Bad Girl Reputation by Elle Kennedy

“Don’t worry. I’m a much better swimmer than I am a sailor. I wouldn’t let your kid drown.” I say this, of course, shirtless, with a full back of tattoos. Lady probably thinks I look more like Riley’s drug dealer than his role model.

“Can I have some money for the hot dog stand?” Riley pleads. “I’m starving.”

With an indulgent smile, Riley’s aunt hands him a few bucks and sends him off.

“Trust me,” I assure her, now concerned that putting a kid’s life in mortal peril might reflect poorly on my participation in the program. “He wasn’t in any danger. Just a minor mishap.”

Liz waves off my concern. “I’m not worried. He hasn’t had this much fun in a long time.”

I think about the Riley I met that first afternoon—the shy, quiet teen who spent the first couple hours staring at his feet and mumbling to himself. Cut to today, where he’s shouting commands at me and taking snarky jabs at my lack of nautical prowess. I don’t know if it’s what the program had in mind, but I’d call that improvement. For our relationship, at least.

“He’s a cool kid. Who knows, maybe he can teach me how to sail and we can try again next year.” I surprise myself when it occurs to me what I’ve just said. I hadn’t given much thought to how long this arrangement would last. But now that I give it some consideration, I couldn’t imagine Riley and I not being pals a year from now.

“You know, I think you mean that.” Liz studies me, and I can’t help wondering what she sees. “I do appreciate everything you’ve done for him. I know it’s only been a couple weeks, but you’re starting to mean a lot to Riley. You’re good for him.”

“Yeah, well …” I slide my sunglasses on and make another attempt at wringing out my wet shirt. “He’s not a total asshole, so …”

She laughs at that, letting me off the hook. I’ve never been great at taking compliments. Being the consummate screwup doesn’t often give a lot of reason for praise, so I guess you can say I haven’t had much practice. And yet somehow, this kid turns out to be one of the few things I’ve gotten right. I’ve seen him several times a week for more than two weeks, and despite all odds, I haven’t screwed him up yet.

“I need to get him home so I can head to work,” Riley’s aunt says. “But I’d like it if you came by for dinner one night. The three of us. Maybe next week?”

The fleeting notion of what would be in some alternate universe if Liz took a shine to me skips through my brain. Until I glance over her shoulder to spot black hair and long, tan legs, and the universe—this universe—reminds me there’s only one woman for me on this plane.

Gen is strutting down the boardwalk in some girly white dress that gets my blood hot. Because she’s trying. She’s trying to impress this dweeb, to look the part by dulling herself to his milquetoast sensibilities. She’s grinding down the sharp edges that make her everything that’s fierce and dangerous and extraordinary, and I won’t stand for it.

“Sure,” I tell Liz, while my attention remains elsewhere. “Let’s do that. Tell Riley bye for me? Just saw a friend I need to say hi to.”

I jog through the crowd, dodging sweaty tourists and sunburnt children to catch up to Gen. Then, I slow down and manage to get in front of her and the guy, because now she’ll have to notice me and say something, alleviating all guilt of crashing her date for a second time.

“Evan?”

I feign surprise as I turn around. “Oh, hey.”

I can sense her rolling her eyes behind those reflective sunglasses. She smirks and shakes her head. “Oh, hey? You get you’re terrible at this, right?”

Sometimes I forget I’ve never been able to put one over on her a day in my life. “Yeah, you know, I’d love to hang around, but I’m kinda busy, so …”

“Uh-huh.”

With my shirt slung over my shoulder, I nod at Deputy Dolittle in his standard-issue Tommy Bahama. “Nice shirt.”

“Stop,” Gen warns, though she’s still smiling. Because she knows, dude walks around dressed like that, he’s asking for it. “What do you want?”

“Hey, there’s no hard feelings, right?” I offer my hand to the deputy. “Truce?”

“Sure.” He grips my hand with what must be all the force he can muster. I almost feel bad for the guy. Almost. “Bygones.”

“Evan …” She cocks her head at me, impatient.

“You look nice.”

“Don’t do that.”

I fight a grin. “I can’t give you a compliment?”

“You know what I mean.” She likes it. The amusement in her voice betrays her words.

“You do look nice.” I’ll always prefer the real Gen, the girl in a pair of cutoff shorts and a loose tank top over a bikini. Or nothing at all. But that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate this little white slinky number that, in the right light, I can all but see through against her tan skin. “Big plans today?”

“We saw your race,” the guy says. He could tell me his name a thousand times, and it still wouldn’t stick. I could cover my eyes right now and have no idea what the guy looks like. He should have gone into the CIA or something; a dude this incapable of leaving an impression would do well, I imagine.