Bad Boy Next Door: A Small Town College Bad Boy Romance

by Hunter Rose

  “How are your neighbors?” I ask.

  “Next door?” she asks, looking over at the house where the girl has gone inside. “A really nice family. They had me over for dinner last week. It’s just the parents and their daughter. She’s your age.”

  I go into the house, and Aunt Bree nods ahead of us. “The kitchen is in the back. Living room over here, dining room, and office on the other side. Bathroom down the hall. My bedroom, another bathroom, and a room I haven’t come up with an identity for are on the middle floor. Come on up, and I’ll show you your room. I brought your stuff up there already.”

  “You didn’t have to do that. I could have gotten it.”

  “I know. I just wanted it to feel like home when you got here,” she shrugs.

  The second flight of steps is shorter, curving up behind a door and ending on a landing that feeds out into a room that looks like it was once the attic of the house. I smile and gesture toward one of the two windows facing each other from opposite sides of the room.

  “The lace curtains are a nice touch,” I grin.

  Bree rolls her eyes as she tosses my backpack onto the bed pushed up against one wall.

  “They were what I had on hand. I’ll change them out for you,” she says.

  I laugh. “It’s fine.”

  “There’s a bathroom over here. It’s not very big, but it has all the necessities. The door over there leads to a storage area. There’s some Christmas stuff and a few old boxes in there, but there’s room if you have something you want to stash away.”

  “This is great. Thank you, Aunt Bree,” I say, mostly to stop her. She needs to calm down.

  She nods. “I’ll let you settle in. Come on down when you’re ready. I’m going to order pizza, and we’ll catch up.”

  She closes the door behind her, and I look at the collection of boxes on the floor. It was some of what I sent, but not everything. Walking over to one of the windows, I push back the lace curtain and look outside. A window lower down on the house next door lets me peer into a bedroom. Sheer curtains do little to conceal the pink and white bed and fluffy white rug inside. A massive scrolled mirror above the dresser reflects the girl I saw walking out of the car. She stands in front of it, sweeping a mane of loose curls the color of molten copper up into a ponytail.

  The heavy coat she was wearing is gone, and she’s changed from the jeans she had on before to a pair of stretchy pink pants and a matching hooded sweatshirt. She looks designed to accessorize the room. She pauses, and her hands fall away from her hair, lightly grazing her sides as they lower down.

  “Tal? What do you want on your pizza?”

  I let the curtain fall back into place and head downstairs to where Bree leans against the doorframe of the kitchen with the phone perched on her shoulder, waiting to order dinner.

  3

  Wren

  The sound of a delivery truck on the street isn’t something I’m used to hearing just after the sun comes up on a Saturday morning. I’m awake but haven’t gotten out of the cozy recesses of my bed. I’m jostled up by the squealing of brakes desperate to stop the heavy vehicle from careening the rest of the way down the street and ending up in the swamp beyond the cul-de-sac.

  Throwing a bathrobe around me, I head downstairs. It’s not unusual for me to be the first one out of bed in the morning, and this one’s no exception. I start the coffee, and while it’s brewing, head to the window to see why the truck is at the house next door.

  It only takes a few seconds for my father to come shuffling into the kitchen, which means it wasn’t the smell of the coffee that lured him out of bed.

  “Is that a truck?” he asks in a groggy voice.

  “Yes. It’s at the house next door,” I nod.

  “This early in the morning?”

  “Evidently.”

  My mother comes into the room in her favorite threadbare blue bathrobe, her hair still wrapped around pink foam curlers she refuses to trade-in for any number of electric hair styling devices.

  “Marjorie, there’s a delivery truck at the house next door,” my father says. “Why?”

  She laughs and kisses him before accepting the mug of coffee I hold out to her.

  “It’s probably another delivery for Bree’s nephew. I told you she mentioned he was going to be staying with her for the rest of the school year.”

  My father nods. “That’s right, you did. I just don’t understand why it has to be so early.”

  “I’m sure they won’t be here for long. Why don’t you go on back upstairs and lay down?”

  My father doesn’t protest. During the week, he is always busy. If he’s not at work, he’s doing something around the house or at any number of the volunteer positions we do together. Saturday is his morning to catch up on all the sleep he doesn’t get the other days. Accepting another kiss from my mother, he makes his way back up to the bedroom.

  “Bree’s nephew is staying with her?” I ask. My mind goes back to yesterday and a fleeting glimpse of a boy about my age in the front yard when Isaiah brought me home from theater rehearsal after school.

  “She said he’s visiting from Atlanta, which is where she’s from originally. He’s her older sister’s son. He’s a senior, too.”

  “Why is he coming in the middle of the year? School is going to be over in just a few months. Wouldn’t he want to finish his senior year at home?”

  “She didn’t tell me much. Just that he was having some trouble, and she thought he’d do better here with her.”

  “What kind of trouble?” I frown.

  “I don’t know, Wren. I barely know the woman. She didn’t pour her soul out to me over cinnamon rolls. She just mentioned Talon was dealing with some things back home and is going to finish the school year up here. And from the deliveries she’s gotten, he’s making himself right at home.”

  She takes her coffee and heads back upstairs to the bedroom so she can drink it while reading in bed next to my father as he sleeps. Turning my attention back to the window, I notice a figure in a black coat standing with his back to my house, watching something get unloaded from the back of the truck. It will probably leave soon, which means I could go back to bed. But I feel strangely awake. I head back to my bedroom and get dressed. My time slot volunteering at the animal shelter isn’t for another few hours, but I could go early and take some of the pressure off the morning staff.

  The delivery truck is gone by the time I’m bundled up and heading out of the house. But the figure is still there. Only now, the long black coat is draped over the edge of the porch, and the boy I saw yesterday is crouched at the side of a motorcycle, meticulously rubbing a blue microfiber cloth to make the black body of the bike gleam. He catches me staring at him.

  “Have you never seen one before?” he asks.

  I’m taken aback by the arrogance in his voice, but something draws me across the yard toward him. His intensely blue eyes flicker up to me again.

  “I’ve never seen one come out of the back of a delivery truck at the crack of dawn,” I say.

  “What’s wrong? Didn’t get enough beauty sleep? Looks like you need it. The company was meant to deliver it yesterday. They didn’t, so they rectified their mistake,” he says.

  “How long have you had it?”

  “Two years.” He rises up to standing and faces me. “I don’t give out rides.”

  I cock my head at him. “That’s funny, I don’t think I asked for one.”

  “All girls do,” he says. “I’m just being pre-emptive.”

  “No, you’re being cocky and rude. Perhaps you should make an effort to get to know more people before you start making generalizations like that.” I head to my car but turn around a few steps later. “And by the way, around here, it’s not considered polite to wake up the entire neighborhood because you think someone needs to rectify a mistake.”

  Not bothering to give him a chance to respond, I cross the rest of the way to my car and get inside. I crank the engine and turn o
n the heater, waiting for it to warm up enough to take the chill out of the air inside the car. I don’t want to look his way when I drive past, but my eyes are drawn to him involuntarily. I remember the name my mother used when talking about him. Talon. It’s a fitting name for him. He glances up at me, but I look away.

  Rather than going straight to the animal shelter, I stop by the donut shop. I didn’t drink any of the coffee I brewed at the house, but now feel the need to wrap my hands around a cup. The interaction with my new neighbor left me breathless, but I don’t know why. Even long sips of dark roast swirled with caramel don’t quiet the strange shaky feeling inside me.

  The door leading back to the kitchen opens, and a familiar voice calls out to me.

  “Only you would willingly be up this early in the morning on a Saturday, Wren.”

  “Aren’t you here willingly?” I ask Samantha, one of my closest friends.

  She drops down in the booth across from me and slides a plate with a fresh cinnamon donut across the table.

  “I’m here to work,” she says. “That’s different.”

  “Well, I’m going to volunteer.”

  “Of course you are,” she mutters but smiles as she tears a piece of the donut away and pops it in her mouth. “You make looking good much harder for the rest of us.”

  “You bring the joy of deep-fried dough rolled in cinnamon and sugar to the masses,” I offer. “You shouldn’t underestimate the importance of that.”

  “True,” she says. “And don’t forget all the crafting supplies, too. Where would the stay-at-home mothers of preschoolers and Girl Scout leaders do without me?”

  “That’s right; you got a second job at the craft store. I’m sure there’s a lot more there then you’re letting on.”

  “You’re right,” she smiles. “Bree does stock really good quality art supplies. I plan to take full advantage of my employee discount.”

  “Do you do any type of art?” I ask.

  “No, but now seems as good a time as any to start. Oh, speaking of which. Bree told me something interesting. Apparently, her nephew is coming to stay with her for the rest of the semester. Sounds like you’re getting a new neighbor.”

  The mention of Talon quickens my heart unexpectedly. I force it away as a reaction to his smug arrogance.

  “I know. Actually, I just met him.”

  Samantha’s eyes widen. “You did? What’s he like? Don’t you think it’s strange he’s showing up in the middle of the school year? There’s got to be a story there.”

  “I can believe it. From the less than a minute we spoke this morning, I’m already ready for him to head right back where he came from. He is arrogant and entitled. He looked at me like he was expecting me to lap up milk from his hand. Obviously, he’s the kind of guy who thinks the world revolves around him.”

  Samantha eyes me suspiciously. “Wow. That sure is a lot of emotion for someone you only interacted with for less than a minute. You’re sure there isn’t a little something else happening there?”

  I take a long gulp of my coffee and roll my eyes at her. “Absolutely not. It makes me cringe just thinking about having another conversation with him. Besides, I have Isaiah.”

  “Yes, you do. For almost five years. Pretty impressive for high school,” she says.

  I stuff the rest of the donut in my mouth and stand. “I’ve got to get going. I’ll see you at school on Monday.”

  “See you then,” Samantha says. I’m almost to the door when she calls out to me again. “Wren?”

  I turn back to face her. “Hmmmm?”

  “Are you okay?” she asks.

  I force a smile. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  She shrugs. “Just seems like something’s bothering you.”

  I shake my head. “Nope. Just got some dogs to walk and a new litter of kittens to look after. See you Monday.”

  4

  Talon

  Who the hell does she think she is?

  Cold air stings what exposed skin it can find as I slice through it on the back of my bike. This is what I was waiting for yesterday when I first arrived, and the subject of a pointed phone call to the courier service last night. I arranged for it to be delivered almost as soon as I found out I was moving here. Having it with me is non-negotiable. Being with Aunt Bree is better than being with anyone else, but if I’m going to be spending the next few months in this slumbering little town, at least I’ll have my bike.

  I’d call it my freedom machine if I were old and didn’t have any self-respect.

  But I understand the sentiment. Speeding through the night on my bike, cutting down roads and back alleys like a ghost gives me a sense of release. The roar beneath me lets me think or makes my mind go clear. Whichever I need. Right now, it won’t get off the girl next door.

  I expected her to fall at my feet like every other girl who I get anywhere near. I feel pretty confident she’s not used to guys like me. The way she looked at my bike confirms it. There was a soft sweetness in her voice when she first spoke to me, the kind of powdery innocence I had to put a stop to immediately. But in an instant, that disappeared.

  She wasn’t impressed by me. She fucking called me arrogant.

  I push my bike into a faster speed and let the louder roar drown out the sound of her voice in my head. No one talks to me like that and gets away with it. Few have ever tried. Especially not girls with pink and white bedrooms.

  Yet I find myself intrigued by it. Not fawning over me is one thing, but the sass on her tongue is another. It frustrates the hell out of me, but I can’t let it go. This stay with my aunt might have just gotten more interesting.

  No one is supposed to have two first days of their senior year. I already had one. Back in September, when I strode into my private high school back home. I walked down the hallway under the hesitant eyes of the teachers and the hungry eyes of the girls. There was the new fascination in the freshmen and the lingering burn of the girls in my class who have watched and waited for three years or may have already had their turn.

  There’s some of that hunger in the eyes staring back at me as I enter this school for my second first day of senior year, but it comes mingled with an almost equal amount of distrust and uncertainty. Not that their reaction is unexpected. To say I stand out in these hallways is an understatement. Kids raised around nothing but the bucolic cocoon of their little town don’t know what to make of the safety pins embedded in my black jacket or that I’m wearing heavy black boots in the place of their work boots and running shoes.

  A girl in tight black jeans and heavy makeup lowers her eyelids and runs her tongue over her teeth. She’s obviously used to attention but is confused as I walk past. Not interested.

  My first stop is the front office, where I collect my schedule, and the principal hands me a thick spiral-bound book. ‘Student Handbook’ is even emblazoned across the front cover. I can’t help but let out a laugh.

  “Is this serious? An actual handbook?” I ask.

  “Absolutely, Mr. Vance. Guidelines and expectations are an important part of the student culture here, and you being new in our midst doesn’t release you from that responsibility. You’re expected to know and follow what’s contained in that handbook. If you do, I’m confident it will help you have a successful end of your senior year.”

  I nod slowly, as I back up from the desk. Holding the handbook up, I give a smile.

  “Then I guess I should get to reading. Sounds like compelling stuff.”

  Sweeping out of the office, I walk across the school to where he directed me to my first period class. I slip into the first open desk and flip through the handbook.

  A few seconds later, a sharp intake of breath to the side brings my eyes over to the door. The girl from the pink and white bedroom is clearly not happy to see me sharing her first class of the day.

  She recovers quickly and lifts her chin, looking past me as she hurries to her own seat. A few seconds later, the teacher comes into the room
in far more of a flustered rush than the early hour justifies. He sets down a stack of papers and folders, sifting through them for a few seconds before he looks up and sees me. A bright smile crosses his face.

  “That’s right. We are welcoming a new student today. Everyone, this is Talon Vance. He just moved into town and will be joining us for the rest of the semester. Talon, would you like to stand up and tell everyone a little something about yourself?”

  “No. But thank you,” I answer.

  He stares back at me for a second, blinking a few times.

  “Alright, then. Well, have you gotten a chance to look around and get used to the school?”

  “No, sir. This is my first class of the day. I haven’t been here very long.”

  I see people around me snicker, and out of the corner of my eye, I see the girl shift uncomfortably in her seat and roll her eyes. She leans to the side and murmurs something to a girl who hasn’t taken her eyes off me since I sat down.

  “If you’d like, I can have somebody bring you around and get you acclimated. I’ve looked over your course work from your old school, and it seems you’ve got the hang of things. Missing a class shouldn’t cause you any trouble,” the teacher continues.

  “I should hope not. I think last semester’s advanced calculus studies adequately prepared me for a high school trigonometry course.”

  “Good. Now, let’s see.” He looks around the classroom, and his eyes brighten again. “From what I understand, you live next door to another of our class members. Since you are probably already familiar with each other, she’s a perfect choice. Wren, I don’t think you need today’s review session. Why don’t you take this hour to bring our new friend around the school?”

  She looks like she wants to protest but can’t come up with anything to say. Finally, she nods.

  “Yes, Mr. Whittaker.”