Bad Girl Reputation by Elle Kennedy

“Yeah.” I stand up and touch Chase’s arm. “Would you tell Jordy we had to duck out early, but that he totally crushed it tonight?”

“Sure thing,” Chase says easily.

“Alana—” Tate starts, then stops abruptly. His blue eyes cloud over for a second before taking on a careless veil. “Enjoy the rest of your night.”

“You too.”

Alana and I practically sprint out of the bar. I feel Evan’s gaze boring a hole into my back as we flee.

“Are you going to explain what that was all about?” I grumble as we step into the warm night breeze.

Alana just sighs. “I don’t want him to think we’re together, so every now and then I remind him by being a bitch.”

I nod slowly. “Fine. And Wyatt? You going to tell me what the hell is happening there?”

Her expression darkens. “I told you before, there’s nothing happening except that he thinks he has a crush on me.”

“Maybe he does.”

“He doesn’t,” she says flatly. “We’ve been friends forever, and he doesn’t know what he’s fucking talking about.”

In other words, back off. So I do. I don’t press her, and in return she doesn’t press me about what’s happening between me and Evan. Not that I would have been able to answer that question. My feelings for Evan Hartley have always been far too complicated to articulate.

Alana and I part ways. Ten minutes later, I’m pulling into my driveway at home when my phone buzzes. I fish it out of the cup holder and check the screen.

Evan: Why’d you run off?

Sighing, I tap out a quick response.

Me: Alana wasn’t in the mood for Tate.

The urge to type a follow-up makes my fingers itch. I try to resist it and fail.

Me: And I wasn’t in the mood to watch you rubbing up all over Ren.

Evan: Ha! She was rubbing up all over me. I was an innocent bystander.

Me: I’m sure it was torture for you.

Evan: It was. Whenever there’s a chick grinding up on me, my poor dick yells at me and demands to know why that chick isn’t you.

My cheeks feel warm all of a sudden. He’s not the most poetic man out there, but he does have a way with words. And those words never fail to turn me on.

Me: I thought you were reformed. “We’re not having sex, yada yada.”

Evan: I didn’t say we were going to have sex. Just that my dick misses you.

Me: You still with Ren?

Evan: No, she wandered off the moment she realized she didn’t have an audience anymore. Just chilling with the boys now.

There’s a short delay. Then:

Evan: We still on for next weekend?

This is my chance to back out. To say, “You know what, I changed my mind about the whole wooing thing. Let’s just try to be friends.”

What I say instead is:

Me: Yes.





CHAPTER 19

EVAN

Wyatt taps two fingers on the kitchen table. Cooper also checks after the turn. I’m sitting on a possible jack-high straight, but I’ve got a fairly good idea that Tate’s got the king, and I’m not about to blow my stack to see the river. I check.

“Tate, it’s your call, hurry up,” Wyatt shouts.

“He checks,” Coop says, huffing as he peeks at his cards again, like they’ve changed since he looked at them twenty seconds ago.

“Yeah, I bet your pair of threes says he checks.”

“Then you should have raised,” Coop tells Wyatt, getting irritated. “Let’s see that king already.” At that, Wyatt shakes his head with a knowing smile. Because Coop is a poor sport and it’s sort of a running gag at this point.

When we were kids, he’d steal from the bank in Monopoly and throw a fit when he was losing. After numerous tantrums, we started egging him on for fun just to see the fireworks. Really, it’s one of the few things that keeps poker interesting when I’m playing my brother. Play with anyone long enough and there ceases to be any mystery left. With twins, it’s worse. I might as well be staring at his cards. We can’t bluff each other.

“Tate, what the hell?” Wyatt yells. “I’m about to divvy up your chips.”

“Coming,” he calls from the garage, where we keep the drink coolers.

“I check,” Chase says, skipping Tate.

“And dealer checks.” Our old high school buddy Luke burns one card off the top of the deck and turns the next faceup on the table. “Queen of clubs. Possible straight, possible royal flush on the board.”

“Oh, come on. That’s not cool.” Tate comes in with his arms full and sets several beers on the kitchen counter. “I was going to raise.”

Coop and I smirk at each other across the table. He definitely has the king. We both fold out of turn.

“Yeah, screw you both,” Tate says, watching his best hand of the night go belly up.

“Where’d you go? Milwaukee?” Wyatt reaches out an impatient hand for his beer. “Or did you have to brew them yourself?”

“Next time you can get your own damn drink.”

It’s boys’ night at our house, a usual poker game we host every month or so. Enough time for the guys to replenish their wallets after the cash Coop and I took off them the game before. You’d think they’d catch on that the odds are stacked against them. Yet every month, here they are, swimming upstream and right into the bear’s mouth.