had made him a little nervous, but he'd been broken of it before he could read.

  Now it was almost peaceful. He ducked his head down under the roofing and confirmed once again what he already knew. The frame would need to be repaired. That meant that the roofing would need to come up, and if that was all then he'd be lucky. But he'd already stuck his foot in it.