Bad Boy Rebels [1-3] (Kissing Benton, Meeting the Bad Boy Rebels, Going Undercover)

by Jessica Sorensen

  Panic flares through my veins, but I manage a small smile. “Sure. Yeah. Go. I’ll be fine.”

  She smiles, relieved. “I won’t be long. Text me if you need anything.” Then she spins around and gets swallowed up by the crowd.

  I stand there, watching her go, highly aware that people are still gossiping about me.

  “Why is she here?” a girl from my English class, whose name I can’t remember, shoots me a nasty look from the beer pong table. “I didn’t know Miss Know It All came to parties.”

  Miss Know It All?

  “Yeah, seriously,” her friend agrees, scooping up a shot with her eyes narrowed at me.

  “We should ask Benton to make her go home,” the girl who spoke firsts glowers at me from over the brim of the plastic cup she’s holding.

  Looking away, I frantically search the thickening crowd for some of my friends on the cheerleading squad. But I can’t see any of them.

  “God, she thinks she’s so better than everyone,” the girl holding the cup says. “Did you see how Taylor just left her? Even her best friend can’t stand her.”

  My stomach clenches. Is that how people see me? That I think I’m better than everyone? Is that what Taylor thinks of me?

  “Ignore them. People are stupid,” Benton says, startling me.

  I honestly thought he took off right after Taylor did, that he wouldn’t want to be seen standing with me. “

  My gaze slides to him. “Weren’t you saying the same thing like ten minutes ago?”

  He winces. “Yeah, sorry about that. I was just being paranoid. But, in my defense, someone did bring a newbie partier to my last party. And just like I said, he got trashed and couldn’t handle his shit and ended up panic drunk dialing his mom who called the cops. Lucky we got everyone cleared out before they showed up, but it was way too close, you know.”

  I nod, even though I don’t know. “If it makes you feel any better, I won’t get trashed and lose my… shit.” I’m not much of a swearer and stammer over the swear word. But hopefully, he doesn’t notice my dorky move.

  Benton presses his lips together, restraining a laugh, completely noticing my spazztastic behavior. My cheeks feel like they’re on fire as I look away, embarrassed. He chuckles, but promptly clears his throat and goes back to being serious.

  “Here.” He hands me the other cup he’s holding. “It shouldn’t get you too trashed.”

  I peek inside the cup filled with red liquid and chunks of strawberries. “What is it?”

  “Mostly just punch, but I did put a splash of rum in there, so you can at least say that you tried a drink at your first party. But it shouldn’t get you drunk.”

  “So no rum, vodka, and whiskey for me?”

  He eyes me over. “You don’t seem like a rum, vodka, and whiskey kind of girl.”

  “Taylor didn’t seem too happy about the concoction either,” I feel the need to point out. But then I realize I’m probably coming off bitchy. “Sorry.”

  His brows drip. “For what?”

  I shrug. “For being rude to you.”

  He gives me a really look. “I don’t think you could be rude if you tried.”

  A stressed breath eases from my lips. “That’s not true. I was rude to you at the front door. And I’m really sorry about that. What I said… I shouldn’t have said that. I was, I don’t know, just trying to prove a point or something.”

  Confusion clouds his eyes. “What point were you trying to prove?”

  I shrug, staring down at my feet. “That people don’t really know me. Not the real me, anyway. But how I did it… What I said… I never should’ve used my parents’ deaths like that.”

  He grows quiet and when I glance up, he’s intensely assessing me, like he doesn’t quite believe I’m real. I’m not sure why he’s looking at me like that. Instead of shrinking from his scrutiny, I find myself wanting him to crack me open and see what’s inside. I don’t know why. I don’t know him very well. Perhaps that’s the reason. Maybe it’s easier to show someone you don’t know who you truly are because they don’t have such high, set-in-permanent-ink expectations.

  His lips part. “Do you want—”

  “Yo Benton! Some girl just threw up in your kitchen!” A guy shouts, shattering the moment into a thousand pieces.

  Benton blinks, like he’s coming out of a daze, then glances over at the kitchen and back at me. “Um, yeah, I have to go take care of that,” he says then hightails it away from me like he thinks I have cooties.

  I watch him go, wondering what he was going to say before we got interrupted. Did I want to what? Go somewhere and talk? Go somewhere and kiss? Drink the drink he made for me? Leave his party? The list of possibilities is endless, but I’m probably too clueless to ever figure out what a guy like Benton would ever say to a girl like me.

  Sighing, I look down at the drink in my hand and my overthinking mind kicks in. Isn’t there some rule that you aren’t supposed to drink a drink you didn’t make yourself? I doubt Benton put anything in it, but I still feel super paranoid. My insecurities only grow the longer I stand there, watching people have fun. I want to move, do something, but I don’t know where to start.

  Do something, Zhara. Break out of your comfort zone. Stop being so afraid.

  Squaring my shoulders, I head to make myself a drink since I’m too scared to drink the one Benton gave me. But as I’m turning around, the girl that was talking about me earlier slams her shoulder into mine. My drink goes sailing from my hands and spills down the front of my tank top, staining the white fabric.

  Her lips twist to a smirk. “Whoopsie. I didn’t see you there.”

  My fingers curl around the now empty cup, crunching the plastic.

  You’re a nice girl, Zhara, my mom’s voice haunts my thoughts. You’re always so forgiving. It’s one of my favorite things about you.

  I smash my lips together and suck in a breath, fighting the overwhelming urge to knock the drink she’s carrying all over her. “It’s okay. I’m sure it was an accident.”

  “Oh yeah, it totally was.” She rolls her eyes at me before spinning on her heels, her hair flicking me in the face. “Told you she wouldn’t do anything about it,” she says to her friend. “She thinks she’s too perfect to get mad.”

  “What a loser,” her friend says through her laughter.

  Tears sting my eyes as their words nick through the shield I try so hard to keep around me.

  Don’t let them see you cry. It’ll only make it worse.

  Breathe in. Breathe out. They’re only words. And words can’t hurt you.

  But no matter how many measured breaths I take, tears manage to escape my eyes. I consider running for the door and leaving, but a friend of ours dropped us off here. Walking isn’t an option since I live over fifteen miles away. I could call Loki or Jessamine to come pick me up, but then they’ll know I came to a party. I don’t think I’m ready for them to know that yet—to show them who I really am.

  Lowering my head, I hurry toward the hallway to find the bathroom before I start sobbing. The long line forming in front of a shut door makes it pretty easy to spot. I think about pushing my way to the front, but my polite manners take over and I go to the end of the line. Keeping my head down, I breathe in and out, over and over again.

  You’re fine. You’re always fine. Suck it up and put on a smile.

  The deep breaths are calming and my tears almost dry until a couple of guys stagger passed me and one gropes my ass.

  Something explodes inside me, like a growing wave about to crash against the shore.

  I shove him away from me, hard enough that he bumps into the wall. He blinks at me, his shock mirroring mine. Mortified by my behavior, I race to the front of the line and push my way into the bathroom as the person that was in there walks out.

  “Hey! What the hell!” the girl at the front of the line shouts. “It’s not your—”

  “I don’t care!” I shout at her, then slam the door shut and twist the lock.


  My legs shake as I grip the edge of the counter and try to catch my breath. I’ve never been that rude to someone before. Normally, I would’ve let people cut in front of me. But I couldn’t take it anymore. The laughing, the ridicule, the awful feeling of everyone thinking I don’t belong here. All I was only trying to do was start over, have some fun, explore life, but apparently, no one thinks I should.

  Ignore them. People are stupid. Benton said it so casually, as if ignoring what people think is as simple as breathing, But I’m quickly learning I’m terrible at not caring about what people think of me. Just like I’m terrible at breathing at the right moments.

  I continue to cry, overwhelmed with hurt, fear, and shame. People bang on the door and yell at me to get out. I feel bad, but I’m not about to walk out and let everyone witness my meltdown.

  After about ten minutes of relentless knocking, people give up and stop trying to get in. The small, narrow bathroom grows quiet except for the music flowing from the living room and my gasping sobs. The silence helps me settle down. I twist around to turn splash some cold water on my face, but then catch sight of my reflection in the mirror.

  “Oh my Gosh,” I mutter in horror. “I look awful.”

  Awful might be an understatement. My cheeks and eyes are swollen and red from all the crying I’ve done. My hair doesn’t look sexy like Taylor said but like a matted rat’s nest. And the giant red stain on my shirt looks like I spilled a vat of blood all over me.

  Panicking that someone will see me like this, I quickly splash some water on my face, comb my fingers through my hair, and then slip off my shirt and dip it under the faucet. I scrub at the stain for a while, using soap and water. But all that seems to do is soak my shirt. Great. I didn’t think this through very well, which is very unlike me.

  Giving up on getting the stain out, I ransack the drawers for a blow drier but come up empty-handed. There’s no ceiling fan, so I open the window and hold the shirt outside, praying the light breeze will dry the fabric enough that I won’t have to walk out of here looking like I just got done participating in a wet T-shirt contest.

  “Would you shut up?” Benton’s clipped voice suddenly floats through the other side of the door. “I’m taking care of it, okay?”

  “Hurry up,” a girl whines. “I have to go like really, really bad.”

  He mutters something low enough that I can’t understand him, but it must make the girl angry because she snaps, “Screw you, Benton. I’m never coming to one of your parties again.”

  “And they say wishes don’t come true.” His arrogant attitude rings through his tone.

  “I hate you!” The girl yells. There’s loud smack and then something hits the door hard. “Why are you such an asshole all the time?”

  “I have my reasons,” Benton replies, sounding in pain.

  “Well, one day everyone’s going to get tired of your shit,” she says. “Then what’re you going to do?”

  A beat of silence goes by and then soft bangs hit the door.

  “I can’t deal with this shit anymore,” Benton mumbles. “I don’t even know why I do this. I hate all these fucking people.”

  When no one answers, I wonder if he’s talking to himself. Not wanting to impose on a moment he probably thinks is private, I turn away and focus on drying my shirt. But then I hear the lock click and whirl around just in time to see the door swing open.

  Benton storms into the bathroom, his eyes flashing with anger, his hair askew. “I don’t give a shit what your deal is. Get the hell out of my bathroom….” He trails off when he sees me, his gaze sweeping up and down my body. Amusement fills his eyes. “Okay. When they said someone locked themselves in the bathroom, I didn’t think I was going to walk into this.”

  It takes me a second to process what’s happening, that I’m wearing nothing but my white and blue polka dot bra and my shorts, and that Benton is more than noticing.

  “Shit!” The curse word rolls off my tongue as I spin around to face the window. I start to bring my shirt back in to put it on, but the wind kicks up and my fumbling fingers lose grasp of the fabric.

  I watch in horror as my shirt blows through the parking lot and disappears on the other side of the railroad tracks just across the street. I feel like I should be crying—and I want to—but I think I might be in shock or something.

  God, could this night get any worse?

  All I wanted to do was try something different, but I failed epically. Maybe it’s for the better. Maybe this disastrous night is my punishment for the final words I said to my mom.

  Maybe I deserve this.

  Locked In

  I expect him to leave and let me live my shame in peace, but he doesn’t.

  Awkward silence fills the air and I cover my face with my hands, shaking my head at myself. “God, I suck at being a party girl.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he says. “But it’s not.”

  “Easy for you to say,” I mumble. “Everyone likes you.”

  He laughs hollowly. “No one likes me, Zhara. I’m an ass.”

  “Your friends do.”

  “Yeah, well they’re my friends. They kind of have to.”

  “Well, at least people don’t make fun of you.” I cringe as a warm breeze blows through the open window, tickling my bare flesh and painfully reminding me I’m still shirtless. “Everyone thinks I’m this uptight, good girl who doesn’t know how to have fun.”

  “Is that why you came here?” he asks condescendingly. “To prove to everyone that you know how to have fun.”

  “No. I came here to prove that to myself.”

  “Oh.”

  Silence stretches between us again and then the door clicks shut. Thinking he’s left, I turn around, then startle back.

  Not only is he still there but he doesn’t have on a shirt.

  I quickly cross my arms over my chest and shuffle back until my back collides with the wall. “What are you doing?”

  He tosses me the shirt, but I keep my arms folded and it pegs me in the face.

  He heaves a frustrated sigh, scoops up the shirt, and holds it out to me. “Would you just take the damn shirt? I’m trying to be a gentleman, something that doesn’t happen very often.”

  I hesitate, then grab the shirt from him. “Thanks.” I hug the shirt against my chest. “Can you turn around while I put it on?”

  His gaze flicks up and down my body then he presses his lips together and faces the closed door. I hurry and tug the shirt over my head, my heart thrashing in my chest, about to burst with panic and a bit of anxious excitement. I’m not sure where the excitement’s stemming from, at least that’s what I attempt to convince myself. Deep down, I know it’s from the fact that I’m standing in the same room with Benton while I have my shirt off. Sure, he’s not looking at me and yeah, I couldn’t handle it if he turned around, but the situation is new and different and breathes air into my lungs for the first time in a long time.

  “All right, you can turn around now,” I tell him after I get the shirt on.

  The fabric of his shirt smells like cologne and laundry detergent and kind of like the strawberry drink he gave me earlier. It smells good, like really, amazingly, I-could-breathe-it-instead-of-air good. I wonder if all guy’s shirts smell this good.

  When Benton faces me again, his eyes briefly move up and down my body again before he focuses his intense gaze on me. “So, what happened?”

  I fiddle with the hem of his shirt, which reaches me mid-thigh and covers up my shorts. “Nothing.”

  He stares me down, leaning against the door and crossing his arms. The movement makes me hyperaware that he’s shirtless, and I can’t help but notice Benton is fit and toned with lean muscles that carve his stomach and arms. He’s nice to look at. Like really, really nice. I’ve never thought I had a type before, but I think that might be because I never hung around anyone outside of my circle.

  Benton suddenly arches a brow and gives me this knowing, arr
ogant look. That’s when I realize I’m openly gawking at him.

  I tear my attention away from him and focus on the mirror, trying to get a grip over myself.

  “You good?” Benton asks with a hint of laughter in his tone.

  I bite down on my lip, my skin blazing like a wildfire. “Yeah, I’m fine.” When my voice cracks, I consider maybe jumping out the window. Anything to get out of this awkward situation.

  “Okay then.” He pauses and I cross my fingers that maybe he’ll leave and let me out of this uncomfortable situation. But he stays put. “So, why were you hiding out in here and hanging your shirt out the window?”

  “Because I spilled my drink all over myself,” I lie, not wanting to cause any drama by mentioning the girl who purposefully bumped into me.

  “Did you spill it on yourself? Or did someone else?”

  How the heck does he know? “Does it really matter?” I dare a glance at him. “It’s just a shirt.”

  “So what if it’s just a shirt. If someone spilled a drink on you on purpose, it should matter.” He straightens his stance. “You can’t just let people walk all over you.”

  “I don’t.” The lie aches in my chest, heavy and weighted as the pressure builds. “I just don’t like getting mad about silly things. And besides, didn’t you just tell me that people suck and that I should ignore them?”

  “You should to a point, but you shouldn’t let people shove you around and spill drinks all over you.” He shakes his head, seeming angrier than he should be over the situation. “There’s a difference between ignoring some stupid asshole running off their mouths and letting people hurt you.”

  I hug my arms around myself. “No one hurt me. They just bumped into me and made me spill my drink. It’s not a big deal and I don’t know why you’re acting like it is. You don’t even like me.”

  He shrugs, not arguing. “I don’t hate you or anything.”