Reforming Kent: A Stand-Alone Angsty Bad Boy Romance (The Kennedy Boys Book 10)

by Siobhan Davis

  “You need to get laid,” Mitch says. “You were too good for that prissy bitch.”

  I roll my eyes because, honestly, the guy has a brain the size of a pea.

  “Look on the bright side; at least your brother didn’t fuck her to get back at you,” I supply.

  Lance looks up at me. His brow is scrunched in confusion. “Why the hell would you say that, man?”

  Toph and Mitch lean forward, eyes alight with interest.

  Fuck, why the hell did I blurt that? I suck at trying to cheer someone up. Now, I’ll have to fess up; otherwise, Lance will bust a ball worrying about his ex hooking up with his brother.

  “I fucked my brother’s ex to get back at him,” I admit, lowering my voice so no one else hears.

  Toph laughs, and Mitch leans across the table, punching me in the shoulder. “You’re my fucking idol, man. I worship at the altar of Kent Kennedy.”

  “You seriously had sex with your brother’s ex?” Lance asks, failing to hide the disgust from his face or his tone.

  I eyeball him. “You know I’m an asshole. Why does this surprise you?”

  “Because that’s fucking low, even for you,” he says. “Which brother?”

  “Keats.”

  “Is that why you and Keaton don’t talk anymore?”

  “Yes,” I lie.

  “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 or don’t feel.

  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 just him.

  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’s worth the risk, because that one touch will change you forever.

  There’s no denying how dangerous Kent is. To himself and others. To me. 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.

  My mind instantly recalls my painful history with Chris, reminding me why I must forget about Kent. Pressure sits on my chest as I think about my ex. It’s been a couple months since I’ve seen him, and I’m worried. He usually checks in with me monthly. I’ve searched the usual places, but it’s as if he’s disappeared off the face of the earth. Clay could probably locate him for me, but they despise one another these days, and Chris wo
uldn’t thank me for involving Clay in his business, which is why I haven’t raised my concerns with the guy who is my de facto big brother.

  “Pres.” Bugger tips his head at me when I approach the door to Ramshackle. The name is fitting because the place is in a state of disrepair, and it could definitely use a makeover. The structure is sound, but inside, it’s like the seventies threw up in there. “You got a visitor,” he says.

  I arch a brow.

  “At the bar,” he adds, but his facial expression doesn’t change. Bugger has two looks—bored and menacing—and he never mixes it up. Right now, he’s bored, and I know that’s as much as I’m gonna get.

  “Love you too,” I quip, knowing it will aggravate him, brushing past him as I enter through the narrow doorway.

  Music pulses through the room from the old jukebox, and I skim the place, noticing it’s busier than usual for a Thursday night. Half the tables on the floor are full, and all the booths that line the far wall are occupied—with a higher than usual percentage of female customers. That’s the only clue I need to guess the identity of my mystery visitor.

  I make my way across the scuffed, dark hardwood floors toward the bar, instantly spotting the back of Kent’s head. He’s sitting on one of the stools at the long bar, his head bent over, books sprawled across the counter, and he’s jotting notes on a pad with his right hand.

  My interest piques before I swat it away.

  Remember he’s the enemy, I caution myself because the only way I’ll avoid falling into his trap is to remind myself of the threat he represents and to treat him accordingly.

  “Hey, Pres.” Tommy greets me from his usual perch at the end of the bar, directing his toothless smile in my direction.

  “Hey, stud.” I kiss his leathery cheek. “You waiting for me?”

  “Like always, darlin’.” He scrubs a hand across the patchy gray stubble on his chin and cheeks. “Just one look at your face and everything is right with the world.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Kent’s head lifting, amusement clear in his expression. I pretend I don’t see him, focusing all my attention on Tommy. He’s been coming to the bar for more than twenty years, and he’s as much a part of this place as the worn furniture. “You give me too much credit, Tommy.” I give him a quick hug before slipping under the counter.

  Ford approaches with a towel draped across one shoulder and a bottle of lager in his hand. “You’re early,” he says, setting the bottle down in front of Tommy.

  “My teacher had to cut class a little short,” I explain, grabbing a glass with ice and a bottle of chilled water from the fridge. “Just give me five to get ready.”

  “Take your time.” Ford squeezes my shoulder, leaning his mouth in close to my ear. “I’ll continue entertaining your admirer. He’s been here for over an hour, and he must’ve asked for you at least a dozen times.”

  “You should put him out of his misery,” I say in a low voice. “And send him on his way.”

  Ford grins. “We’re already taking bets on you two.”

  Of course, they are. I inwardly sigh. Ford, Rafe, Bugger, and Digger—our other bouncer—love making bets, so this isn’t a surprise. I shove at his chest. “I hope you bet big. I’ll enjoy watching you lose your shirt this time.”

  He laughs. “My money’s on Kennedy.”

  I flip him the bird.

  “He’s got all the moves.” He waggles his brows. “The guy is legendary.”

  “You sound like you want in his pants.” My lips fight a smile. “You have my permission to go for it.”

  He rolls his eyes, slapping my ass with the towel. “Get your sexy delusional butt in the back and get changed. I want to get out of here. Promised Michelle I’d take her to see that new Theo James movie.”

  “Awww.” I pinch his cheeks. “You’re so romantic.”

  He swats my butt with the towel again. “You’re pushing it, little lady. Be gone.”

  I’m still chuckling to myself when I emerge from the staff room five minutes later, having changed into my tight, black leather pants with an off-the-shoulder ripped short-sleeved top that reveals one of my red bra straps. My hair is pulled into a messy bun on top of my head, because I was too lazy to wash it this morning, and I’ve left a few strands framing my face.

  “It’s busier than usual so I called Imogen in. She’s just waiting on Kady’s babysitter to arrive.”

  “Cool.” Imogen is my best friend, my only female friend, and I don’t get to see nearly enough of her. She’s a single mom to her daughter Kaydence, so she only works part-time and mainly during the day because she doesn’t like leaving Kady at home with a babysitter too often at night. Kady’s dad takes her every second weekend, so I have coordinated my nighttime weekend shifts to align with hers.

  “I’m out of here,” Ford says, raising his fist for a knuckle touch.

  “Later, old man.”

  “Hey.” He turns around, frowning. “Quit that old man shit. I’m only five years older than you.”

  “But thirty is sooo old,” I tease, laughing when he flips me the bird. “Shouldn’t you be married with a bunch of little rugrats by now?” Ford is a serial dater. In the seven years I’ve worked here, I’ve lost count of his girlfriends. Most don’t last past the three-month mark, yet he’s been with Michelle for five months, so maybe she’s the one. Or maybe he’s finally growing up.

  “Just wait. You’ll be thirty before you know it.”

  A throat clearing claims my attention, and I wave at Ford before turning my attention to Kent. “You again.” I purse my lips, purposely keeping my eyes trained on his face so I don’t gawk at how freaking hot he looks in that tight black button-up shirt he’s wearing. He has the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and the arm porn is to die for. Let’s not even mention how broad his shoulders are, how ripped his chest is, or how bulging his biceps are because that’s irrelevant. He’s dangerous to my health, and I need to remember that.

  “Hey, beautiful.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “I’ve been waiting for you.” He waggles his brows, flashing me a blinding grin. His teeth are perfect. Straight and white, and they fit snugly behind his full lips.

  “Why?” I prop my hip against the back of the bar. “Because you’re still horny and you think now you’re sober you’ve got a chance?”

  His grin expands. “One thing you should know about me, Presley baby, is I’m always horny.” His eyes drill into mine, and a girl could get lost in those depths if she’s not careful. “And I always get what I want.”

  “That’s two things,” I drawl, grabbing the wet cloth and wiping down the counter.

  “I can count.”

  “Wow. Shocker.” I plant a hand on my chest.

  “Go out with me.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t want to.”

  “Why?” He leans forward, resting his arms on the counter, looking genuinely curious.

  I wonder if girls ever say no to him. “I have my reasons.”

  “Such as?” He quirks a brow.

  I lean my elbows on the counter, propping my chin in my hands. “One, you’re a manwhore.” I fake-sweet-smile at him. “Two.” I pause for dramatic effect. “You’re a manwhore. And three—”

  “I’m a manwhore,” he finishes for me.

  “Now he’s listening.” I straighten up, continuing to wipe down the counter.

  “You shouldn’t believe everything you read online,” he calls out as I move down the other side of the bar.

  “Is that young pup bothering you?” Tommy says, pinning narrowed eyes on Kent.

  I pat his hand, grinning. This guy is the sweetest. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

  He sits up straighter. “Just say the word and I’ll flatten him.” He flexes his shaking hands, balling them into fists. “I had quite the punch in my day.”

  “Stay out of it, old man,” Kent hollers. “You’re messing with my ga
me.”

  “Ignore him,” I pretend to whisper, knowing my voice is loud enough to reach Kent’s ears. “I intend to.”

  “Now that’s just mean, beautiful,” Kent says when I move closer. “Throw a guy a bone here.”

  “You’re not getting in my pants,” I say, moving past him to serve the customers who have just approached the bar.

  “Famous last words, Presley baby,” Kent calls out, looking like he’s up for the challenge, and I know it’s going to be a long night.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Kent

  “What are you reading?” the annoying blonde asks, smashing her tits into my arm. I’m not looking at her. I’m too busy watching Presley joking and laughing with the blue-haired waitress as she loads her tray with drinks.

  “The Glannon Guide to Criminal Law,” I deadpan, not even glancing at the blonde as I reply.

  “Cool.” She titters, right in my ear, and I’m about to reach my breaking point. She’s the sixth girl to approach me tonight, and they are all getting on my last nerve. Any other night, I’d probably be drunk or high or a combination of both and I’d fuck one of them in the bathroom, but the only woman I’m interested in fucking is the spitfire behind the bar. “You a lawyer or something?” Blondie adds, and I swear I see her gold-digging claws come out. She’s seconds away from digging them into my flesh in some form of claiming-slash-branding.

  “Law student,” I confirm, removing her hand when it lands on my chest. “And I need to study.” I gesture at the materials laid out in front of me. “So, fuck off. I’m busy.”

  “I can be quiet,” she says, making no move to leave.

  “I’m not interested.” I glare at her, but she’s not getting the message. “Now or ever. I’m not fucking you, so you’re wasting your time. Take a hike.” I make a shooing gesture with my hands. “Make sure to tell all your skanky friends I’m not interested in any of them either.”