Bad Boy Next Door: A Small Town College Bad Boy Romance Read online

  “Now, don’t be like that. He might have had a different upbringing than you, but Bree adores him. That has to mean something,” Mom says.

  “Either that she has no idea what type of person he actually is, or has really terrible judgement for character,” I tell her.

  “I’m surprised at you, Wren,” my father says. “Usually you aren’t this close-minded about people.”

  “I’m not being close-minded. I’m basing this evaluation purely on my interactions with him. Here and at school. He’s rude and condescending. He acts like he thinks he’s the best thing to ever walk the planet.”

  “Maybe you just need more opportunity to get to know him. You’ve been around the same people your entire life. It’s bound to be strange having somebody completely new around. But you can be a good influence on him. Starting tonight at dinner.”

  This is Mom’s serious voice. It sounds sweet and encouraging, but behind the words is the unspoken fine print that I have no choice in the matter. She invited Bree and Talon over for dinner, and I have no option but to spend my Friday night choking down portobello mushroom ravioli with him.

  “Who is the other place setting for?” I ask.

  “Anthony. I saw him at the grocery store earlier and invited him to come.”

  That comes as a relief. When I saw the extra plate, I worried for a second Mom had gone behind my back and invited Isaiah. It’s going to be awkward enough having dinner with Talon across the table from me. I don’t need to add my boyfriend into the mix.

  It bothers me that the thought even goes through my mind. I should want Isaiah here, no matter who else is. But I hate the strange tension between the two and the way Talon looks at him like an inconvenient scuff on his shoe.

  We’ve just finished setting the table when the doorbell rings. Mom gestures toward it with her head, and I go to open it. My breath catches in my throat when I see Talon on the other side of the door. He’s changed from his usual black jeans and t-shirt to a sleek black suit. His eyes an even more intense shade of blue as he stares through the glass at me.

  “Hi, Wren,” Bree says cheerfully.

  It isn’t until that moment that I even notice she’s standing there. She’s wearing a puffy green parka in deference to the temperatures that have refused to rise much above freezing, but the flared skirt of a green floral dress sticks out from beneath. When they step inside and I take her coat, it reveals a fitted bodice and sweetheart neckline. Holding a pie plate in front of her, she looks for all the world like a housewife from the 1950’s.

  “You look nice,” I tell her. “I feel underdressed.”

  I look down at the simple blue sweater dress I’ve paired with gold flats.

  “Thank you,” Bree smiles. “I think you look very pretty. That color is wonderful for your eyes and hair. Where should I bring the dessert? It’s an apple-pear pie.”

  “That sounds delicious. Just bring it into the kitchen.”

  She nods and makes her way to the back of the house and into the kitchen. When she disappears through the swinging door, Talon steps up closer to me and leans, so his mouth is almost against my ear.

  “I think you look overdressed,” he whispers.

  My body goes still, my mouth dry. The door opening behind me startles me so much my heart pounds in my chest, and I have to press my hand to it to hold it steady. My uncle steps into the house and immediately looks concerned.

  “I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  I shake my head. “It’s fine. I just wasn’t paying attention.”

  “Something sure smells good. Should we go in and see when everything will be ready?”

  I nod and let Uncle Anthony step in front of me. I look over my shoulder at Talon. His face hasn’t changed, his expression still quiet and unreadable. Could he possibly have meant what I think he did?

  The second we walk into the kitchen, Anthony stops in his tracks. His movement stops, so suddenly I run into the back of him and stumble back slightly. Talon’s hand rests to my back to stand me back up, but I move away from the heat of his touch as fast as I can. By the time I move to stand beside my uncle, I see what stopped him. Bree stands at the counter, carefully moving the pie from the dish onto a serving platter. She pulls her fingers away from the crust and nibbles away a few crumbs that cling to her fingertips. As if she can feel the stares, she looks up and blushes.

  “Oh. Hi,” she says.

  “Bree, I don’t think you’ve met my brother,” Mom says. “This is Anthony. I’ve invited him to have dinner with us tonight.”

  Bree smiles. “I think I’ve seen you come by a few times.”

  She extends her hand to Anthony, and he takes it in a grip that looks more like he’s going to kiss it than shake it.

  “It’s very nice to meet you,” he says. “May I escort you to the table?”

  Anthony has never escorted anyone or anything in his life. I watch after him in surprised amusement, but when I catch Talon staring at me again, my smile slips.

  My mother mercifully lets us get all the way through the salad and has our plates overflowing with mushroom ravioli and creamy sauce before she turns the conversation on Talon.

  “I hear you are involved in the play,” she says with that encouraging type of smile only mothers can manage, their eyebrows rising halfway up their foreheads and their eyes widening to an almost frightening point.

  That’s one of those things I wonder if they teach new mothers during pregnancy. Maybe there’s a whole seminar where women getting ready to have children learn the big facial expressions and classic mom phrases they’ll need to use to rear their young. If there is, my mother aced it and could probably teach. I may be an only child, but that just means all the focus that could be spread out across a bunch of children falls squarely on me.

  “Yes,” Talon nods. “I’m working with the crew.”

  “He’s working on the sets,” Bree specifies.

  “Building them?” my father asks.

  “Painting, mostly,” Talon tells him. “We haven’t gotten to the construction portion yet. But I certainly hope we do soon, or A Midsummer Night’s Dream is going to take on a whole new meaning with the stage looking completely draped in painted blankets.”

  It’s an insult against Matilda and the rest of the crew, but the adults don’t catch it. They just hear the charm of his rolling Georgia accent and laugh. I toss him a scathing look across the table.

  “And you, Wren? How is the dancing coming?” Bree asks.

  “It’s coming along well. Samantha has been doing a great job with the choreography this year,” I tell her.

  “I sure have been seeing a lot of her this week,” Bree says, her eyes sliding over to Talon. “Seems like she’s been at the house more than she has been at work.”

  “Twice,” Talon specifies. “It’s not like she moved in.”

  There’s a sharp edge to his voice, but his aunt isn’t deterred. My mother looks over at me, questioningly.

  “Wren, you didn’t mention that Samantha is dating Talon,” she says.

  “I didn’t realize they are,” I say.

  “We aren’t dating,” Talon says firmly.

  Bree smiles around her fork full of ravioli.

  “No,” she says. “Talon doesn’t date. He’s been very clear on that.”

  She gives my mom the cringe-worthy wink wink, nudge nudge smile adults like to give each other as if no one around them can see it. Apparently, you don’t even have to be a mother to learn that particular skill. Mom smiles back at her.

  “Of course, not,” she says.

  That’s about all I can take. I stand up and step away from the table.

  “If you’ll excuse me for just a second,” I say and head toward the kitchen.

  There’s nothing in here I need, but it’s the closest room that will let me put a door between me and the rest of the gathering, particularly the vicious blue eyes I can still feel on my skin. Opening the freezer, I shove my head ins
ide and take a breath of the icy mist.

  10

  Talon

  I find Wren in the kitchen with her head stuffed in the freezer.

  “Getting some fresh air?” I ask.

  She reaches into the freezer and steps back, slamming the door.

  “I was just getting some ice,” she tells me.

  I look down at the handful of cubes in her palm and narrow my eyes at her.

  “For the glass of water in there that already has ice in it?” I raise an eyebrow.

  She lets out an exasperated sound and walks over to the sink, dumping the cubes down, so they bounce loudly on the steel. I hold a hand towel from the bar on the front of the oven door and bring it over to her. She takes it and dabs at the cold puddles of water on her skin. Even that very brief time in contact with the ice left her hand red, and I felt a compulsion to close mine over it.

  “Is something bothering you?” I ask.

  “Why would you care?” she asks.

  “Call it morbid curiosity. It seems like them talking about Samantha got you pretty well worked up in there.”

  “I don’t care what you do or who you do it with. It’s just strange for me to deal with my closest friend dating my next-door neighbor.”

  I look at her pointedly. “I am not dating Samantha.”

  “Then whatever it is you’re doing with her. It’s not exactly comfortable for me to think about her being with anybody, but especially somebody like you.”

  I tilt my head at her. “Why, especially me?”

  “I didn’t say, especially you. I said, especially somebody like you,” she emphasizes.

  I take another step and close more of the space between us. “I don’t think that’s what you meant.”

  “I don’t care what you think I meant. It doesn’t matter to me what you do.”

  “Then why are you getting so worked up about it?” I ask.

  “You can do whatever you want,” she answers.

  Her voice has lowered, and her breath seems to stay in her chest.

  “Really?” I murmur.

  “Why should it matter to me? I have a boyfriend.”

  She’s trying to move away from me, but with each step she takes back, I take one forward. It pushes her up against the counter, her waist pressing up against the side, so she reaches back and grasps onto it with her hands. I’m just inches from her now. I ease a little closer.

  “And if you didn’t?” I ask.

  She swallows. “What do you mean?”

  “If you didn’t have a boyfriend, would it matter to you?” I ask.

  I brush her hair back over her shoulder, letting the backs of my fingers linger on her skin for just a second. It’s long enough to feel her tremble.

  “That’s not a question I can answer,” she stammers. She’s trying to sound strong and unaffected, but the heat coming from her body doesn’t lie.

  “Why not?” I ask.

  “Because I can’t imagine my life without having Isaiah. We’ve been together for five years and are committed to each other. Something I can’t imagine you understand. There’s no way I can put myself in a position of pretending I’m not with him.”

  “I don’t believe you,” I say.

  My chest comes closer to hers as I lean down toward her neck, letting my breath trail along her skin. I’m close enough for my belt buckle to brush across her dress. Her breath comes out of her lungs in a shuddering stream as she presses back harder against the counter.

  “I don’t care if you don’t believe me. That’s how I feel,” she says.

  There isn’t an ounce of confidence in the words.

  “He barely even gets close to you, Little Bird. He holds your hand like you’re his sister.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “His sister?” I ask.

  I brush the hair back away from the other side of her neck. She doesn’t try to move away from the touch, but her eyes won’t meet mine.

  “Little Bird,” she says.

  I give a slight smile. “But that’s what you are, isn’t it? So delicate and fragile. Caged up. What if you opened that cage just a little? What would happen?”

  “I’m not caged,” she mutters, barely audible.

  “I think you are. You stay behind those bars because you think they keep you safe. But all the time, you’re looking out. Watching the world go by and wondering what it would be like to be out there, to be a part of it. You’re wondering right now. You want to know what it would be like for me to touch you. You’re shaking just thinking about it.”

  My body is up against hers now, and the drum of her heartbeat pounds against me. She finally lifts her eyes to mine.

  “I thought I was a child,” she says.

  I chuckle. “Maybe then. Not now.”

  My mouth brushes over one cheek and hovers over hers. She lifts her chin just slightly, her lips parting and her eyes starting to flutter down. My hand slides onto her hip, and my mouth comes close to hers.

  “You aren’t eating that pie in there, are you?” Bree calls into the kitchen.

  I smile and shake my head slightly. “Not yet.”

  My lips almost graze hers, but the spell is broken. Wren draws in a sharp breath, pulling back away from me.

  “I can’t do this,” she says.

  She pushes away from the counter and grabs a container of ice cream out of the freezer before swiping the platter with the pie off the counter. Her eyes flash back to me for an instant, and then she pushes through the kitchen door and heads back into the dining room. Taking a second to let my head clear, I find the drawer with the silverware and take out forks and a serving spoon.

  For the rest of the night, Wren stays quiet, not even looking my way. It’s late by the time Bree and I get ready to go back next door. She says goodbye to my aunt, then excuses herself and rushes up the stairs. I know she’s headed to her bedroom.

  When I get back to the house, I go straight for my room in the finished attic. Standing at the window, I look down into Wren’s bedroom. She’s standing in front of the mirror again, but this time her fingers trace down along the side of her neck and then across her lips as if she’s feeling for my breath in her skin. Her hands press to the top of the dresser, and her head hangs forward for a second before she pushes away and crosses the room, disappearing behind the wall. An instant later, her hand is briefly visible as she tosses her dress toward the hamper beside her dresser. Next comes her bra and then a flimsy scrap of panties.

  My stomach tightens, and my hands clench the windowsill. When she steps back into view of the window, she’s dressed in a pale purple sweatsuit. My mouth waters thinking about what she has or doesn’t have, on underneath. She opens the door to her room and sticks her head out. I can’t hear anything, but it looks like she’s calling out to someone. A few seconds later, she closes the door and turns the light out.

  But she isn’t going to sleep. It doesn’t take long for the window to open and her to slip out to sit on the sill. The roof of the wraparound porch provides the perfect landing spot for her, and she looks down at it. The hesitation in her movements tells me this isn’t something she does often. Finally, she lets go and drops the couple of feet down onto the roof. She crouches there, not moving, waiting to see if anyone in the house heard the sound. It would have to be one of her parents. Her uncle walked Aunt Bree back home, and as far as I know, is still sitting in the front parlor with her talking.

  I watch until Wren starts crawling her way down the support at the corner of the porch, then step away from the window. I have a feeling whatever she’s up to has something to do with our conversation in the kitchen.

  11

  Wren

  I have never snuck out of the house in my life, and the minute I hit the ground, I’m already questioning my decision. But I can’t let myself stop. Frustration clenches inside me, and my mind is spinning so much I know there’s no way I’m going to be able to quiet it down enough to sleep tonight if I don’t do this.
There’s a feeling deep in my gut that’s churning and heavy like guilt, but I don’t think I should feel guilty. I didn’t do anything wrong. Whatever that was that happened in the kitchen, it was all Talon.

  But that’s why I have to do this. It might have been him demanding my attention and trying to twist my thoughts into something that would amuse him, but my reaction wasn’t what I expected. It shouldn’t feel like that to have Talon so close to me. I just met him, and our interactions the few times we’ve been anywhere near each other haven’t exactly been friendly.

  So, why did the heat of his body feel so different from the way Isaiah sits close beside me on the front porch? Why have I never trembled like that when he brushes my face with his fingers or kisses my cheek? I’ve never even felt like that when his mouth is on mine. It was dizzying and disorienting, and I have to tell myself it has nothing to do with the dark, haunted-looking boy now living next door. It was new, a strange experience so mixed up with the distaste I have for Talon my mind and body couldn’t process it.

  There’s so much more with Isaiah. The years we’ve spent together, everything we’ve gone through together. It’s ingrained in me and means more than anything else could. I just need to remind myself of it.

  He only lives a few streets down from me, but I’m longing for the winter coat I left hanging in the downstairs hall closet with my gloves shoved in the pockets. I run faster through the still darkness, trying to heat up my blood and take away the ache of the cold in my bones. This is why I don’t sneak out. I didn’t think it all the way through, and now I’m freezing in the absolute darkness. I haven’t even thought of a way to get back into the house. My only hope is being able to scramble back up the way I went down. As of yet, that’s an untested theory that could end very badly.

  It’s not a surprise that Isaiah’s house is dark when I get to the yard. Only a small bulb burns right outside the front door, illuminating it. This isn’t the type of neighborhood that has motion detector lights on the sides of houses or over garage doors. Nothing happens around here that would necessitate something like that. The light over the front door isn’t even for security. It’s to show the front door in case someone needs to come in.