Bad Girl Reputation by Elle Kennedy

“Oh, come on.” She tries shoving it at me. “I haven’t said anything all night, but your sobriety is starting to become a buzzkill.”

I shrug. “I think you’ve got enough buzz for both of us.”

Big saucer eyes plead with me. “Just one little hit. Then I’ll shut up.”

“But then who’s going to stop you from going home with some middle-aged car salesman?”

“You make a good point, West.” Backing off, she snaps the compact shut and drops it in her purse.

To each their own. Trina gets no judgment from me. We all have our coping mechanisms, and I’m in no position to fault anyone for theirs. Just not my bag.

“So this straight-edge thing,” she muses as we exit the restroom and scout a good table for the show. “You serious about that?”

We spot a two-seater high-top beside the stage and make a beeline to snag it.

I nod slowly. “Yeah, I think so.”

I’m rather proud of myself, in fact. A whole night together, and I’ve yet to hop on a table or steal a pedicab. I’m still having a good time, not once missing a drink. That’s progress.

Lifting a flask from her purse, Trina nods. “Cheers to that, then. May your liver bring you many years of health and prosperity.”

Hell, if Trina can accept the new me, maybe there’s hope yet. Maybe I really can make this change stick, and I’m not simply fooling myself.

Our party swells during the concert. A group of friends we went to high school with wander by our table and pull up a few stools. Some, like Colby and Debra, I hadn’t seen in years. When the second act of the night turns out to be a ’90s one-hit-wonder cover band, the entire place goes bonkers, everyone singing slurred, slightly wrong lyrics at the tops of our lungs. We’re all breathless and hoarse by the time Trina and the rest of the group go outside to the smoking patio, while I babysit her purse at the bar and order a very big glass of ice water. I pull out my phone to find a missed text from Evan earlier in the night.

Evan: You haven’t asked for bail yet. Good sign?

I have to admit, he was right. Meeting up with Trina turned out to be an affirming experience. Hardly the catastrophe I’d worked it up to be in my head. But I’m definitely not going to tell him that. Evan doesn’t need any ego stroking from me.

Me: We’re on 95 with a one-eyed bounty hunter and his pet wolverine hot on our trail. Send snacks.

When I feel a hand tap me on the shoulder, I’m impressed Evan managed to track us down. But then I turn around and am met with the dark, pleated polyester of a sheriff’s deputy uniform and the potbelly of Rusty Randall.

“Genevieve West.” He grabs my wrist and roughly jerks it behind my back. “You’re under arrest.”

My jaw drops. “Seriously? For what?”

I’m pulled off my stool, struggling to find my feet. People around us retreat, some taking out their phones to record. Camera flashes blind me while my brain stutters to understand what’s happening.

“Possession of a controlled substance.” He wrenches my other arm behind my back, where metal cuffs bite into my skin. Deputy Randall grabs Trina’s purse, picking through it, until he pulls out the compact and opens it to reveal the baggie of cocaine.

“That’s not even my purse!” I shout, my head spinning with the instinct to run or fight or … something. I look desperately at the door to the smoking patio.

Wrapping his hand around my biceps, he leans close to my ear and whispers, “Should’ve left town while you had the chance.”





CHAPTER 28

GENEVIEVE

Outside, I’m pushed up against the side of Randall’s car, my face to the window, while he runs his fat, sweaty hands down my arms, ribs, and legs.

“You’re just loving this,” I say through gritted teeth. “Pervert.”

He takes my phone, keys, and ID from my pockets and throws them on the roof of the car with Trina’s purse. “Know what your problem is, Genevieve? You don’t appreciate discretion.”

“The hell does that mean?”

“It was only a matter of time before you screwed up again.” His fingers comb through my hair as though I’ve got some needles and maybe a bowie knife stashed in there. “I told you, I’ve got eyes everywhere.”

“Then your snitches are even dumber than you are.”

He chuckles cruelly. “Yet you’re the one in cuffs.”

As he finishes patting me down, I’m trying to figure out how someone would have known about the coke. The person Trina bought it from in town? A lucky guess? Either option feels equally unlikely. But then, who knows the shady deals Randall’s cut? The man is as corrupt as they come.

It occurs to me, then, that at any point in the night when Trina and I were separated—while one of us went to the bar for another round or to the restroom alone—she might have done a bump in front of any number of witnesses. It only takes one of them to have seen us together.

He grabs a plastic bag from the trunk of his cruiser and throws my stuff and Trina’s purse inside. Then, with a sick grin, he opens the rear door and pushes my head down to shove me into the backseat.

“Sorry about the smell,” he chirps. “Haven’t had a chance to clean it out after the last guy threw up.”