Bad Girl Reputation by Elle Kennedy

The faintest twitch of a smirk tugs at the corner of Randall’s mouth. Then, forehead creased, he orders me to come stand behind the car and take a field sobriety test.

My jaw snaps open in shock.

“You can’t be serious,” protests Harrison, who’s clearly starting to understand what an utter dickweed Randall is.

“No.” I cross my arms and consider just driving away. Daring Randall to stop me. Those old instincts of mayhem and defiance roar back with a vengeance. “This is ludicrous. We both know I’m not drunk.”

“If you fail to comply with a lawful order, you will be under arrest,” he informs me. Randall is practically drooling at the prospect of putting me in handcuffs.

I turn to Harrison, who, though plainly alarmed, admits with a shrug there’s nothing he can do about it. Seriously? What the hell’s the point of dating a cop if he can’t get you out of a trumped-up traffic stop with a disgruntled egomaniac?

What truly pisses me off, however, what really tears the nails from the bed, is knowing Randall gets off on this. He loves applying his authority to humiliate me. Busting a nut with his power trip.

Not wanting to make a scene, I stalk toward the rear bumper and appraise Randall with a cool look. “What would you like me to do? Officer.”

A smile stretches across his face. “You can start by reciting the alphabet. Backwards.”

If he thinks this weakens me, he’s sorely mistaken.

That which doesn’t kill me makes my anger stronger.





CHAPTER 12

EVAN

For some reason, I saw that encounter going better in my head. I thought it’d be charming, in our kind of demented way. At the very least, make her laugh. Because as much as she’d given me a hard time back in the day, she always ate that stuff up, getting me jealous and riled until I snapped and stormed in to throw her over my shoulder. Then we’d fuck it out and be cool again.

This time, not so much.

I rake both hands through my hair and stare out at the dark water beyond the long pier. After Gen stormed out of the restaurant and her dipshit date gave me some unconvincing advice to leave her alone, I walked out here to get some air, get my head on straight. But so far, all I’ve succeeded in doing is wallowing over how much I miss Gen.

With a tired exhalation, I shove my hands in my pockets and leave the pier. Coming up the steps to the boardwalk, where my bike is parked along the curb, I’m not quite sure what I’m looking at until I hear Gen’s voice across the street telling a cop with his flashlight pointed at her to suck her dick.

My eyebrows soar in confusion, then knit in displeasure. The cop’s got her on the street behind a car, with her arms spread, touching her finger to her nose. Meanwhile, her dweeb date is there doing nothing while she begrudgingly walks a straight line and recites the alphabet, muttering obscenities along the way. Even from a distance I can feel the humiliation in Gen’s expression. The way her eyes stare into the distance.

I’m halfway to running over there before I stop myself. Damn it. The last thing I need right now is to go to jail for bouncing a cop’s face off the pavement. I wouldn’t make it out of a cell alive. Besides, Cooper’s already up my ass about fighting—getting locked up would give him a lifetime I told you so account that I’m not about to pay into. So I stand there, hugging the railing, fists clenched.

I recognize Rusty Randall, though I don’t know him well. Just that he’s got a reputation as a creep with a not-so-secret drinking problem of his own. To her credit, however, Gen takes it like a champ, never the type to let anyone see her rattled.

Still, it turns my stomach to watch this degrading episode. Dozens of people stare at her as they pass. She was stone-cold sober when I saw her an hour ago. And by how easily she’s navigating the test, I’d say it’s clear she didn’t pop into a bar to pound a bunch of shots after she left the restaurant. Which means Randall is only being a dick because he can.

Finally, after a brief conversation, she’s allowed to get in her car. I’m gratified to note she barely glances at her polo-clad date as she leaves.

I quickly get on my bike to follow her, making sure to keep my distance. I just want to make sure she gets home okay. After a while, though, I realize we aren’t headed to her house. We leave the lights of town behind, headed north along the coast where the population thins out and the stars appear overhead. Soon we’re winding down a two-lane road through the black wooded landscape where the moon over the bay appears in brief glimpses through the trees.

Eventually, she pulls onto the dirt shoulder near a narrow footpath you can only find if you know it’s there, even in daylight. She gets out of her car, grabs a blanket from the trunk, and proceeds through the trees. I wait a few minutes before following her. At the end of the path, where the trees give way to the sandy beach, I find her sitting on a driftwood log.

Her head lifts when she hears me approach. “You suck at tailing people,” she says.

I take that as an invitation to sit. “I stopped trying to be sly about it after I realized where you were headed.”

“I didn’t come here to meet you.” With the blanket wrapped around her shoulders, she buries her toes in the cool sand. “This is just where I come to think. Or it was.”

That she chose this place hits me right in the chest. Because it’s our spot. Always has been. It was our emergency rendezvous after running from the cops, the make-out spot when we were grounded and sneaking out of the house. Our secret hideout. Not even Cooper knows I come here.