“It’s that Melissa chick, right?” Toph says, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. “The one who talked shit about your brother in that interview.”
I nod.
“Damn, dude. She’s hot. I’d do her,” he adds.
My friends have no class and zero standards. A lot like me.
“She was a terrible lay. I’d get more enjoyment out of fucking a corpse.”
Toph and Mitch whoop and holler. Lance wears his usual mask of disappointment when he looks at me. “Yet you risked your relationship with your brother for a shitty lay.” He shakes his head. “I don’t get you sometimes, man.”
“I know the feeling, dude,” I mutter under my breath.
CHAPTER TWO
Presley
“You want to get a drink?” Jimi asks when the class ends, his face holding on to hope where there is none.
“I can’t. I’ve got a shift at the bar.” And even if I didn’t, I still wouldn’t go for a drink with him. I like the guy. He’s a decent dude and a fucking kickass artist, but I’m not attracted to him. I won’t lead him on because that’s not how I roll. He’s one of the few people I like in art class, and I don’t want to lose his friendship. It’s not like I’m drowning in friends, because I have trust issues bigger than Kanye West’s ego.
“Maybe next time.” His smile is brittle, and I know I need to set him straight. I’ve been avoiding it because I suspect he’s only coming to class for me, and I don’t want to hurt his feelings.
Shoving my portfolio under my arm, I turn to face him, deliberately softening my features. “Jimi. If you want to go for a drink as friends, I am happy to do that any night I have no plans. But if you’re hoping for something more, it’s not going to happen.” I don’t add a “sorry” because I won’t apologize for how I feel ordon’tfeel.
His face drops, and his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “Message received. Loud and clear.” He turns to walk away, and I grab his elbow, holding him back.
“I value your friendship so much, and I think you’re a really great guy, Jimi. Please don’t take this personally.”
“Hard not to,” he mumbles, jerking his arm out of my reach and shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Is there someone else? Is that it?”
An image flashes in my mind. Blue eyes as vibrant and deep as the ocean. Messy dark hair I can imagine grabbing hold of. Muscles stretched over muscles. And an ego the size of a planet with plenty of attitude to match. I hate how often my mind has conjured up images of Kent Kennedy since our run-in last Saturday night at the bar.
“There isn’t anyone.” I don’t elaborate because I won’t insult the guy by throwing out the usual platitudes, and I can’t admit the truth without hurting him. No one wants to hear the person they’re crushing on doesn’t reciprocate.
He gulps again. “Okay. I appreciate you setting me straight.”
“Have a good night.” I smile, hoping I see him again, as I head off in the other direction toward Ramshackle, the bar where I work.
I wear my backpack on my back and hug my portfolio to my chest as I walk the streets in this less than desirable part of Boston. Rent is much cheaper in Mattapan thanks to crime rates that are thirty-one percent higher than the national average. It’s not the ideal place to live and work, but it’s home, and the cheaper rent means I can put money into my savings account each month, bringing me closer to my goal.
It begs the question how the hell does a wealthy, notorious celebrity like Kent Kennedy even stumble across a place like Ramshackle anyway?My brain—just like it has on numerous other occasions—takes a detour to asshole town, and I let my thoughts wander.
Kent Kennedy personifies trouble. No matter how tempting his exterior is, there is no denying Kent is a bad boy who breaks hearts all over the place. I need another broken heart like a hole in the head, so I’m glad I shut him down last weekend. I’ve zero desire to be another nameless, faceless notch on his considerable belt.
Rumors about the guy have been rampant for years, and I’ve heard personal tales of his escapades in recent times. Kent has been coming to the bar on weekends for a couple months although Saturday was the first time he was there when I was on shift. Ford—the other bar manager—and I alternate nighttime shifts over the weekends, so we have some semblance of a normal life. One week, I do days, while he handles the nights, and then we swap. During the week, we rotate as necessary, depending on what else we’ve got going on. It’s a system that’s worked well since the owner, Rafe, promoted me from waitress to bar manager eighteen months ago.
I might have only just met Kent in the flesh, but Ford has regaled me with tales of him for months. He always arrives alone, proceeds to get trashed, and then he either takes a girl out back or he leaves with her. Always a different girl, according to Ford, and he never even glances at them again.
Until I met him, I wondered how he gets away with treating women so terribly. Now, I understand it better. It’s not just because he’s fucking gorgeous or that he exudes this masculine sexual confidence that conveys he knows how to show a woman a good time.
It’s justhim.
He has this aura around him. It’s like an electrical charge that’s out of control. I can visualize him surrounded by it—sparkling and sizzling, prickling and crackling, it’s orangey-red light both dark and bright, hypnotic in quality, drawing you toward him like an invisible rope is around your waist and he’s slowly pulling you in. You know that even one touch might kill you, but you’re powerless to resist the forward trajectory. You don’t fight it, because you realize it’s worth the risk,he’sworth the risk, because that one touch will change you forever.
There’s no denying how dangerous Kent is. To himself and others. Tome. Because he radiates this dark, destructive energy that is as alarming as it is appealing. That fact is the single biggest issue I face because I’ve always been drawn to dark, reckless, broken boys who hide behind a mask. I don’t know if I have a hero complex or I’m just too damaged myself, but I gravitate toward these guys like it’s a compulsion. Like I’ve no choice.
It never ends well because you can’t fix someone who doesn’t want to fix themselves, and you should never try. It only ends in failure and self-loathing on all parts.
