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

by Siobhan Davis

The stool screeches as she pushes it back and stands. “You’re an asshole.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I know.” I return to my books, wondering why I thought it was a good idea to come here on a Thursday night. Under my new self-imposed rules, I focus on school Monday through Thursday and cut loose Friday through Sunday. Coming to a bar on a Thursday night is tempting fate, and though I’ve been nursing sodas all night, my liver is craving alcohol like it’s sustenance.

  “You could’ve let her down more gently,” Presley says, replacing my soda for a fresh one without me asking. I’ll consider that progress because I’m that pathetic now it seems.

  “Why would I bother? She’s nothing to me,” I truthfully admit.

  “She’s still a person. A human being with feelings,” Presley retorts, folding her arms and glaring at me.

  “News flash. I’m a person with feelings too. All she wanted from me was my dick. Go lecture her instead.”

  She leans back against the far counter, examining my face in a way I wish she’d examine my body. With sharp eyes and keen curiosity. I’ve never met any chick who intrigues me as much as this woman does.

  “You can’t honestly tell me you expect anything else when it’s commonly known that’s all you want from women. You fuck girls like they’re a dying breed.”

  “Don’t pretend you know me because you don’t. No one does.”

  She straightens up, moving closer. “That’s the way you like it though, or am I wrong about that too?”

  I shrug because I’m not giving her shit until she tells me something. “What’s with the portfolio?” I ask, and her eyes pop wide.

  “You saw that?”

  I nod. I’m drinking everything in about this girl for reasons unknown to me.

  “You’re deflecting,” she adds, leaning over the counter, and it takes mammoth effort not to ogle her gorgeous tits. She’s got an impressive rack and I’m dying to get up close and personal with every part of her rocking body.

  “I’m trying to get to know you. Though it’d be easier if you just let me take you out for dinner.” I glance over my shoulder, noting the heated stares from several corners of the room. I hate having a fucking audience.

  “Why me?” she asks.

  “I don’t know,” I truthfully reply, and she seems to like that.

  “You’re wasting your time,” she says before moving to serve a few other customers.

  I go back to my book, but it’s futile even pretending I can focus in a noisy bar.

  “I’ll make a deal with you,” she says, popping the top off a bottle of lager.

  “Add that to my tab,” I say, knowing it’s for the old dude at the end of the bar.

  She nods, handing it to Tommy. He lifts the bottle in the air in a show of gratitude, and I smile at him. Best buddies now. Perhaps he can help with Presley. She seems fond of him, and he’s definitely got a soft spot for her.

  “What deal?” I ask when she returns.

  “You answer one of my questions, and I’ll answer yours.” I don’t point out that I’ve already answered several of her questions though I’m tempted, ’cause I like winding her up. She’s hot as fuck when she’s irritated.

  “Shoot.” I take a sip of my soda, waiting for her to hit me with it.

  “Why law?” Her eyes drop to the books on the counter, and I know she overheard my conversation with Blondie.

  I could give her a bullshit answer, but something tells me this girl would see right through it, so I go with part of the truth. “Because I want to do good in the world. I want to be known for more than my family name. I want to fight for justice. To battle on behalf of people who might otherwise be overlooked.” I can’t give her more because it’s too close to home, even though what I’ve just said probably sounds like something a thousand other law students would say.

  She stares at me, and a frisson of electricity crackles in the space between us. These tiny little gold specks flicker in her warm brown eyes as she looks at me like she can’t figure me out.

  Join the club, babe.

  “It’s my art portfolio,” she admits after a few heavy beats of silence. “I attend an art class once a week at the local community college.”

  “Can I see?”

  She shakes her head. “You have to earn that right.”

  “Go out with me,” I repeat as I have intermittently all night.

  “No.” She dumps all over me again, but it only strengthens my resolve. Girls don’t reject me, and her attitude excites me. It’s not often I’m challenged these days, and I’m getting off on the thrill of the chase. If she genuinely doesn’t want to have anything to do with me, she’d be better off agreeing to the dinner date because her stubborn streak means I’m definitely invested in seeing where this could go.

  My cell pings with an incoming call, and I break our eye lock to find out who’s calling me, groaning when I see Whitney’s purple-haired image staring at me from the screen. I hit the ignore button, sighing.

  I don’t know what to do about Faye’s half-sister.

  Faye is married to my older brother Kyler. She’s also my cousin. It’s complicated as shit—even more so because Whitney and I have been fuck buddies, on and off, from the time we met when I was fifteen. If the timing had been different, maybe we never would’ve hooked up, but we’ve been trapped in this vicious cycle ever since, and I want out.

  I managed to break all ties, and I didn’t screw her for over a year, but every time life drops a bomb in my lap, I seem to end up back in her bed.

  We’re not good for one another.

  We’re too alike, and we’re toxic together.

  She knows it. I know it.

  And it’s not like we’ve ever been boyfriend-girlfriend or been exclusive.

  If I’m a manwhore, Whitney is a slut, but she has feelings for me, feelings I don’t share, and it’s why I need to cut her loose. For good this time.

  If I was going to confide in anyone, it probably would’ve been Whit. The fact I haven’t speaks volumes. While I don’t love her, I care about her, and I don’t want to hurt her. She’s broken, just like me, and all we are doing is enabling one another, excusing the behavior like it’s normal when we’re intelligent enough to understand it isn’t.

  She deserves better than me, and I’m trying to do the right thing by her now. I fucked her two weeks ago when I was up in New York, and I told her that was the last time. That we are over for good. We had a massive argument, and she’s been blowing up my cell ever since. I’d block her number if I thought it would do any good, but Whit’s resourceful. She’d just get a new phone, and it’s not like I can avoid her. She’s part of my extended family because Adam—her and Faye’s dad—is close friends with my parents, and Mom always invites him and his kids to family events. Whether I like it or not, Whitney will always be a part of my family, and I have to find a way of making it work that doesn’t involve drilling my cock in her pussy.

  “Is everything okay?” Presley asks, bringing me back into the moment.

  “Yep.” I gather up my things. I want to call Whitney back but without prying ears. Also, it’s late, and I have an early morning class. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Giving up so soon,” she teases, her eyes lighting with mischief, and I’m transfixed. It’s like this girl has cast a spell on me.

  I pin her with my infamous panty-melting smile. “Not a chance in hell, Presley baby. I’m only getting warmed up,” I say, as the blue-haired waitress slides behind the bar, knocking against a crate of bottles on the floor. Glass rattles and screeches, the sound piercing my skull, and I’m transported back in time.

  Imaginary pain tears the skin off my left cheek, and I grab the counter, squeezing my eyes shut, as the sound of jangling glass reverberates in my ears. Tightness spreads across my chest, and my breath oozes out in strangled spurts as I struggle to get enough air into my lungs. On some level, I’m aware I’m in public, so I don’t totally lose it, keeping my back to the main floor as I silently de
compose on the inside.

  A hand lands on my lower back, and I jerk to one side, blinking my eyes open. “Don’t fucking touch me!” I hiss, straightening up on shaky legs. The environment comes into clear focus as I stare directly into Presley’s concerned eyes. She’s come around the counter to check on me, and I realize how badly I’ve fucked up. It’s been years since I’ve had a panic attack in front of anyone.

  “Kent. Can I—”

  “Drop it,” I snap, not waiting around to hear the rest of her sentence. I rush out of the bar, shoving past the bouncer and almost falling onto the sidewalk. My chest heaves, and I caution myself to get a grip before someone notices and starts recording my meltdown. The very last thing I need is something like this going viral.

  A familiar guy steps out from under the shadows at the corner of the bar, his eyes asking a question. Fuck it. I’ve been steering clear of illegal substances during the week, but emergency situations call for emergency measures. I claw my hands through my hair, quickly scanning the area before gesturing for him to fall back under the awning where it’s dark and private.

  “What you want, man?”

  “Just weed.”

  He arches a brow but says nothing, removing a baggie from his inside jacket pocket. I get it’s not my usual weekend order, but I need to show up for class in the morning looking like a human not like a druggie.

  Let’s just say my less than pristine background and my rep as a womanizing bad boy did me no favors when I applied for Harvard Law. Only letting myself bleed on the pages of my personal statement salvaged it for me. Along with my parent’s substantial yearly donation. And glowing recommendations from Dan Evans, our family attorney, and the governor of Massachusetts, who happens to be a personal friend of Evans’ and a man who is an alumnus with strong current ties to the college.

  I know there is an extra spotlight on my head, and I can’t afford to fuck up. It’s why I haven’t missed any classes, have turned all my assignments in on time, and why I’m focusing on studying during the week so I stay on top of my classes. Getting high during the week is a recipe for disaster, but I can’t go home and easily fall asleep after a flashback. I need something to numb my mind and take away the pain.

  “Kent.” Presley’s disapproving tone echoes at my back, and I silently curse as I hand the cash to Jet.

  “Later, dude.” He gives Presley a quick once-over before walking off. I shove the baggie in the pocket of my jeans and turn around to face the music.

  “You forgot your books and your bag,” Presley says, handing my black backpack to me. It’s zipped up, so I’m assuming she put my stuff away. “They are all there,” she adds, as if she’s a mind reader. A muscle clenches in her jaw, and I know she saw what went down here. She won’t say anything because at least every second customer in the bar is high on the weekends, and it’s not like the owner or either of the managers don’t know Jet sells his shit on the street corner.

  “Thanks.”

  She spins on her heel, ready to walk off, before halting and turning back around. Her jaw relaxes. “Are you okay? It looked like you had a panic attack inside.”

  “I’m fine,” I snap. “It’s none of your business,” I add in a clipped tone.

  Her eyes flare with instant anger. “Damn right it isn’t, and that’s the way I intend to keep it. Good night, Mr. Kennedy.”

  She storms off and all I can do is watch her retreating with the sinking knowledge I have probably fucked up any chance I had with her now.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Presley

  “Night, Bugger.” I swoop in, kissing his rough cheek, laughing when he pushes me away with a scowl.

  “You love winding him up,” Clay says, pushing off the wall, grinning as he walks toward me. He flicks his cigarette to the ground, grinding the butt with the heel of his boot.

  “I’ve got to grab the laughs where I can.” I loop my arm through his, sliding my portfolio under my other arm as he grabs my backpack, slinging it over his other shoulder. “I didn’t know you were stopping by tonight.”

  “Was in the area. Thought I’d walk my favorite girl home.” That’s code for he was up to shady shit that is gonna get him killed one day. I sigh, and he presses a kiss to my temple.

  “Uh-huh.” I narrow my eyes at him as we walk in the direction of my apartment. “I wish you’d go legit.”

  “Pres. Quit with that shit. What the fuck else do I know?” His eyes implore me to drop the subject as he drags his free hand through his long dirty-blond hair. Usually, he wears his hair to the nape of his neck, but the strands are brushing his shoulders now, and I can’t decide if he looks like a wannabe rocker or a homeless bum.

  “I don’t want anything to happen to you,” I explain. “I can’t lose you too. You’re my only family.”

  He slams to a halt, jerking his head at two tall, skinny guys wearing hoodies, lounging on the street corner. Giving him a terse nod, they walk off. “Pres.” Clay clasps my face in his hands. “Nothing’s gonna happen to me. No motherfucker would be brave enough to take another pop at me.”

  “Don’t bullshit me, Clay.” I wrap my fingers around his wrists, staring into his red-rimmed hazel eyes. “Rival gangs aren’t the only reason I could lose you.”

  He places a tender kiss on my cheek, and it’s completely at odds with the whole ‘don’t mess with me’ vibe he exudes from his every pore.

  Everyone knows to give Clayton Cooper a wide berth around these parts. He’s almost as notorious in the underground scene as Kent is within celebrity circles. Although he never tells me shit, and I don’t ask because the less I know, the better, I know he’s mixed up in all kinds of illegal activities. I’ve no doubt his face is plastered upon the walls of police stations up and down the state, and he’s constantly getting into street fights over control of the drug supply in the area.

  “The pigs would’ve arrested me by now if they had anything on me.” He slings his arm around my shoulder, urging me to start walking again. “You need to chill, Pres. All this worrying will give you wrinkles.”

  I thump him in the arm. “You’re my brother.” And a known criminal. “Of course, I worry.”

  “And you’re my little sister. It’s my job to worry about you. To protect you.”

  I roll my eyes. What is it about guys and their constant need to protect? As if we’re not able to protect ourselves. “I’ve been living by myself since I aged out, and I’ve held down a full-time job since I graduated high school. I know how to protect myself.”

  “You still got that gun I gave you?” he asks while I look left and right before we cross the road.

  “Nope.”

  Air expels from his mouth, and a muscle pops in his jaw.

  “Don’t do that. I’m not keeping an unregistered weapon in my possession. I bought my own handgun. It’s legit, and yes, I know how to use it. I haven’t forgotten.”

  After I left the foster system at eighteen, one of the first things Clay did was teach me how to shoot and how to defend myself physically. He’d been living by himself for four years by that time, and he’d already gotten heavily involved with The Vipers, the main gang who controls the streets of Mattapan and other neighboring towns. He’d seen enough shit go down to know I wouldn’t survive living around here without the ability to defend myself. I work out a few times a week at a local gym to keep myself fit, and I do refresher self-defense classes every couple years to ensure my skills are sharp. I carry my gun everywhere with me, thankful I’ve never needed it.

  Most people around here know Clay and I grew up in the same foster home. That we’re as close as blood siblings, so no one gives me any trouble.

  We arrive at the triple-decker I call home, and Clay follows me up the stairs to my second-floor one-bedroom apartment. I open the door, turn off the alarm, switch on the overhead lights, and walk into the open plan kitchen-slash-living room, dropping my bag and my portfolio on the kitchen counter. “You want something to eat or drink?” I ask him, st
icking my head in the refrigerator. “I’ve got beer.”

  “Gimme a beer.” He flops down on my couch, kicking his feet up on the coffee table.

  I pop the caps off two beers, toeing off my shoes and padding barefoot into the living area. I hand him a beer before shoving his feet off my table. “Don’t be an ass. I eat off that table sometimes.”

  He chuckles. “This place is a dump.” He waves his hands around. “Why do you even care?”

  Hurt blossoms in my chest, quickly replaced by anger. “Don’t be a fucking jerk.” I drop down beside him, pinning him with a glare. “It’s not a dump. It’s just a little dated, but I’ve worked hard to make it a home. I take pride in where I live, especially because it’s the first place I’ve called my own since aging out. I don’t give a fuck that it’s not modern or that I don’t have the latest, most expensive furniture.”

  I scan the homey room with a lump in my throat. “I carefully selected every single thing in this apartment, and it’s a representation of who I am to my core.” I rub a hand over the ache in my chest. “This place means something to me. You can’t disrespect it just ’cause it’s not to your liking.”

  I’ll admit it’s not the world’s biggest apartment, and it definitely needs modernization, but it has character, something a lot of newer places lack. Plus, it’s clean and tidy. The muted gray walls are freshly painted, and I sanded and stained the original hardwood floors myself last year. The furniture might not be trendy, but it’s in good condition, and I scoured the consignment stores to find hidden treasures that perfectly fit the vision I had for my first proper home since my parents died. Most of the drawings on the walls are my own, and I painted the colorful mural on the back wall in my bedroom. I even sewed cushion covers and made the matching drapes.

  “Don’t get your panties in a bunch. I didn’t mean to offend you,” he says, looking mildly sincere. “It just frustrates me you won’t take me up on my offer. You could live someplace better. You just have to say the word, and I’ll make it happen.” He swigs from his bottle, removing a pack of cigarettes from the inside of his worn leather jacket.