Page 6 of Rent a Bad Boy

But I guess her chickens are more important.

Obviously, I can’t help her. I have too much on my shoulders already. A scholarship hanging by exactly one more bad decision. A coach who already thinks I’m one hit away from getting cut. A fight scheduled in a warehouse two towns over in three days that I can’t afford to fuck up either, because that’s where the real money is. The kind of money that keeps the lights on and gas in my truck. I don’t have room in my life to go intimidate some homeowners association over a bunch of chickens. That’s not who I am. I’m not the muscle-for-hire guy. I’m barely holding my own life together, for fuck’s sake.

So when I pull up outside her place, a little ranch house with a flickering porch light, I should tell her no. I should confess I’m the guy she’s looking for, but not the man she thinks she needs.

Instead, I murmur, “We’re here, dimples. You need me to walk you inside?”

“No, I think I’m okay. Thank you.” She glances my way, seeing nothing. “Will you please let Everett know I’m looking for him? I’m not sure how I’d get in touch with him...”

“I have an idea. Give me your number, and I’ll pass it on to him.”

She’s going to draw blood if she chews her lip much harder. That would be a shame since she has nice lips. “Are you sure? You’ll actually give it to him?”

Somebody made it so this girl doesn’t feel like she can trust anyone. It shouldn’t bother me as much as it does. “Scout’s honor.” I pull out my phone, and she gives me the number. When I call it, something buzzes in her backpack. Okay, so she didn’t give me a fake number. She must really be desperate.

I watch her slowly navigate the front walk. She actually does a pretty good job—she’s probably walked it enough times that she knows exactly how many steps it takes to reach the front porch. She fumbles her way through unlocking the door and goes straight inside.

While I sit in the truck, still staring.

But I’m not seeing the house. I’m seeing the crowd swallowing her whole. Nobody looking down, nobody noticing the girl searching for her glasses. I’ve spent my whole life being the guy people notice, usually for the wrong reasons. Tonight, I watched a girl get trampled in front of three hundred people who all noticed me first, and never once looked at her.

And it makes the noise in my head louder than ever.

But I’m not going to think about her again. I have a fight to get ready for. A scholarship to protect. I have zero space in my life for somebody else’s chicken problem.

It’s a shame I don’t believe myself for a second as I pull away from the curb.

3

ISLA

I found an old pair of glasses in my desk drawer last night after fumbling around for a little while, knocking things on the floor and cursing my useless eyes the entire time. I really am practically blind without them. The lenses are a little too weak now and the frames are a little too small, since it’s been a couple of years of them gathering dust in my desk drawer. I feel like I’m wearing somebody else’s face as I double-check the lock on the car door, then walk to the humanities building.

The best part? The part that doesn’t at all make me want to scream? The right arm snapped off at one point. I never bothered getting them fixed since they were a backup pair, anyway. I had to tape them at the hinge to keep them in one piece, and every time I turn my head too fast, the tape rubs against my temple and sometimes even catches my hair.

I look like a worn-out substitute teacher who’s had a really hard week. And that’s the nicest assessment I can come up with this morning. Granted, I am having a hard week, so it tracks.

At least I can see, sort of. This pair is from two prescriptions ago, but they’ll get the job done until I can afford a new pair. I only hope it’s not too long before I can do that. Because here’s the thing: the pitiful amount of money I have in my bank account has to go to Everett Stone, if I ever find him and grab a few minutes alone with him to float my idea. It’ll mean sacrificing my comfort and my eyesight, but it’ll be worth it if my babies are safe from the evil HOA.

It’s unheard of for me to be lost and distracted during class. Normally, I’m the girl with both hands cramping from taking notes. I’m the one professors call on when nobody else bothers raising a hand. The girl who actually does the reading.

Today, I sit through an entire lecture on social stratification theory and retain exactly none of it, because my brain decided the only thing we’re thinking about today is whether the guy who gave me a ride home last night passed my number on to Everett. If he did, then Everett is a complete and total asshole, because he still hasn’t called or even texted.

Okay, it’s been less than twenty-four hours. Obviously. I’ve also checked my phone no fewer than twenty-three times since breakfast. Did I count? Maybe. Why? I have no idea. Maybe to throw it in his face when he finally does get in touch... if he does. Maybe I need to call my mystery driver, whoever he is, and ask why his buddy Everett is so bad with communication. He called my phone last night while I was in the truck, so his number is saved.

But who am I kidding? The guy forgot I even existed the second I was out of the truck. I wanted to believe him last night, mostly because there wasn’t anything else to do but believe him while I sat there, half-blind in the dark with my whole life collapsing around me.

Instead, I have nothing but radio silence and these stupid glasses and the slow, swelling suspicion that I imagined the whole thing. I mean, was I desperate enough last night to believe a vague promise from a stranger? Did he even promise, come to think of it? I don’t know. I can’t remember. It’s all a blur... much like my vision.

I’m funny when I’m in the depths of despair, apparently.

As the day goes on, I keep replaying the conversation in my head. Where did I go wrong? Did I go wrong at all? Maybe if I had said something different, he would’ve followed through with delivering the message. Maybe I should’ve been more specific.

And it’s not like I’m a memorable person. I blend. It’s sort of my whole thing. I’m surprised the guy even caught sight of me with all those other people on the field. It was sheer dumb luck. Not that I’m feeling very lucky today.

Instead of heading to the library for my usual study session, I head to the dining hall. For one thing, it’s not like I’m suddenly going to focus up and stop obsessing just because I’m in the library instead of a lecture hall. For another thing, I am going to officially lose my mind if I don’t find Everett and at least suggest my idea. He’s free to tell me to go screw myself if he feels like it. Whatever. But I have to try.

The football team eats together at the same time every day, in the same corner of the dining hall. I know this because the group chat treats it like appointment TV. I’ve never once paid attention to it before.