Page 11 of Rent a Bad Boy

I signal for the check without saying a word. The waitress brings it, and I hand over my card before Isla can reach for her wallet. She gives me one of those confused looks where she’s waiting for the catch, and I’m starting to wonder if anyone has ever been decent to this girl without wanting something from her. I mean, just once.

We’re both quiet on the way back to campus. She’s staring out the window, chewing her thumbnail now instead of her lip. All I can think about is how much she must need those chickens to make her life feel manageable. What it would mean to lose them. It would probably feel like giving up part of herself.

Actually, that’s not all I can think about. In the back of my head, there’s a playbook I have to study. Tomorrow’s practice. Another upcoming fight I need to win because the money from it pays my mortgage. My coach, who’s already watching me like he’s waiting for me to screw up again.

My life has no room in it for chickens. There’s no room for a five-foot girl who names her pets after Taylor Swift songs either.

But that little smartass comment she made in the optometrist’s office keeps replaying, ringing in my ears. You don’t actually have to hurt anybody. You just have to make them believe you’ll do it.

I’ve been doing it for a long time now. I might as well have a reason for it.

She doesn’t even have to tell me which car is hers once we reach the lot, not only because the lot has thinned out the way it usually does in the afternoon. I spot her beat-up Honda and slow down before pulling in next to it. “How did you know this one is mine?” she asks.

“It might have something to do with the ‘I brake for poultry’ bumper sticker,” I deadpan.

“Oh. Right.”

She unbuckles her seatbelt but doesn’t reach for the door handle right away. “Will you think about it, at least?”

Staring through the windshield, I reply, “I’ll think about it.”

“That’s not a yes.”

“It’s not a no either. I’ll be in touch.”

She exhales a huffy little breath before opening the door. “Thank you for the glasses and the food. And for not being a serial killer,” she adds, “because I definitely got into a stranger’s car twice in twenty-four hours, which is not something I plan on making a habit of.”

“Good. You shouldn’t.”

“I know. I just...” She stops and pushes her glasses up. “Thank you.”

I wait until she pulls out of the lot before putting the truck in gear. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I’m not looking forward to my fight tonight. By now, I’m usually counting the hours. Running combos in my head, noticing a familiar buzz starting in my gut and spreading through my body. Instead, all I can think about is how stubborn and worried she sounded. The way her face changed when she told me about the chickens, like she really loves them.

As I pull out of the lot, I remind myself I haven’t decided anything.

That’s a lie, though, because I have. I know I have. I just haven’t said it out loud yet.

5

ISLA

Brad Pitt is in a mood today. He’s been strutting back and forth along the fence line for the past twenty minutes, puffing out his chest and making a sound that’s somewhere between a crow and a car alarm. I don’t know what set him off. Maybe it’s the wind. Maybe it’s the neighbor’s cat, who’s been sitting on top of the fence post across the yard, staring at him with a kind of disrespect that would send any man into a spiral. Maybe Brad just woke up and chose chaos. It’s not like it would be the first time.

“You’re embarrassing yourself,” I tell him as I scatter feed across the yard. Cardigan comes running first, as always. She’s my most food-motivated girl, which is saying something, because chickens as a species are basically stomachs with feathers. Marjorie follows at a more dignified pace. Betty and Tennessee show up together, the way they always do. Starlight takes her time, picking her way across the yard as if she’s walking a runway.

This is my favorite part of the day. When I first get home, before anything’s happened yet, before I’ve started my homework. Just me and my girls and a rooster who thinks he’s God’s gift to poultry. It’s the only time my brain actually shuts up.

Which is, of course, when the back door opens, and Grandma steps out in her house slippers and announces, “Isla, honey, you have a visitor.”

My head snaps up. “What?”

“A visitor.” It’s her smile that puts me on edge. The smile she uses when she knows something I don’t and is enjoying it way too much. “Very tall. Very handsome, too. I was kind of disappointed when I found out he wasn’t here for me.”

There goes my stomach, dropping to my feet. “Who...”

She doesn’t have to answer. Everett answers for her when he walks through the back door wearing a black T-shirt and jeans. Grandma looks thrilled to death, so yeah, I guess we could say I’m having seriously mixed feelings right now. “Hi,” he offers.

While here I am, holding a bag of chicken feed. There are probably feathers in my hair. I’m wearing the sweatpants with the hole in the knee that I would never wear outside the house, except in the backyard, because who’s going to see me in my own backyard?