Bad Girl Reputation by Elle Kennedy

“I’m sober tonight,” Evan says without a hint of irony. “I plan to stay that way.”

Ordinarily, I might laugh in his face. A sober Hartley at a party is like a fish out of water. But taking a good look at him, I note that his eyes are clear and focused. Not a whiff of booze on his breath. Hell, he’s serious. If I didn’t know him, I might start believing he was sincere about being reformed.

I guess there’s only one way to find out.

“Okay,” I say, accepting the drink. “But if I wake up on a stolen Jet Ski in the middle of the ocean, surrounded by Coast Guard cutters, you and me are gonna fight.”

“Cheers to that.” He hoists a bottle of water to clink with my plastic cup.

Turns out Evan can mix a decent virgin cocktail.

“Not for nothing,” he says hesitantly. “You know this ‘good girl’ mission doesn’t have to entirely change who you are, right?”

“What does that mean?” I’m somewhat taken aback. Not because Evan might be less than enthusiastic about this new lifestyle, but that there’s some genuine distress in his voice I haven’t heard before.

“I just think it’d be a shame if you let growing up dull your edges. I’m all for whatever makes you happy,” he qualifies. “You don’t need to be drinking for me to enjoy your company—you’ve always been fun no matter what. Lately, though, it seems like the real Gen is slipping away. Becoming a muted version of the incredible, terrifying, vibrant woman you used to be.”

“You say that like I’m dying.” I won’t lie—it hurts a little to hear that from him. The disappointment, the chord of loss. It’s like attending my own funeral.

His eyes drop, fingers running over the ridges of the bottle in his hand. “In a sense, maybe it feels that way. All I’m saying …” He lifts his attention again to me. A brief, wistful smile is quickly chased off by his typical irreverent grin. “Don’t go getting soft on me, Fred.”

I’ve always loved myself best in Evan’s eyes. The adoring way he looks at me: part impressed, a little intimidated. But more so, the person he thinks I am. The way he tells it, I’m invincible. Thunder and lightning. Not much scares me, and even less when he’s around.

I wash down the thought with another generous sip of my faux cocktail. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

There’s got to be a way to do both. Straighten out my more destructive tendencies without lobotomizing myself. Somewhere in the world are respectable, functioning adults who’ve staved off blandness.

Because Evan isn’t alone in his concern. I’ve felt the slow slipping of self too, the image in the mirror becoming less familiar with time. Every morning waking as one person. The day spent tearing myself out and up, clawing through layers like breaking free of my own skin. And I hit my pillow each night as someone else entirely. At some point, I better settle on a persona before I’m not me at all, but another discarded husk on the floor.

“Tell you what,” Evan says. “No more serious talk. I’ve missed the hell out of us. And you deserve to celebrate. So trust me to stop you from falling into old habits, but …” His voice roughens. “Not all habits are bad. For tonight, let’s just say to hell with it and have a good time.”

In other words, let’s pretend it’s the old days and we’re still together. No more rules and boundaries. Feel the moment and let our instincts move us.

It’s an attractive offer. And maybe he’s caught me in just the right mood to accept.

“Temping …” I trail off.

“Oh, come on.” He throws his arm over my shoulder and kisses the side of my head. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Famous last words.”

Evan shrugs, hauling me toward the music and dancing couples. “There are worse ways to go.”

For a few hours, we are ether. Evan doesn’t dance so much as stand there peeling my clothes off with his eyes. I lose my half-empty drink somewhere in the beat. I’m high on sensation. Fabric sticking to my body in the humidity. Sweat down my neck. His hands finding bare skin across my stomach, my shoulders. Lips pressed against my hair, my cheek, under my jaw until they meet my own. Kissing like everyone is watching. Grabbing fistfuls of his shirt and hiking my knee up his leg until I remember where we are.

It’s the most fun I’ve had with my clothes on in a long time, and all we do is everything we’ve ever done. Laughing with our friends and kicking up sand. Nothing on fire but the burning logs in the pit, and the only flashing lights coming from the flames and cell phone cameras. Lumberjack Jimmy has trotted out his ax-throwing target, and everyone’s placing bets as we take turns hurling sharp edges at the upright wooden board. At first glance the concept of mixing medieval weaponry and alcohol might appear like a recipe for a noisy ride to the emergency room, but so far, egos have taken the worst damage tonight.

“You should have a go,” I urge Evan. Seeing as he’s dead sober, no one’s got him beat for aim.

With his arm around my waist as we watch another matchup, Evan strokes his thumb under the hem of my shirt. The seductive touch gets me dizzier than anything from a bottle. “What’ll you give me if I win? And feel free to be as lewd as you’d like.”