Bad Girl Reputation by Elle Kennedy

Evan sits with her, talking and generally maintaining her attention, allowing the mother to take a deep breath and the other girls to go about their projects without fear of reprisal.

A half hour or so later, he rejoins me at our table, now the proud owner of the pink feather boa. Which is oddly fetching on him, for some reason.

“You’re some kind of brat whisperer,” I say as he takes a seat beside me.

“How do you think we’ve been friends for so long?”

For that I smear blue paint across his cheek. “Careful. I can do worse than throw pottery.”

He flashes a crooked smile. “Don’t I know it.”

I’d have never thought him capable of wading into such treacherous territory and emerging unscathed. Triumphant, even. Paternal. It does something to me on a primal brain-chemistry level that I’m not entirely ready to unpack.

When this date started, I wasn’t convinced we’d know how to be around each other if we weren’t drunk, naked, or some variation approaching one or the other. Now, we’ve been at this a few hours, and I can’t say I miss it. Well, I do, but not so much that I can’t find enjoyment in the mundane activities of dating. Turns out there’s something to be said for normal.

Leaving a while later with my new ceramic fish, we stroll the boardwalk, neither of us ready to go home but understanding the deadline fast approaching. Because once the sun sets, bad ideas come. We’re creatures of habit, after all.

“You never told me,” he says, reaching to hold my hand. Yet another surprise in this evening of firsts. Not that he’s never held my hand before, but this feels different. It’s not intentional or leading, but natural. Absent-minded. Like it’s the only place our hands belong. “How’d your interview go with Mac?”

“You tell me. Did she say anything?”

“She thinks you’re great. I’m more concerned how you feel. If you get the job, you two will be spending a lot of time together. That means Coop too. That means me.”

The thought hasn’t escaped me. Mac seems cool. It was only one meeting, but we got along well enough. Cooper, on the other hand, might be trickier. Last time we spoke, he was all but trying to run me out of town. Burrowing deeper into his inner circle is likely not going to improve that rift. But that’s not what Evan’s asking, not really. We both know that.

“If I get the job,” I say with a poke to his chest, “that doesn’t mean anything about you and me one way or another.”

With that cocky grin, he doesn’t break stride. “You keep telling yourself that.”

Our path is interrupted by a group of old folks walking out of the ice-cream parlor. A couple ladies wave at Evan with disturbingly lewd intent. Meanwhile, a tall, gangly man whose sagging ears are racing his drooping jowls to his shoulders zeroes in on Evan.

“You,” he says in a hoarse grumble. “I remember you.”

Evan tugs my hand. “We better go.”

“Lloyd, come on now.” A man in a polo and name tag tries to coax the unruly seniors. “It’s time to go.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” The man’s cup of vanilla soft serve splatters to the ground. “That’s the son of a bitch who killed my bird.”

Um, what?

Evan doesn’t give me even a second to digest that. As the elderly man launches himself at us, Evan yanks my arm and rockets us forward.

“Run!” he orders.

I’m struggling to keep my balance as Evan drags me behind him, hurtling down the boardwalk. I turn toward the wheezing exclamations at our backs to see Lloyd barreling after us. Unusually spry for a man his age, he’s at a dead sprint, dodging food carts and tourists. He’s got the devil in his eyes.

“This way,” Evan says, pulling me to the left.

We cut down an alley between a couple of bars that leads behind the boardwalk carnival that is set up through much of the summer. We dart between a couple of midway games and through a back door, where we’re promptly bombarded by a soundtrack of something I can only describe as trance music overlaid on nursery rhyme melodies with the disconcerting laughter of clowns. It’s pitch-black, save for an occasional strobe light that reveals a maze of hanging painted mannequins.

“I always knew this is what I’d see before I died,” I say in resignation.

Evan nods solemnly. “There are definitely dead kids walled up in here somewhere.”

Catching my breath, I run a hand through my disheveled hair. “So. You killed a man’s bird?”

“No, Cooper’s Satan dog killed the bird. I strenuously object to any guilt by association.”

“Uh-huh. And this happened how?”

Before he can answer, a shard of daylight enters the room from somewhere unseen. We both crouch, hugging the wall to avoid getting caught.

“Who’s in here?” a voice shouts from the other side of the room. “We ain’t open yet.”

Evan puts his finger over his lips.

“You get out here, you hear me?” The angry man’s demand is followed by a loud, startling crack of noise. Like a bat hitting a wall or something. “If I gotta hunt you down, I’m gonna turn your insides out.”

“Oh my God,” I whisper. “We have to get the hell out of here.”

We feel around for the door we came through, but it’s still dark and disorienting, the music and haunting laughter, and the strobe lights make the whole room appear to stutter. Practically crawling, we creep off in another direction until we find a small alcove. We stop there, listening to our pursuer’s heavy footfalls.