Bad Intentions

by Stayton, Nacole

The water main breaks. Seconds after, warm arms embrace me.

  Tank’s touch puts me at ease as I cry in his arms like a dang fool over a boy that I shouldn’t like, and a girl that makes it hard to.

  “Thanks for walking with me. Sorry about that,” I point to the mascara stain on his shoulder.

  “Whatever.” He shrugs nonchalantly. “Don’t worry about it. I’m not. Besides, it’s not every day I have the pleasure of consoling a pretty girl.”

  I don’t feel very pretty right now. I feel like I’ve made an ass of myself and have been punched in the gut by the Hulk. Twice. I can’t deny that it was deserved.

  “I shouldn’t go tonight. Zoe was right. I just need to sleep this off.”

  He reaches for the door handle. “You might need to sleep it off. But I know you’ll be upset tomorrow if you miss an opportunity to make right with them.”

  “Why do I feel like you know me so well?”

  He ushers me into my dorm room and then leans against the wall. With arms crossed over his chest, he looks at me—really looks at me. For a split second, I’m scared that he sees the real me –the girl who wants to be freed but is scared of exactly what that means. I’m the one who used her old boyfriend as a safety net and then, when she couldn’t face her reality, she ran. I’m frightened that he—anyone—will see me for what I am. A poser. A girl who’s desperately trying to be something she’s not.

  Fierce.

  The sound of a door slamming in the hall resonates through the room. Tank leans forward, his mouth hovering an inch over my ear. It may seem too intimate of a gesture, but what comes out feels totally brotherly. “I see straight past the girl that you want me to know. But, I want to be introduced to the real Adaley Knight. Not the version of her that showed up with chapped lips.”

  The last part makes me smile, but the first makes me feel naked in every sense.

  “I lost the Adaley you want to know along the highway.”

  He nudges my chin up with his hand. “I’m sure you have a reason for abandoning her.”

  “Par-tayyy tonight, Young!”

  Some guy comes running down the hallway with nothing on but a green turtle tube around his waist. Thank goodness, because I don’t know how much more of a heart-to-heart that I can take. I force a smile.

  “Don’t think that you’re getting off the hook that easily. Phone,” he demands with an outreached hand. Placing it in his palm, he grabs it and enters in what I assume are his digits. “Go get a shower. Cold water always helps me when I’m a little too sloshed.”

  “The infamous Taylor Young gets too wasted for his britches?”

  His laugh is deep. “Watch it, missy. Text me when you’re ready to come to the party, if you decide to. I’ll walk back over and get you.” I slowly nod letting him know that I understand. “I’m not kidding. Please don’t walk on campus alone. Not in the shape you’re in tonight. Hell, not ever. I know they didn’t exactly hand every female a rape whistle on campus.”

  “I’ll text you.”

  Baseball was his ticket to a better life. He’d known it even as a kid living with his third set of foster parents. Over and over, he’d tossed an empty soda can in the air and hit it with a plastic tube he’d found floating in an algae-covered pond. Not having much else to do, he’d practiced for hours, day in and day out to hone his craft. At the time, he’d truly believed that he’d become famous and would be whisked away from his daily hell.

  The dream of fleeing was crushed repeatedly as Ryle matured. By the time he was in his early teens, he’d been disappointed in the human race countless times. Aggression became the mainstay of his personality and resulted in him being shuffled from one despicable home to another. The solidarity of bashing a bat at an object kept his fury in check. It had been his only outlet.

  Not only had Ryle been abandoned by his mother in favor of the crack pipe that eventually stole her life, but he also believed that no one else on this god forsaken planet gave a rats ass about him. The system only saw him as a number, and each set of foster parents viewed him as a monthly paycheck, and nothing more.

  He’d thought about taking his own life on several pitiful occasions, but he couldn’t stomach the fact that he’d go to hell and probably be sitting next to his mother for eternity.

  He lived on hope.

  He lived for a day that someone cared.

  As a result, he merely existed, never really understanding the meaning of truly living. Until the day when even God himself felt sorry for him. That day, Ryle met Dr. Meredith Benson and her husband Thomas. His life would be forever changed.

  He’d been fifteen, a high school sophomore, when a complete stranger had rushed him to the local emergency room after he was found in an alley, lying in a puddle of his own blood. He’d been beaten, stabbed and left for dead. Dr. Benson was the surgeon who’d sewed his wound closed and became interested in why this child was lifeless and alone. No one had reported him missing, and no one came looking for him.

  The Bensons had already dedicated their lives to helping others, but after suffering from numerous miscarriages, they’d decided that having biological children wasn’t in the cards for them. As excruciating as it had been, they’d masked their pain by devoting their lives to helping those who were too young to help themselves. Ryle wasn’t their first adopted child. Naomi Reynolds had come a couple years before him and was doing as well as anyone could have hoped for having had her innocence stolen by a random.

  The couple had proven to have a knack for helping others, and they’d made it their sole mission to help bring Ryle back from the darkness that had continued to linger in his eyes months later. But even then, with new lavish surroundings, four wheelers, and a stocked pantry that could feed half of Africa, Ryle still found solace in nothing but baseball.

  Which is why today had been so special to him. He’d made the game-winning pitch as the crowd sang his praises. He was no longer a scared little boy fighting through the depths of other people’s depravity just to survive. He was Ryle Benson, baseball extraordinaire. He was a survivor.

  Forty-five minutes pass before I grab my phone off my nightstand. Zoe never came back to the dorm—which is good—because I needed a break. I needed to be alone, and I needed to re-group.

  With a deep, cleansing breath, I open a new text message and type in Tank’s name. I’m not even surprised when it doesn’t come up under Tank or Taylor. Scrolling through the list of contacts, I laugh out loud when I stumble upon a contact titled, The Kitten Master.

  He’s an idiot.

  My fingers slide over the screen quickly as I type out a message.

  Me: Hello?

  The Kitten Master: Hey baby.

  Me: Are you wasted?

  The Kitten Master: I’ve only been drinkin’ 4 like 20 min. I know how to hold my liquor. You ready?

  Me: Yes, sir.

  The Kitten Master: Oh, I like it when you talk dirty to me.

  Me: Ew! Gross. I’ll meet you outside.

  The Kitten Master: Stay inside until I get there. I’ll text you when I’m there.

  Me: K :)

  I stand in front of the mirror, smoothing my hands gently down my dress. It’s an eager attempt to rub out any wrinkles that have formed while being stuffed in my small dresser drawer. The purple material looks good against my skin tone, although my tan is starting to fade. I make a mental note to check around town and see if they have a spray booth. I’m not one of those fake and bake butches. I don’t want to have wrinkles by thirty, so I stick with spray tans. Plus, my mom never allowed me to tan when I was in high school. I’m sure she’d imprinted upon me some sort of idea that it was sin. Therefore it was a no-no in my house.

  After downing two bottles of water and eating a Honey Bun, I feel better than I did when I arrived. My stomach is still a little queasy, but nothing I can’t handle. After all, I have apologizing to do to Naomi. I don’t know her, and it’s not fair of me to have been so quick to judge her. I don’t have to like her, but
I also don’t have to act like a “mean girl” either.

  Pacing my dorm, I glance at the clock on my phone. It’s been longer than ten minutes. Tank should have been here by now.

  Me: Where are you?

  Me: Are you okay?

  Me: Whatever. I’m walking myself there, and if I get kidnapped, it’s on you buddy.

  Sliding on my sandals, I trudge to the door, fling it open, and step out into a deserted hallway. I pick up speed, practically marching toward the elevator. He has the audacity to tell me to wait on him, and then he stands me up! The elevator ride is short, and as the doors slowly slide open, the sight in front of me leaves me speechless. I debate on leaning forward and frantically hitting the up arrow.

  “Hey,” Ryle says smoothly, no expression on his handsome face.

  A lump the size of a pear wedged in my throat prevents me from speaking.

  “Tank was indisposed, so he sent me to get you.”

  I’m going to punch that little bastard in the balls. He did this on purpose, I know it. “Oh, okay. Thanks.” I’m aware how totally lame I sound. Putting one foot in front of the other, I exit the elevator and stand beside Ryle when I catch a whiff of him. I practically groan as I breathe in his scent. It’s a mixture of pure suaveness and something alluring and sweet. Oh, how I want to grab him by the hem of his shirt, pull his built body to me and then shove my face in the crook of his neck. I refrain, because, well…that’s flipping creepy as hell.

  In a few steps, we exit the building, to pause outside the door. We’re too close for comfort. The night air fits my body like a snug glove, and I raise a hand to run my palm along the back of my neck.

  “It’s pretty hot, huh?”

  I debate on striking up an actual conversation, but decide not to. My reply is short and to the point instead, scared that I’m going to spout off with something super embarrassing. “Yeah it is.”

  “Are you sure you’re up for partying? You didn’t look so good back on the field, and if you’re already overheated…”

  I try to keep my composure and rein in my shock that Ryle Benson actually sounds concerned and sympathetic in the same sentence. I slyly pinch my arm.

  Ouch.

  Yes, this is real life, and not some dream that I conjured up to portray him as the type of guy who actually has a kind bone in his body. “I’m good. I just needed some water. Thanks for the concern.”

  With each stride we take, the awkwardness between us grows. The sound of crickets in the distance is very fitting for the loud silence between us. A gush of air swirls around my body as a vehicle flies by my side. The wind causes my hair to blow and wrap around my face. Surprise flows through me as Ryle pushes my body to other side of him so I’m no longer near the road. It’s a sweet gesture. I sneak a peek at him from under my lashes. His hair gleams in the streetlights. I want to reach over, grab his face, pin him against a tree, and kiss the daylights out of him.

  Alcohol clearly makes me unstable.

  As we walk, the remaining Jungle Juice in my system clogs my filter yet again. “So, is Naomi your girlfriend?” I ask bluntly, breaking the silence.

  Calmly he replies, a calculated answer that begs my curiosity for more information. “Nope.”

  “You might want to tell her that then.”

  Pulling a leaf from a bush, Ryle twists and plays with it between his fingers. “Trust me, she knows.”

  “Hmm…” I hum.

  He notices. “Hmm… What’s that supposed to mean? If you have something to say, just say it.”

  “Nothing. I just wouldn’t want to be strung along. If you’re not dating, I can promise you that she wishes you were,” I say, before turning and glancing in his direction. His features are always so measured, and never give anything away. It’s a rather annoying trait.

  “And you think that I’m fucking stringing her along?” he asks, his tone now chilly.

  “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” Seconds after the words leave my mouth I regret them, remembering what Tank said about Ryle having been a foster kid. “Just kidding!” I try to play it off and act as if I’m joking.

  He doesn’t reply. Instead, he speeds up his pace and walks a few feet ahead of me, his hands in his pockets, his head hung. I want to kick myself in the shin for being such a moron. Knowing that I must’ve struck a nerve, I call out to him. “Are you okay?” He ignores my question, but looks back over his shoulder at me. I give him a weary smile and silently beg for his forgiveness.

  “Ryle,” I speed up and grab his wrist. He stops in his tracks and slowly looks down at the hold I have on him. “Are you okay? You just went all mute on me.”

  “I’m peachy-fucking-keen.”

  I withdrawal my hand quickly from his arm. “Well alright then. Thanks for the walk.” I spot the dorm we’re headed to. It’s littered with people milling around out front, and I walk in that direction with my tail hung between my legs. I can feel his sharp eyes boring into my back as I quickly make tracks.

  Loud music blares from behind a closed door. I figure there’s no harm in barging in, and I’m sure I can find free booze, even if it’s just what Tank’s drinking. I know I claimed I’d never drink again—and I know I shouldn’t—but screw Ryle and his brooding ass. I slipped up, and for that I’m sorry, but I feel like I’m getting whiplash. If he didn’t want to come get me—if it was such a chore—then he shouldn’t have. I’m grown. I could have made it here on my own.

  “There she is!” Zoe’s voice pierces my ears as she screams over the music. I look around the room through the masses of bodies until I spot her. She’s standing on top of a table, dancing and waving me toward her. “Move, people. She’s my friend.”

  She’s beyond wasted. It’s a hilarious sight, considering I’ve been the drunk hoe twice now. It’s about time she let her hair down.

  “Hi, honey. What are you doing up there?” I shout, cupping my hands to my mouth.

  “I’m dancin’. What does it look like?” A giggle escapes her lips before she raises both of her hands above her head and shimmies. She’s the definition of a free spirit in this moment. “Come up here.” Her lips turn up at the corners.

  “We both can’t get up there. We’ll break the table.”

  “Whatever,” she waves me off.

  Shaking my head, I turn around in search of the source of her craziness. “Ahh…” A keg rests near the window, a handful of people huddle around it like guards – Tank being one of them. “So you sent a dick to retrieve me?” I say when I get within earshot, my hand on my hip.

  “I’m sorry for sending a dick. He didn’t hit you with it did he?”

  “You’re kidding right? Hold on. You are kidding right?” A quick and disturbing visual of Ryle T-bagging me flashes before my eyes. Again, the things you find on the Internet can be very disturbing. I would never suggest looking that one up. Why on earth would Tank think of something so bizarre?

  “Of course I’m kidding. Come here,” he opens his arms and beckons me to him with his hand. “I thought you might need a little push.” He whispers into my ear. The stout smell of beer lingers on his breath.

  “I thought you said you weren’t wasted.”

  Tilting his head, he does his best to give me his own take on the pouty face. “I lied. Forgive me?”

  “I will if you get me a drink.”

  His head swivels around. “I thought you were done drinking?”

  “After that walk, I need a stiff one. Lay it on me, boy!”

  Later, after one too many stiff ones, I saunter toward the middle of the room where I left Zoe. She’s no longer dancing on the table, giving me an open invitation to crawl on top of it. Which is exactly what I do. I’m sure the view isn’t as sexy as I envision it to be, but I realize I’m getting the job done when I’m standing on top of the wooden table swaying my hips to the beat. My skin is hot and glistens from the sweat that’s forming on my limps. I don’t care. I just want to dance.

  I toss my head back. My
hair is wild as it sticks to the side of my cheeks. Closing my eyes, I get lost in the music. My hands roam my body and cup my chest. Unknowingly, I’m putting on a show.

  “Fuck yeah!” I hear the voice of a stranger yell. His praise causes me to dance harder.

  “Get her down,” A terse voice breaks my concentration, affecting me in ways I never thought possible. Within two seconds of his demand, I feel a pair of hands sliding over my waist and lifting me in the air.

  With my feet planted firmly on the ground, I protest. “I want to dance!”

  “We want you to baby, but Benson here thinks you’re being a little too inappropriate.”

  “He’s lost his marbles if he thinks you’re not the sexiest girl here.” Another stranger of the opposite sex admits.

  I don’t give two shits what he wants. Now livid, I grab the guy’s hand, intertwining my fingers with his. Seething, I shout, “He ain’t my daddy!” Tugging on his hand, I try to pull his body toward my own. He doesn’t budge. I pull harder. “Come on, dance.”

  “I think you’ve done enough dancing,” the fun police says, while stepping in between me and the guy with bricks in his shoes.

  “I think you’re wrong. In fact… I think you’re stupid.”

  That’ll teach him.

  “You can think whatever you want, but you’re drunk—.” Ryle says, standing inches in front of me and acting all kinds of intimidating.

  I hold my hand up and cover his mouth with my palm. “I’m not drunk. Tequila just makes me chatty.” I look up into his dreamy eyes just in time to see him rolling them.

  “You make zero sense, and tequila makes you flaunt your shit around like a whore.”

  No. He. Did. Not.

  “Fu—.” I’m going to hurl. My hand darts to my mouth in a rushed attempt to hold the contents in. I can’t see straight. The world begins to spin faster and faster. Ryle’s eyes widen. He can see the strain on my face, and he grabs the cloth of my dress and tugs. Following close behind, he leads me through a crowd of people, flinging a door open just in time for me to hear the porcelain god calling my name.