Bad Intentions (Bad Love) Read online

  Copyright © 2018 by Charleigh Rose

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales or events is entirely coincidental.

  BAD INTENTIONS

  Cover Designer: Letitia Hasser, RBA Designs

  Cover Model: Cauê Amaral

  Cover Photographer: Juan Espana

  Interior Formatting: Stacey Blake, Champagne Formats

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Playlist

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Preview of Yard Sale

  Preview of Bad Habit

  Preview of Misbehaved

  About the Author

  * * *

  “Monsters”—Matchbook Romance

  “Sweet Dreams”—Marilyn Manson

  “Heaven”—Julia Michaels

  “Wrong Way”—Sublime

  “Him and I”—Halsey & G-Eazy

  “In My Blood”—Shawn Mendes

  “Sally’s Song”—Fiona Apple

  “Sparks Fly”—Hey Violet

  “Bad at Love”—Halsey

  “Bittersweet Symphony”—The Verve Pipe

  * * *

  SAME SHIT.

  Different day.

  Different climate.

  New start.

  Or, at least that’s what I’m telling myself as I dig through my still-packed bags, searching for a clean sock—it doesn’t even have to be a matching one, just a clean one—in the tiny shoebox of a bedroom at Henry’s cabin. Henry is my father. The father whom I haven’t seen since I was eleven years old. The father who bailed on our family long before that. The father whom Jesse barely even remembers, seeing as how he was only seven when our dad left for good. The father who reluctantly agreed to let Jess and me stay with him when shit hit the fan back home. All out of options, I unfolded the scrap of paper I’d managed to keep hidden from Mom all these years—the one with my dad’s address and phone number—and made the call. We went from the shittiest part of Oakland to River’s fucking Edge, Nowhere, USA. Population: us, and like three other people.

  I grab one of Jesse’s socks and bring the dingy, off-white thing to my nose before deciding that it smells clean enough. I throw on my old pair of black army boots that hit just below my calf over my black leggings, button up my oversized flannel, and pull on my gray beanie over my messy hair. I make a mental note to buy us some actual winter clothes with my first paycheck. You’d think it would still be warm in October—granted, it’s practically November—but you’d be wrong. When people think of California, they think of palm trees and beaches. But here? Way up here? There’s nothing but mountains and pine trees. Which, I’ll admit, is part of its charm, and I’d probably be in heaven if it weren’t for the fact that I’m fucking freezing and Henry already lectured us not to turn the heat above sixty.

  I stand with my hands on my hips, scanning the room for an acceptable hiding place. The mattress sits on the floor next to a busted old nightstand. The closet is overflowing with storage and trash bags full of God knows what. It’s not that I have anything of value to most people in this particular bag—besides the few bucks I have left to my name—but it’s all I own. My entire life has been reduced to three duffle bags. And if I’ve learned anything from growing up with an addict for a parent in Oakland, it’s always hide your shit. I bend over to zip my bag shut before wedging it between the nightstand and the mattress. It will have to do. Henry says River’s Edge isn’t like The Bay Area, and while that’s clear, I’d argue that people are the same at their core, regardless of their zip code. We’re all flawed, selfish humans doing what it takes in order to survive. Myself included.

  I suck in a fortifying breath, taking in my new life, and mentally preparing myself for what today holds. I have to enroll Jesse in school, fight with him to get him there first, then apply to anywhere and everywhere in this one-horse town so I can pick up a job. Henry said he could try to find something for me to do at his auto shop once a week until I find something else, but what the hell do I know about cars? I mean, I could probably hotwire one, but I don’t know anything about maintenance. Plus, I need to work more than one day a week. I walk out of my new room, kicking the door shut behind me.

  “Jess!” I yell once I enter the living room, only to find him still asleep, with one arm and one leg hanging off the edge of the couch. “I told you to get up twenty minutes ago!” I nudge him in the ass with my foot until he groans and rolls over.

  “Why the fuck won’t you let this go?” Jess mumbles, pulling the blanket over his eyes. “I’d be more help getting a fucking job than wasting time with school.”

  “It’s your senior year,” I argue, tugging the blanket off his face. “You can’t quit now.” I won’t let him. Where we come from, it’s a rarity to even make it that far. Myself included. I dropped out my junior year to work full-time and take care of him. I don’t regret my choice, but I want more for him.

  Jess rolls his eyes and snatches an old cigarette out of the ashtray on the coffee table and lights it up before taking a drag. He stands and pulls on his crumpled-up jeans from the night before and throws on his beat-up brown boots, not even bothering to tie the laces.

  “Happy?” He shrugs. “I’m dressed. Let’s fucking go.”

  “It’s cold out,” I scold him, but I smile when he grabs his jacket and backpack off the recliner next to him.

  “You’re bossy. Anyone ever tell you that?” He plucks his trusty skateboard that sits next to the front door, holding it under his arm.

  “You love me anyway.” I knock him with my shoulder, eliciting another eye roll, but he can’t hide his smirk.

  I open the door, pulling my jacket up to my chin. Holy shit, it’s cold. We don’t even take two steps outside before we both stop short.

  “How are we getting there?” Jess asks, arching a brow.

  “Fuck.”

  Jess huffs out a laugh before turning back for the door. “I’m going back to bed.” In The Bay, we could walk almost anywhere we needed to go, and for anywhere else, we had BART. Somehow, I don’t think that’s going to work here.

  “Wait, Jess,” I say, jerking my chin toward the old, shitty 4Runner with silver paint oxidized from the sun. It sits on the far side of the driveway, halfway in the yard. It’s a long shot. It might not have gas or even run. It’s old enough to be hotwired, though. Definitely an early nineties model.

  “Worth a try, right?” I shrug, and Jess reluctantly makes his way over to the run-down SUV to check it out. I follow. He opens the door, and the sound of metal screeching against metal assaults my ears.

  “The keys are in it,” he says, sounding about as baffled as I feel, but my face, alon
g with any hope I had, falls because we both know what that means. There’s no way anyone would leave the keys in a working vehicle. He tries them anyway, and to both our surprise, the engine roars to life. “No fucking way.”

  “Eeek!” I squeal, hopping in as he slides over into the passenger seat.

  “Good old Henry was right. This place is nothing like The Bay.”

  “And look,” I say, pulling my phone out of my jacket pocket. “We still have time to get you to school.”

  “You know, on second thought, this is stealing…” Jess says.

  “And you suddenly have a problem with that on the day you start school?” I ask with an arched brow.

  “I’m just sayin’. We might not want to steal from the person letting us live with him. Don’t bite the hand that feeds you and all that.”

  “Fuck him.” I laugh. “He has years of making up to do. And this piece of shit doesn’t even begin to cover it.” I slide the seat forward as far as it will go and put the car in reverse. “This is the first day of our new life, little brother. Don’t screw it up.”

  “You’re not his legal guardian?”

  “No, ma’am. He’s my brother, though, and I’ve never had a problem enrolling him before.” God knows I’ve done it enough times between moving and Jess getting kicked out.

  “That’s fine, as long as he does live with you and you both live within the district. You’ll need to fill out the Custodial Statement and Agreement forms, then come back with your proof of residence, and, if at all possible, a parent’s signature. He will be able to start as soon as we have that information,” the lady in front of me explains. She looks young. Maybe thirty, with blonde, stringy hair and a pair of black-framed glasses perched on her petite nose.

  “Listen…” I start, leaning my forearm on the desk in front of me, my eyes locking onto the name on her desk plate, “Lacey. I will get you everything you need. But Jesse has already been out of school for two weeks. It’s his senior year. He’s going to have trouble catching up as it is.” It’s a damn lie. Jess is brilliant. The only way he won’t catch up is if he doesn’t try. The sooner I get this over with, the sooner I can look for a job. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that every day he misses is another day he’ll fall behind.”

  Lacey worries her bottom lip, looking over at Jess who gives her his best innocent, underprivileged boy face.

  Lacey sighs, and I know we’ve won. “Fine. He can start. Fill out these forms now, then bring me your proof of address and a parent’s signature tomorrow at the latest.”

  “Thank you!” I say, slapping my palms down on her desk a little too enthusiastically, causing her to jump in her seat. “Really, thank you. We need more people like you working in the public school system.”

  Lacey beams with pride, and Jess snorts out a laugh at my bullshitting before disguising it as a cough.

  “I’ll let your guidance counselor know you’re here so you can set up your schedule.”

  “Thank you,” Jess says in a low voice with a dip of his chin, and I swear she blushes.

  “Don’t even think about it,” I warn once she rounds the corner and is out of sight. “Don’t fuck this up. We’re going straight. No hacking. No backtalk. And absolutely no seducing the faculty. Not even flirting,” I stress. “This is our last shot, okay?” This is a small town with one high school. We can’t just enroll him into another school if he gets caught having an inappropriate relationship with a teacher’s aide or smoking weed in the bathroom. Like I said, Jess is brilliant, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t also kind of an idiot.

  “What?” Jess asks, feigning innocence. “I wasn’t doing anything.”

  “Mhm,” I say, thumping him on the forehead with the palm of my hand. “Behave.”

  I sit down and scribble in the blanks, agreeing that I’m the responsible party for the “child” and that I’ll be taking over parental duties and giving the school permission to contact me for any reason, blah blah blah. It takes all of two minutes. Lacey returns, looking over the forms.

  “Everything here looks good. You can see Mr. Hansen now,” she says to Jess. “Just get me the rest of those forms tomorrow,” she adds, looking in my direction.

  “I will. I promise.”

  Jess picks his backpack up off the floor and shrugs it onto one shoulder.

  “See you at home,” he says.

  “How are you going to get there?”

  “I’ll find a way,” he says, lifting a shoulder. “If not, I have my board.”

  “Good luck,” I say, and then he’s walking out the door, but not before tossing a wink in Lacey’s direction.

  Jesus Christ.

  The bad thing about small towns is that it’s near impossible to find a place that’s hiring. I’ve been to every damn grocery store, café, and little clothing boutique in a twenty-mile radius. No luck. I swing into a parking lot near what I guess would be considered the downtown area, right on the Nevada border. A couple of shitty casinos, some restaurants, a bar, and a tattoo shop. Hmm. A tattoo shop. I’ve had a lot of jobs in my twenty-one years of life, but I’ve never worked in a tattoo shop.

  I walk toward the neon pink sign flashing on the glass door that reads Bad Intentions. I push it open, and the door dings, announcing my arrival. There are two guys tattooing, and one holds up a finger, letting me know someone will be with me shortly before he goes back to his client. The other one doesn’t even look up.

  I decide to check out one of the portfolios on the coffee table in front of two black leather couches. I sit down on one of them, flipping through the pages of tattoos. These are gorgeous. I mean, there are the run-of-the-mill zodiac signs and tramp stamps, but some of these are so intricate and…beautiful. Most of the tattoos I’ve seen are the kind you get in prison or your friend’s basement. This shit is art.

  “Can I help you?” a deep, aloof voice asks. I snap the book closed and stand before looking up at the man who greeted me. He’s wearing a black hoodie pushed up to his elbows, exposing two tattooed forearms, black jeans, and a slouchy beanie that hangs off the back of his head. His eyes are ice blue and intense, cutting right through me, framed by thick eyebrows the color of coal that are pulled together expectantly. Or maybe that’s irritation I detect.

  He lifts a brow, waiting for my response. Shit.

  “Hi,” I say, snapping out of it, extending my hand and pasting my brightest smile to my face. He pulls off his latex gloves, tossing them into the trash can next to the front desk, but doesn’t take my hand. “I’m Logan.”

  “Sorry, no walk-ins today. All booked. We have a couple openings next week if you want to leave your name with Cordell,” he offers, jerking his chin toward the guy tattooing an elaborate rose onto some girl’s calf as she white-knuckles the edge of the table she’s lying on.

  “Actually, I was looking for a job. You guys hiring?”

  “You an artist?”

  “No, I mean, like answering calls or something. Anything, really. I just moved here, and I’m a quick learner.”

  “Definitely a no, then.”

  I should take the rejection and leave, but I’m desperate. And clearly, they could use the help. I’m sure potential clients would feel awkward, wondering what was expected of them if no one was there to greet them and give some direction. Especially if they’ve never gotten a tattoo before. I know I would. “Come on, you guys need someone at your front desk,” I say, all false cheer and good-natured.

  “There’s the door,” he says, pointing two fingers in the direction of said door. The counterfeit smile melts off my face, and the irritation that’s been brewing all day finally comes to a boiling point.

  “Aren’t small-town folk supposed to be welcoming, and I don’t know, nice? You don’t have to be a dick about it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay?” Who the hell responds with okay? His lackadaisical response only frustrates me further.

  “Okay,” he repeats. “I’m a dick. You’re an asshole wh
o can’t take no for an answer. Glad we’ve established that. Nice to meet you. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” He dips his head and walks away. The other guy—Cordell, I think—snorts and shakes his head. There’s no bite or malice in his tone. He basically just told me to fuck off with a polite smile on his face.

  I blow out an exasperated breath before turning for the door, and right as I’m about to walk out, he speaks again.

  “Oh, and welcome to River’s Edge.”

  I flip him the middle finger and push the door open. I’m supposed to go pick up the spare key Henry said he’d make for me, but I’m starting to think I might have to take him up on the offer to put me to work. I was really hoping I wouldn’t have to resort to working with him, but it’s not looking good. I don’t want to feel like I owe him anything. I’m already staying at his house.

  Just as the door is closing behind me, a girl stumbles out of the place next door, almost face-planting onto the sidewalk. I throw out my arms in a useless attempt to catch her before she goes down.

  “Holy shit,” she breathes, catching her balance and smoothing out the mat in front of the door with her foot. I look up to see the sign that reads B.B.B. with Blackbear Bar written underneath—a silhouette of a bear behind it.

  “Drunk already?” I laugh. “It’s like two in the afternoon. My kinda girl.”

  “I wish,” she mumbles, leaning against the wall before opening a pack of cigarettes and bringing one to her lips. “I always trip over that damn mat. I keep telling my boss to get one that doesn’t bunch up. Want one?” she asks, holding out the gold and white pack as she takes a drag.

  “Nah, I don’t smoke.” Pretty much everyone in my life does, but I’ve never seen the appeal. I can’t tell you how many times I was made fun of as a kid for smelling like cigarettes at school. I hated my mom for smoking inside—though that was nothing in comparison to her crack habit. But, in my selfish twelve-year-old mind, the drugs didn’t affect me, at least not my social life. The smell of smoke did. My hair, clothes, everything, always reeked. You spend money to kill yourself and smell like an ashtray in the meantime. No thanks.