Bad Girl Reputation by Elle Kennedy

“Trust me, I’m equally surprised,” she says dryly, running a hand through her blonde bob. “I swear, I’ve never gone out with anyone so damn nice. Like, what’s his problem?”

I burst out laughing. “Right?”

“The other night we were on our way to the drive-in and he pulled over to help a little old lady cross the street. Who the fuck does that?”

“Please don’t tell me you screwed my brother at the drive-in.”

“Okay, I won’t tell you.”

“Oh God. I walked right into that one, huh?”

“Uh, hi there, Genevieve,” a male voice interrupts.

Heidi and I turn as a cheerfully nervous guy arrives at our table, dressed in a short-sleeved button-down shirt and khaki pants. He’s cute, in a Boy Scout sort of way, with brown hair and freckles. If it weren’t for a vague feeling I recognize him, I’d say he was a tourist who got lost and stumbled away from the boardwalk.

“I’m Harrison Gates,” he says. “We went to high school together.”

“Oh, sure, right.” The name barely nudges my memory, but now that he’s placed his face for me, he does seem familiar. “How’s it going?”

“Good.” He directs a smile at Heidi as well, but his gaze remains focused on me. “I don’t mean to bother you. I just wanted to offer my condolences about your mom.”

“Thank you,” I tell him sincerely. Whatever my mixed feelings about her death, the nice part about coming home to a small town is that people do generally give a damn. Even people who would have sooner run me over with their car a few years ago have come up to say a few kind words. It’s what you do. “I appreciate that.”

“Yeah.” His smile grows larger and somewhat less anxious as his posture relaxes. “And, you know, I wanted to say welcome back.”

Heidi gives me a look that appears to be a warning to bail, but I don’t understand her alarm. Harrison seems nice enough.

“So what are you up to these days?” I ask, because it seems rude not to talk to the guy for a minute, at least.

“Well, I just joined the Avalon Bay Sheriff’s Department, if you can believe it. Still sounds weird to say it out loud.”

“Really? Huh. You seem too nice to be a cop.”

He laughs. “I hear that a lot, actually.”

Even before the incident last year, I’d had plenty of unfortunate run-ins with the local police. When we were kids, it seemed they had nothing better to do than to follow us around town harassing us. It was a sport for them. The school bullies but with guns and badges. That asshole Rusty Randall being the biggest bully of them all.

“Watch out with this one, Rookie. She’s more trouble than she’s worth.”

As if he heard me cursing him in my head, a uniformed Deputy Randall saunters up and slaps a hand on Harrison’s shoulder.

My entire body instantly goes ice-cold.

Heidi snaps a comeback at him that I don’t really hear above the deafening fury screaming through my skull. My teeth dig into the inside of my cheek to keep me from spouting off at the mouth.

“If you don’t mind,” Randall says to Harrison, “I need a moment of her time.”

He’s gained weight since I last saw him. Lost a lot more hair. Where he used to hide his true self behind a friendly smile and a wave, now his face is contorted in a permanent scowl of resentment and malice.

“You know what, we’re a little busy here,” Heidi says, cocking her head at him in a way that begs a fight. “But if you’d like to make an appointment, maybe we’ll get back to you.”

“Was that your car I saw parked across the street?” he asks me in a mocking tone. “Maybe I ought to run the tag for unpaid tickets.” Even Harrison seems uncomfortable at Randall’s threat, eyeing me with confusion. “What do you say, Genevieve?”

“It’s fine,” I interject before this gets out of hand. Heidi’s looking like she’s about to flip a table. And poor Harrison. He really has no idea what he’s stepped in. “Let’s talk, Deputy Randall.”

What more can he really do to me, after all?





CHAPTER 7

GENEVIEVE

I’d always had a bad feeling about Rusty Randall. When I used to babysit his four kids back in high school, he would say things—little offhanded comments that made me uncomfortable. But I never said anything back, preferring the money and figuring I only ever had to see him for a few minutes coming and going, so it wasn’t a big deal. Until that night last year.

Some friends and I had gone out to a bar on the outskirts of town. We knew it was a cop hangout, but after a couple hours of pre-partying, Alana had gotten in her head it would be a hoot. In hindsight, it was not one of her better ideas. We were knocking back tequila shots and rum runners when Randall slid up to our table. He was buying our drinks, which was fine. Then he started getting handsy. Which wasn’t.

Now, outside Joe’s, Deputy Randall leans against the cruiser parked at the curb. I don’t know what it is about cops resting their hands on their equipment belts, fingers always flirting with their weapons, that incites an instinctual rage in me. My nails dig into the flesh of my palms as I brace myself for what comes next. I’m careful to stay in the light of a streetlamp where people from the bar’s entrance are still visible.