Loving the Bad Boy

by Shanae Johnson

  West York? What a romantic name. She could imagine two women facing off against one another, long lashes caked with heavy mascara, blood-red lipstick reflecting the studio lights, short dresses riding up as they took menacing steps towards each other, all while both declared that West York was their lover.

  A man like West York definitely belonged in a telenovela. Surrounded by lights, camera, action, and definitely a love triangle. The women would certainly look like supermodels. Over six feet tall with size six figures and lush hair that fell at least six inches past their shoulder blades.

  They would look nothing like Cat with her short legs, short stature, short hair. She wouldn’t likely be an extra in his life. Except that he was rescuing her. True, from an old security guard. But it was still a rush as she scooped up her backpack and the ball and took off with West.

  The rush she got from running away from an authority figure, even though he moved so slow he’d never catch them if they were walking, was better than the time she’d had fudge ice cream with sprinkles on top. This rush didn’t just go to her head, it flushed her cheeks. It went across her shoulders, down to that sensitive spot at her elbow crease, and spread out to her fingertips where he, West York, had grasped her palm with his own.

  They ran until they were off the school grounds and back on Main Street. People meandered down the street, minding their own business, focused on their everyday lives. None realized that something had just changed in Cat. She felt alive for the first time.

  “West,” she said breathlessly, even though they’d stopped running. “That’s your name, right?”

  He didn’t answer. He placed his hand on her low back and turned to look over his shoulder. Even though he wasn’t holding her against his chest, Cat felt safe being in the cone of his protection.

  “I’m Cat.”

  He turned then. His eyes were a cross between a pale blue and gray. They were entirely mesmerizing. Could it be called platinum? West looked at her with that gray gaze. He let go of her hand. To Cat, it felt like the loss of a limb.

  “Stay out of trouble, Cat.”

  “What if I want a little trouble?”

  “Don’t.”

  That platinum gaze narrowed on her, sending a metallic shiver down her spine. West stepped to her, invading her space. He’d likely done it as a move of intimidation, but what he didn’t realize was that Cat liked the feel of being crowded into him.

  “A bad reputation is harder to break than a nose,” he said.

  His voice was cold. His warm breath on her forehead made her shiver.

  “Be a good girl.”

  He was trying to intimidate her with his size. Problem was, she liked him looming over her. It made her feel wild, like she could do things she’d never dreamed of doing.

  The only reputation she had was that of the sick girl. The weak girl who couldn’t participate in anything because she might die the next day. The lonely girl no guy had ever looked twice at because they didn’t understand that cancer wasn’t contagious like cooties. Even though she kept catching it.

  West York hadn’t looked at her like that. Not once. He’d looked at her like—well, like she was a little crazy. But he hadn’t once looked at her like she was sick.

  He wasn’t looking at her at all any longer. He was turning away. And now he was walking away.

  She didn’t know what to say to get him back. Clearly, he wasn’t interested in her physically. Not if he was meant for the supermodels of telenovelas. She wondered if maybe he had a long-lost twin. Like a love triangle, secret twins was a plot twist of many Hispanic soap operas. She was the unattractive girl who gets noticed by the town heartthrob, because that’s clearly who West York was.

  “Catalina? Is that you?”

  Cat turned to see who called her name. She didn’t have a lot of friends in town. Most people her age were in college or had moved away. No one from the short time she was in school had ever made any attempt to stay in touch with her.

  But Cat remembered Rose Weber. Rose was the daughter of the town florist. She’d always worn fresh flowers in her hair back in middle school. Cat had kept her distance from the tall blonde. Like her name suggested, Rose was pretty, but she had sharp thorns.

  “I haven’t seen you in years,” said Rose as she shut the door of the flower shop. “I thought you were—”

  “Dead?”

  Another person may have been embarrassed. Cat wasn’t sure Rose knew the emotion. Instead of any awkward babbling, Rose laughed.

  “Come on.” Rose tugged Cat’s arm. “Let me buy you a drink.”

  Normally, Cat would’ve declined. She didn’t drink. But having her first drink would make a good list item. So she followed Rose across the street into Miller’s Tavern.

  “Was that West York you were talking to?” asked Rose.

  “Um, yeah.”

  Cat sidled up to the bar. She had never sidled up to anything before. When the bartender asked for her order, she repeated what she’d heard in a telenovela, but in English.

  “Whatever’s on tap.”

  The bartender nodded, filled a glass, and handed it to Cat. Cat eyed the fizzy drink with skepticism. When she saw Rose take a healthy swig, she decided to follow suit—and nearly choked to death.

  “You know he’s bad news,” Rose said over Cat’s hacking cough.

  “Who?” Cat managed after getting in air. “West? He was really nice to me.”

  “Must’ve wanted to take you home, if you know what I mean.”

  Cat was pretty sure Rose meant that as an insult, but she was thrilled by the idea of West being interested in her at all. “Wow, you think?”

  “Don’t take that as a compliment, honey. I heard from Camryn Larson, who heard from Amy McGee, that Emma Day went out with him twice and had to leave town junior year, for reasons I’m sure you can guess.”

  Cat didn’t know what Rose was saying. She didn’t know any of those names. And she had a hard time believing that a man that told her to be a good girl was out ruining other girls.

  “You guys talking about West York?” asked a guy in a business suit at the end of the bar. “I heard he got Emma Day pregnant, and they have a love child that they gave up for adoption.”

  “You talking about West York?” The bartender came back up to where they sat at the bar. “You know he got charged with possession when he was still a teenager.”

  “Yeah, but they had to drop those charges,” said Rose. “There was no actual proof.” She turned back to Cat. “But everyone knows he did it.”

  “They didn’t drop the charges,” said The Suit. “He pled no contest and got probation.”

  Cat’s head spun as she listened. “But he said he was getting a job at the school.”

  “I don’t see how when he dropped out,” said Rose. “No one’s going to hire an ex-con, drug-dealing baby daddy. I’m glad I came to you when I did. You would’ve been his next victim.”

  Why didn’t that scare Cat? West hadn’t made her feel like a victim. He’d made her feel alive and safe.

  “Here.” The businessman walked towards Cat from his end of the bar. He held up a bill and motioned to the bartender. “Have a drink on me.”

  The Suit looked like the type of guy Cat should be into. He had on pressed slacks and sensible shoes. Her parents would approve. Though maybe not of the day drinking.

  He sidled up next to her and began peppering her with questions. Wow, someone was hitting on her. In a bar. That was two list items to check off.

  Although the alcohol wasn’t anything like she thought it would be. It was nothing but bitter carbonation. Wasn’t this supposed to be fun?

  Still, she wasn’t going to let that bitterness stop her. She’d taken handfuls of pills and had toxins pumped into her body. She could handle a glass of fermented grains. So down the hatch it went.

  6

  West

  “What’s this I hear about you trespassing at the high school?”

  West cursed und
er his breath. This was one of the reasons he hated living in a small town. A man couldn’t get to the end of the block without everyone knowing about his first step at the top of the street.

  “I wasn’t trespassing,” West said as he slumped back in the office chair. “I applied for the job we talked about.”

  A spring poked him in the back causing him to lurch forward. Lane Deleon, his Probation Officer, didn’t notice the assault her furniture was dealing him. He’d tried the chair to his right on his last visit. One of the four legs wobbled. The chairs she’d had before had ripped upholstery that had snagged his clothes. West was certain the uncomfortable furnishings were on purpose. Deleon did not mean to make her office inviting to criminals.

  She tapped a few keys on her laptop. That was another thing, no desktop. She carried her case load with her wherever she went. Apparently, there had been an attempted robbery a few years back. They’d caught the young lady—a young wife who had been abusing her elderly husband. She was now serving a prison sentence in the state capital, and her ex-husband was happy in hospice care.

  Deleon pushed her glasses up her nose as she regarded him. West knew she didn’t need the glasses. He’d seen her read without them. They were part of her protective gear against the hardened criminals she worked with. Teens who shoplifted. Deadbeat dads behind on child support payments. And the PTA Vice President who shoved a teacher for giving their kid a C.

  Oh yes, ladies and gentlemen, the worst of Hidden Hollows.

  “Full-time employment is a condition of your release from probation,” said Deleon.

  West knew that. He knew the inside and out of his sentence. He knew the insides and outs of the crimes he’d been accused of committing.

  He’d pled no contest to the charges, however, the prosecutor hadn’t had enough actual evidence to convict him. West certainly had no interest in helping the prosecutor’s case. Especially since any evidence that he might produce would prove his innocence. In the end, all parties had settled on this plea; seven years’ probation.

  “Full-time employment will look really good to the judge at your hearing if you get that job,” Deleon continued, eyes back on her laptop screen as she tapped away. “Not the trespassing, though.”

  West opened his mouth to ask how he could trespass on a property if he’d been invited through the front door of said property. But he knew better than to waste logic on the criminal justice system. That very phrase—criminal justice—was an oxymoron itself.

  “Understood,” he said instead. “That is, if they give me a fair shot as a probatee.”

  Deleon’s fingers froze above the keys. She blinked once, twice, lifting her head. Her glasses dipped down her nose, but she didn’t push them back up as she stared straight at West. Her nostrils flared like a bloodhound scenting fresh droplets of blood.

  “Did they bring up your criminal background?” she asked.

  “Oh, yeah. Vice Principal Owens brought it up during the interview.”

  “Employers are not allowed to use arrest and conviction information of misdemeanors in a job application. Especially when you were never convicted.”

  “What?” said West through feigned innocence. “Is denying me a chance a violation of my civil rights or something?”

  Deleon tugged her glasses off with one hand and flipped through a binder with the other. She was a social justice warrior on the warpath. The fire in her expression made her pretty.

  “I’ll just give the school board a call,” she said, already reaching for the phone. “This is classic discrimination.”

  “If you think that’s what’s best.”

  She was already dialing. It was no longer about him. If there was anything he had learned about Lane Deleon over the past years, it was that no one was above the law. Especially those who had never seen the inside of her office.

  “I’ll see you on Friday at the hearing,” West said over his shoulder as he exited her office.

  He wasn’t sure if he’d get the job. But he was at least pleased that Owens would be thrown into a ring with Deleon. His money was on his probation officer.

  West walked out the side door of the building. It was an annex of the courthouse which also housed the county jail. Stepping out the door, he saw a woman in a man’s suit. He didn’t know her personally, but she wreaked of first-year lawyer. The baby lawyer took one look at his distressed jean jacket and angled her body to move away from him, giving him a wide berth with which to pass her.

  Down the steps of the courthouse, he saw a couple of familiar faces from his school days. But the two men averted their gazes as if they didn’t know him. After West passed them, he could hear his name and criminal being bandied back and forth.

  West crossed the street. Only to be put in the path of two middle-aged women with tight bodies in brand name yoga pants. The two women did not look away. They did not give him a wide berth. They looked him up and down, eyes flashing like a pack of cougars scenting easy prey.

  West ducked in through the first door he came to instead of braving the hunt with those two wild animals. He had no interest in tending the wounds of a cougar scratch. He preferred to avoid the shifty looks of passersby. He couldn’t stand the whispers of people he once knew, especially when they had never truly known him at all.

  Darkness surrounded him when the door he’d ducked behind closed. West blinked a couple of times under the fluorescent lights. Cheap alcohol burned his nose. This could only be Miller’s Tavern, the town bar. It wasn’t a place West frequented. Still, it was as good a place as any. One jungle for another.

  “Hey, West,” said a feminine voice. “I thought this wasn’t your kinda place.”

  West turned to see Rose Weber. The tall blonde was a sharpshooter who loved to fire off gossip about others and hang by to watch the damage. The girl had been after him since she was still in middle school and he was a dropout. She was a bullet West was all too happy to dodge.

  “Just needed a drink of water,” said West.

  He stepped up to the bar. Old Miller gave West a dirty look from behind the bar. West put a five on the counter for the tap water, however, the generous tip for the free drink didn’t earn him any favors.

  “You sure you don’t want something sweeter than water?” asked Rose.

  “I don’t have a sweet tooth,” said West.

  “Oh, I see. You like sick girls.”

  West had no idea what she was talking about, and he didn’t care to figure it out. Peering through the window, he saw that the coast was clear outside. He headed for the door.

  “Well, you’re too late,” said Rose. “Little Ms. Good Girl is in the back with Tommy Stokes.”

  West didn’t know what good girl Rose was talking about. But he knew any woman alone with Stokes was not in a good situation.

  He should leave it alone. It wasn’t his business.

  He downed the last drop of water and headed to the back of the bar.

  The scene was familiar. West had come across many jocks and frat boys and underpaid businessmen trying to take advantage of drunk girls. That was the only way a man like Stokes got any action. Back in high school, all the girls knew to cover their drinks when Stokes came near. He’d been caught pawing more than one unconscious victim at house parties.

  Right now Stokes wasn’t pawing some unconscious girl. The girl he was putting unwanted moves on was clearly inebriated, but she was wide awake and pushing him away. And she wasn’t some random girl. She was West’s little soccer player.

  West’s fists clenched. He knew one punch would knock him off his path to freedom. But there was Stokes, trying to feel up Cat as she pushed away from him with limbs heavy from alcohol. Both of his fists clenched.

  West moved toward them as Stokes tried to put his lips on that mouth that had smiled at West. Those hands that had cradled West’s face so gently, pushed ineffectively at her attacker.

  West picked up his speed, eager to rearrange Stokes’ face. Before West could coldcock his fis
t, he pedaled his feet to a halt and reared back.

  His little soccer player opened her pretty mouth wide. Instead of a shout of protest, Cat let out a loud, unladylike burp. Followed by whatever breakfast and bar food she’d just digested.

  She presented it as a gift all over Tommy Stokes’ shirt.

  7

  Cat

  Cat felt amazing. Light. Unburdened. Free.

  She felt like those birds she’d seen take off from the trees yesterday while she was in the doctor’s office. Only now, she was flying in their midst. Her arms outstretched. Her feathers in the wind.

  She felt like she was the ball those two kids had kicked the other day outside the doctor’s office. Up the ball went. It sailed through the air and straight into the twin posts of the goal at the end of the field.

  She felt like there were someone’s arms around her, just like the lovers on the bench. She felt cradled. Protected. Even as she soared.

  Only there weren’t any lips pressed against hers. She felt her own lips. They puckered together. They tasted horrible.

  It seemed that the freedom of flying free, of sailing in the air, of being held in someone’s arms, came at a cost. And the cost smelled awful.

  Cat’s stomach wretched.

  From her multiple times in the chemo room, she knew why the body vomited. Vomiting often happened when the body perceived attack. Swaying motions when one couldn’t get their equilibrium centered was a danger sign. Which was why she’d never been on a rollercoaster or even a Ferris wheel. Her parents had even vetoed a ride on the merry-go-round when she was a kid.

  The only threat that had ever induced Cat to vomit had been when her body had been invaded with toxins. Namely, chemo.

  But she hadn’t had a chemo treatment in years. She was clueless as to what toxin she could’ve injected. Until the bitterness of the alcohol came back up her throat to bite her in the rear.

  She wretched again. She was on her knees. Her body was bent over some kind of bin. But the bin was of no use this second go around. Her stomach was empty. All that came up was bile. The bitter bile of beer. For the first, and probably the only, time in her life, Cat missed the toxic cocktail of chemo.