Page 9 of Rent a Bad Boy

“Two weeks seems like a long time,” I murmur. I don’t raise my voice. I don’t step forward. I just say it, and I look at him while I do. Something about the combination of those two things makes Dr. Carter’s whole posture shift. He might even be questioning whether it was a good idea to come to work today.

“Well.” He clears his throat. Adjusts his own glasses. Glances back at the broken pair in his hands. “Let me... check the back. We might have comparable frames in stock. It could speed things up considerably.”

I step aside to let him pass, and I’m pretty sure he mumbles something close to “thank you” before he hurries down the hall like a scared rabbit. She watches him go—at least, she tries to, since she’s not wearing her glasses now. The best she can do is stare in the general direction he went in. “Must be nice,” she muses.

“What?”

“Getting whatever you want with a single growl.”

“I didn’t growl.” She only laughs softly. “Listen, why are you even complaining? If it gets the job done, it gets the job done. Or do you want to wait two weeks for new glasses?”

She pulls her feet up onto the seat and wraps her arms around her knees, which makes her look even more like a little kid. “But this is exactly why you’d be perfect. You don’t actually have to hurt anybody. You just have to make them believe you would do it if they don’t back off.”

I don’t answer that. Not because she’s wrong, but because I don’t feel like admitting she’s not wrong. I’ve spent pretty much half my life being the guy people are afraid of, because I know the feeling of being the guy who’s always afraid. But I figured out that if you get big enough and you get mean enough, things change. You break one guy’s jaw in front of enough witnesses, and all of a sudden everybody treats you like a loaded weapon.

Most of the time, it’s annoying.

Sometimes, it’s useful.

Right now, after I watched an optometrist hustle his ass into the back room to find frames he definitely had the whole time, it’s a little bit of both.

It takes twelve minutes for Dr. Carter to come back with a pair that fits her prescription. He doesn’t mention the two-week wait again.

Her new glasses aren’t anything special. Basic black frames, rectangular, a little too big for her face, but a hell of a lot better than the packing tape she was wearing. When she puts them on and blinks a few times, something in her expression changes. Like the world just snapped back into focus, and she’s surprised by what she finds in it. She looks at me—actually looks at me, for real, without squinting this time—and her cheeks go pink.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing. You’re just...” She trails off, pushing the glasses up her nose. “Taller than I thought.”

I have a feeling she’s not telling the truth. You can’t miss how large I am. But I’ll let it go for now because she looks kind of scared. That would usually be a good thing, but right now it doesn’t feel so good. More like I’d be kicking a wounded animal. “You were pretty much blind.”

“Yeah. That’s true.” She adjusts the glasses again, more like she’s fidgeting now, then mumbles, “Thank you for these. You didn’t have to go out of your way to make sure I got them so fast.”

“I didn’t go out of my way.” But I do go out of my way when we reach the register, and she starts digging through her backpack for her wallet. Jesus Christ. She’s still not getting it. I hold out a hand, which is pretty much the international sign for knock it the fuck off, then I pull out my own wallet and swipe my card at the reader.

“Wait. No, you don’t⁠—”

“I swear, if you tell me I didn’t have to do it, I might break this pair, too.” She winces, but I add, “Really. Technically, they belong to me because I paid for them. So I could do it.”

Her mouth snaps shut, which is a relief, but the look on her face gives me a funny feeling inside. I’m used to people staring at me like I’m a puzzle they’re trying to figure out. I don’t know why there’s anything different about her doing it. There just is.

“Thank you,” she mumbles.

“Sure.” It seems like this is new for both of us. I’m not usually kind. And obviously, people aren’t usually kind to her. It’s the look on her face. Confusion. Like nobody’s ever done something for her without a catch, and now she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. I’ve seen that look before. Hell, I’ve felt it before. A long time ago. Before I got big enough to make sure nobody could take anything from me ever again.

I don’t want to think about that now.

“Are you hungry?” I ask once we’re back in the truck. “You never did eat lunch.” And neither did I.

“You don’t have to—” Her head snaps around to look at me. The way I narrow my eyes makes her press her lips together tight before she replies, “Yes. I’m hungry.”

There’s a diner about ten minutes from the optometrist’s office. I’ve been there a few times after fights, when I need to eat something before the adrenaline crash hits. Nobody asks questions, and the coffee is strong enough to strip paint. I take her there because I figure she’s not the type of person who would be comfortable anywhere loud or crowded.

I’m right. When I let her pick the booth, she heads straight for the back corner and slides all the way in against the wall.

I order a burger without looking at the menu. She orders a grilled cheese and a side of fries, then changes the fries to a side salad. “Wait. No, I think I’d rather have the fries, after all.” The waitress is patient about it. I’m not, but I bite my tongue. I don’t know why. I don’t know this girl, but I’ve already given her more grace than I’ve given pretty much anybody else in my life, ever.

“So,” I say once the food is ordered. “Tell me about the HOA.”