Page 37 of Rent a Bad Boy

I can’t fully read his expression as he stares at me, because half his face is swollen. If I had to hazard a guess, I would say he’s somewhere between disbelief and something surprisingly close to adoration.

“There was this one guy with a scar, the one who called you. He actually asked me a question at one point. He asked how old Brad Pitt is. I think he was genuinely curious, or maybe he just wanted me to keep talking so he didn’t have to think about what he was doing. Either way, I told him the whole backstory. The limp, the droopy comb, all of it.”

“And then they taped your mouth.” Somehow, he doesn’t sound surprised.

“Eventually, yeah. The other guy, the one standing behind me, said something like, ‘For the love of God, shut her up.’ So they taped my mouth. Honestly, by that point, I’d been talking for forty-five minutes. I think I humanized myself plenty.”

I pause, reflecting. “Or I annoyed them into not wanting to deal with me anymore. Either way, it worked.”

He makes a sound that wants to be a laugh but turns into a wince when his ribs remind him what a bad idea that is. “Ow. Don’t make me laugh.”

“I wasn’t trying to. I’m only telling you what happened.”

“So you talked your kidnappers into submission with chicken facts.”

“I used the tools available to me. Not all of us can punch our way out of things.” I hand him a couple of Ibuprofen, and the glass of water from the nightstand. “Here. Take these.”

He swallows them without arguing, which tells me he’s in more pain than he lets on. I watch his throat move when he drinks. He sets the glass down carefully, like even his hands hurt. I guess they would.

He let somebody beat him. He lost for my sake.

I don’t know how to feel about it. I’ve spent my whole life being the person nobody shows up for. Tonight, a man who has never lost a fight let someone break his face because there was a gun at my back, and he couldn’t risk me getting hurt.

That’s the kind of thing that rearranges a girl’s entire life. I’m standing in the middle of the wreckage, trying to figure out which way is up.

I guess whatever is going on in my head is showing up on my face, since he murmurs, “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I did something heroic. I lost a fight. No big deal.”

Does he actually believe that? I really hope not. “You lost a fight on purpose to save my life,” I remind him. “That’s the most heroic thing anyone has ever done for me.” I pause, reflecting. “Okay, and that includes the time Grandma chased a raccoon out of the yard with a broom to keep it away from the girls, because she knew it would crush me if they got hurt.”

“With a broom?” he asks, cracking a grin.

“Apparently, she was wearing her nightgown and slippers and waving a broom around like a crazy person. The neighbors called animal control, but by the time they showed up, the raccoon was gone. I got home from class, and Grandma was offering drinks to the guys, who were just trying to leave.” He snickers, and so do I. “My point is, there aren’t many people in my life willing to go to war for me, so I’m grateful. I’m allowed to be grateful.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “You are.”

I don’t plan what happens next. I want that on the record. There is no version of me that looks at a man with a swollen eye and bandaged ribs and thinks, yes, this is the moment. But he’s looking at me with that one good eye, and his hand is resting on my thigh, where I’m sitting next to him on the bed, and something about the warmth of his palm, and the quiet of the room, and the fact that we’re both still alive makes my body decide things before my brain gets a vote.

I lean down and kiss him. Carefully, because his jaw is bruised, and I’m not trying to hurt him worse than he’s already been hurt. He makes a low sound against my mouth, and his hand tightens on my thigh. When I pull back, his eye looks darker than it was a second ago.

“What are you doing?” he murmurs.

“I don’t know yet.” That’s the honest truth. I’m operating without a plan, which is so deeply unlike me. I mean, I make outlines for my outlines. But right now, I’m running on something that has nothing to do with logic and everything to do with the way his breathing just changed.

I kiss his jaw, the side that isn’t bruised. His neck. The spot under his ear, where I can feel his pulse—it seems faster than it should be for a man who’s supposed to be resting. My mouth trails down his chest, which is the one part of him that isn’t visibly damaged, and I feel his stomach tighten under my lips when I move lower.

“Isla.” His voice has a warning in it. Not a stop warning, though. More like an are-you-sure.

“Just lie still,” I murmur. “You’re injured. Let me do the work.”

“You don’t have to⁠—”

“If you say that to me one more time, I’m going to smother you with a pillow.” I look up at him from somewhere around his navel. “I want to. Okay?”

He doesn’t argue. His hand comes up to my hair, not guiding, just resting there. Like he wants to touch me but doesn’t want to push.