Loving the Bad Boy

by Shanae Johnson

  Loving The Bad Boy

  Hidden Hollows Book 4

  Shanae Johnson

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Shanae Johnson

  More from Sweet Heart Books

  Dedication

  For my Gunston Middle School Hornets;

  the staff who made me feel like a part of the family,

  and the students who kept me on my toes!

  ~Love Ms. Seneb

  1

  Cat

  A chill draft entered the room even though the window was latched closed. The sun, present a moment ago, disappeared behind a cloud. Catalina Garcia folded her arms over her chest, hugging herself tight as a shiver went down her spine. Like the sound of ice cubes bumping into the sides of a tall glass of sweet tea, a crinkling sounded from the action of the paper-thin hospital gown.

  Cat shifted on the exam table. The paper bed lining met the paper of her gown, making the same sound as the ice maker on her fridge when she set it to shaved ice. She shivered again.

  With the amount of insurance and copays her family paid for her medical needs, she wondered why Hidden Hollows General couldn’t afford cotton gowns and sheets.

  The Children’s Hospital of Raleigh had had cloth gowns with bears and hearts. Their gowns were made of a polyester blend but had hung below Cat’s knees at age sixteen. With the childhood disease busy wracking her body, her growth spurt had been delayed. Two years later, while in remission for the first time, she’d shot up to a whopping five foot three and a half. And yes, that half an inch was incredibly important. But as a twenty-year-old, she supposed adults in the Oncology wing didn’t warrant cotton or even polyester.

  Cat tugged at the edges of the paper gown as she watched the door of her exam room. The clouds moved, and a ray of sun shone in through the window. Outside, a flock of birds headed south. It was still fall, but winter would be coming soon. She supposed the birds were getting an early start on their migration.

  They were lucky. Cat had never been out of the state. She rarely left her hometown of Hidden Hollows unless it was to go to a hospital in the capital where specialists worked. She’d spent a good portion of her childhood in Raleigh, but she hadn’t seen much of it. Her daily excursions had been around the inside of a small hospital room painted happy colors, like soft purples and pinks with smiling Disney characters etched in the walls. All the while, poison had been pumped into her bloodstream to attack the villainous cells in her body.

  The blackbirds outside the window lifted off from the branches of the trees, causing a few of the orange and brown leaves to fall. Subconsciously, Cat touched the ends of her hair. Her brown locks were nearly to her ears, the longest they’d been in years. Maybe this time her hair would actually reach her shoulders before—

  The door snicked open. The rotund form of Dr. O’Malley hustled inside. The man reminded her of Santa Claus, but with a ginger beard instead of snowy white. His patients often joked that no one wanted to be on his naughty list.

  Dr. O’Malley was followed by Nurse Al-Kryadi. Her periwinkle blue hijab matched the scrubs she wore. Nurse Al, as her patients liked to call her, had followed Cat over from the children’s cancer wing to the adult wing.

  Not purposefully. They’d both just been here that long. It was a promotion for Nurse Al. Personally, Cat was hoping to be handed a pink slip that would say her time here was up.

  In the good way. Not in the morbid, hey-your-cancer-is-back way. Though she’d grown to hate happy pastels in her youth, she desperately wanted pink to be a good sign today.

  “How are you feeling, Catalina?” asked Dr. O’Malley.

  Cat hated this part. The small talk before the news was delivered. At least now she could hear her prognosis without her parents. Her mom would purse her lips in what she insisted was a relaxed and supportive smile. Cat’s father would square his broad shoulders as though he was ready to take on her disease in hand-to-hand combat. Meanwhile, he’d hold her hand in his, never realizing he was squeezing too hard.

  Right now, neither of her parents were here. Cat had insisted on coming on her own to this check-up. One of the perks of being a grown woman. Even though she did still live at home.

  She was still be dependent on her mami and papi for food, clothes, and shelter—having been too sick most of her life to hold down a job. But she was old enough to hear her diagnosis on her own without having to have the added burden of her parents’ worry settle on her shoulders.

  It was the only form of rebellion she’d ever tried—kicking them out of the doctor’s office. Being sick most of her life had left her too busy for any of the regular forms of teenage rebellion. She’d always felt too thin to try for wearing provocative clothing. She’d always been too tired to try and sneak out of the house. And even though she had her driver’s license and her own car, everything in this small town was within walking distance, so no long road trips with girlfriends either.

  Cat turned her attention back to the medical professionals. Her gaze focused on the clipboard in Dr. O’Malley’s hands. The forms were the plain, standard white. No pink in sight.

  “I don’t know how I am,” said Cat, fully aware that her mother would have cut her with a look if she’d heard that sass. “Why don’t you tell me?”

  Dr. O’Malley’s bushy red brows rose in surprise. Nurse Al tilted her head as she regarded Cat. Cat tugged her lip into her mouth.

  This was another reason why she wasn’t rebellious. She knew these people were here to help her. She knew they were committed to doing everything in their power to keep her well. And she knew FERPA regulations or not, that they wouldn’t hesitate to report back to her parents if she did get out of line.

  “What’s the prognosis?” Cat said.

  “The results are inconclusive as yet,” said the doctor.

  Cat turned to look out the window as Dr. O’Malley kept speaking. This was a common enough occurrence. It meant there’d be more tests. More waiting. More wondering whether she had a pastel future or a dark, bleak one.

  Outside, the birds were gone. Cat spied a few kids playing in the park. A little boy and girl kicked a ball around, passing it back and forth to each other until they kicked it into a goal. A man and a woman sat on a bench. The couple’s heads came together, and they snuck a kiss while the children were distracted.

  Cat had never done either of those things. She hadn’t had the energy to play outside much as a kid. She’d never kissed a guy. Heck, she’d never even had the opportunity to like a guy. Her guy friends in the cancer ward weren’t exactly the hunky type, not with a disease eating away at them from the inside out. Her illness had held her back from so much, and it was still refusing to let her go.

  “I did everything I was supposed to do.” Cat’s voice was softer than a baby’s sigh, but it stopped Dr. O’Malley’s rhetoric cold. “I did chemo. I took my meds like clockwork. I stayed inside and out of the sun. I even gave up meat, gluten, and food additives. That was not popular with a Hispanic mother, let me tell you.”

  But Silvina Garcia had taken to tofu like it was maize gifted to her straight from the Aztec gods. Enchiladas de Pollo became
stuffed with tempeh. Chicken fajitas were transformed into seitan fajitas. And pupusas were stuffed with TVP or textured vegetable protein. Surprisingly, their neighbors had begun declining to come to dinner parties at the Garcia’s.

  Dr. O’Malley looked down at his clipboard. Nurse Al held her gaze. They were both trained to deal with sick kids and ailing adults. They knew to let the tantrum get out before they tried reason.

  But this wasn’t a tantrum. It was a legitimate complaint. It deserved a thoughtful answer.

  “I’m a good person,” said Cat. “Why does this keep happening to me?”

  First childhood leukemia at age six, which she’d battled with chemo and won. But it was back at thirteen. She’d been in remission for five years. Five years where she’d focused on her education for a future that wasn’t promised.

  And here she was again, waiting for results. Waiting to see if she’d be allowed to go outside and play with other kids. Hoping that she had enough of a future to sit on a park bench and be kissed by a guy she liked. She’d rather a round of chemo to this. The waiting, the not knowing . . . it was sickening.

  “We don’t know that it’s back,” said Nurse Al. “Dr. O’Malley is being cautious until we know more.”

  Cautious? That’s what Cat had been her whole life. Surrounded by a piece of yellow-and-black tape while wearing gowns that opened at the back.

  “The test will be back at the end of the week,” said Dr. O’Malley. “Then we’ll have a definitive answer.”

  Definitive? There were no guarantees. They all knew that, but they never said it.

  Cat realized she would never get an all-clear. The tape would always follow her. The paper gowns were a permanent part of her wardrobe.

  She might get the all-clear on Friday. But she would always have to be back for another check-up. It could come back. If not this time, then the next time. Or the one after that.

  Well, she was done holding her breath. She was done waiting around for tests. This was real life; the only one she would get, and she wanted to do something with it.

  Fly south. Go out and play. Kiss a guy. A list was forming in her head.

  Dr. O’Malley was still talking, cautioning her about what to do between now and the end of the week. But Cat was done waiting. She was throwing caution to the wind. Starting with the paper gown she wore.

  Well, she wouldn’t throw that piece of paper to the wind just yet. After the doctor and nurse left the room, she’d wad up the paper covering her. Then she’d whip out another sheet and start a list of everything she planned to do. Everything she’d always wanted to do but never had the opportunity to try.

  2

  West

  “It says here you didn’t graduate high school.”

  Westley York watched as Arnold Owens dabbed his thumb on his tongue to turn the page of the work application. Owens’s tongue was orange, likely from the half-eaten bag of Cheetos open on his desk. West’s stomach turned as Owens smudged the Cheeto-and-saliva edge of his paperwork. If Owens dared to hand the application back, West would refuse to take it.

  West also refused to take no for an answer. He needed this job. More than anything, he hated that his future lay in the hands of his old high school math teacher.

  Math had not been West’s strong subject in school. None of the subjects had been his strong suit. As a teen West had had far too many adult responsibilities to contend with. Solving for X or Y was not high on his priority list when he had to solve the constant problem of putting food on the table.

  The last time he’d seen Mr. Owens had been when West had walked out in the middle of a Geometry exam. West hadn’t gotten past the first page of equations before he’d crumpled the test and headed for the door. Owens had blocked his way.

  Not because the underpaid and overworked teacher had seen anything in West. Owens simply liked for all rules to be followed, and his number one rule had been that no one enters or leaves while a test is out.

  West knew he wouldn’t pass that test. More importantly, he knew that finding the area of shapes would never serve him in the real world. And he’d told Owens so. For the last seven years, calculating the angle of a triangle had played no part in his life. But now that he sat across from his old teacher with a rectangular desk between them, West saw that he’d miscalculated.

  “It appears to me,” said Owens, “that you don’t meet the qualifications for a position to work here, son.”

  West hated it when anyone called him son. Mainly because he’d had to be his own parent since he came out of the womb. But he let the remark slide as though it were headed down the slope of an isosceles triangle—See? He remembered something. West had to let Owens’ remark slide. He needed this job.

  “I dropped out of high school in the middle of my senior year,” West said in response to Owens’ query. “But you’ll see that I earned my GED. It’s the white section without the orange stain.”

  Mr. Owens’ orange fingerprints were all over West’s arrest paperwork as well as his probation paperwork, and the background check documents, which tattled about his past transgressions. But his GED diploma copy remained pristine and untouched.

  Owens whistled low. “Long rap sheet here, York.”

  “You’ll note that every charge was dropped,” countered West.

  The ones before he’d turned eighteen and became a legal adult were. His juvie record was sealed, thanks to small favors. The adult charges he’d pled no contest to, which wasn’t exactly a guilty plea, but still made him look guilty as sin, were still there.

  West wasn’t sorry for his actions. He’d do them again in a heartbeat. He had no doubt that if anyone had been in his situation, with as few choices as he’d had, and the parental neglect he’d been saddled with since birth, they would have done the same thing.

  West had accepted the punishment the courts had given him when he was eighteen. No time in jail but a fine, which had taken two years to pay off. Along with a seven-year probation sentence. That probation sentence would be up at the end of the week. After that, all hint of charges would magically disappear from his rap sheet.

  But he needed to secure a job for that. A legitimate one. One where they collected taxes and covered part of his health care. He’d had the responsibilities of an adult for years. Now it was time that he acted like one.

  “Technically,” West continued, “by law, I didn’t have to offer that information on the application since there was no guilty plea. But since this whole town thinks they know my past, I put it there in good faith.”

  Owens yanked the thick glasses from his face and peered at West. “You want credit for admitting the truth?”

  West wasn’t sure if the move was all for show. He doubted the man could see him without those thick lenses. West grit his teeth and tried to suck in a calming breath through his pursed lips.

  He envisioned clouds. It was part of a meditation YouTube series his sister had told him about. Ways to get his temper under control. Because it would be a bad move to bite the head off the man who literally held his future in his crunchy hands.

  Then again, what had West been thinking when he’d applied to become a security guard for the very high school he had dropped out of years ago? It was the only move he had. It was the only thing he was qualified to do in this town.

  He had no credentials to recommend him other than his history as a bad boy, the rumors surrounding him and his dysfunctional family, and his reputation as someone you didn’t want to mess with. Security for the school was ideal for him. After all, it was due to protecting someone else that got him those criminal charges in the first place. He was good at protecting others, even when it might put him in harm’s way. He might as well try to get paid for it. Legitimately.

  Now that Owens was out of the classroom and in administration, it would appear West had no choice but to make nice with the former mathematician. Another look at the smug, orange grin of his former teacher and West was ready to repeat his actions from years ago an
d walk out the door. But then what?

  He knew he could make more money as a bouncer, but that would require working nights. He no longer had that time to spare with his new limitations. He had to be in the house at sundown or face consequences. At least for one more week.

  When the week was up and he was gainfully employed, things would change. They had to. He couldn’t pay for the rest of his life.

  And so West pictured floating clouds and smiling babies munching on Cheetos. He reminded himself that he needed this job.

  Owens scrubbed his cheek, leaving behind more orange flakes. “I’m just not sure I can trust a criminal—”

  “Never convicted,” West interrupted.

  “—with citizen’s valuables—”

  “They’re kids.”

  “—in your power.”

  That was it. Time to call the man’s bluff.

  “Mr. Owens, I know the only other person who applied for this position is Rolland Keller. The man is a hundred pounds overweight and asthmatic.”

  Owens leaned back in his plush chair, brushing more Cheetos flakes on the paper. “This school has a reputation to uphold.”

  West leaned back too, faking a nonchalance he didn’t feel. He hated that he was reduced to begging. So, he didn’t. He did what his neglectful parents taught him. He subtly threatened.

  “Of course,” said West. “I understand. I’m sure you’ve given me a fair shot. And as the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission statement says on the application, you aren’t discriminating. I’ll be sure and bring this up with my probation officer later this afternoon. Thank you for your time, Mr. Owens.”