Page 34 of The Best Kind of Bad

She’s quickly morphing from a novelty in a town full of monotony to something I didn’t know I needed.

It’s like finding something I lost.

She rests her elbow on the back of the couch. “Who was that guy that stopped by earlier?”

I know who she’s asking about. I could play dumb. Or lie. But I figure she’ll find out one way or another. Might as well be the one to tell her. “My weed guy. Juice.”

I expect revulsion, for her to start pulling back. I’m surprised when a grin splits her face. “You have a friend named Juice?”

“Yeah. I thought everybody had a friend named Juice.”

“Definitely not.”

I pause. “I can’t tell if we’re talking in code or what’s happening.”

She laughs. “I don’t have a friend named Juice or a dealer by that name, either.”

“You’ve got a dealer?”

“Also, no.” She tilts her head. “I didn’t take you for a smoker.”

It’s hard to have this conversation with her. I want to be the best version of myself for her sake, but I am a deeply flawed, imperfect person and the sooner she knows that, the better. “What kind of person did you take me to be?”

“One of those all American jock sorts.”

“Replace the words all American with dumb ass and you’d be on the right track.”

Her smile slips. “Don’t put yourself down like that. I don’t like it.”

I don’t have a clever response for that. Playing the clown is my go to, but she’s disarming me. I decide to go for a redacted version of the truth. “Sienna wouldn’t remember it, but we kind of grew up around it. Runner was a big smoker.”

“Runner?”

“My dad.” She already knows we had the custody issue. I don’t want her thinking the worst of Runner, so even though I don’t like talking about it, I fill in the blanks for her. “He died when Sienna was four.”

If I’m expecting pity, she doesn’t give it to me. Her expression is steady and open. “What was he like?”

She was supposed to say something cliché, like God has a plan and all that bullshit. But she hits me with a question instead and it takes me a second to catch up.

“He was kind of known for being the life of the party. But deep down, he was a big softy. Loyal.”

“Sounds kind of like you.”

Normally, when people compare me to my dad, I know it’s a veiled insult. But when Marnie says it, I can accept the parts that are true.

She tilts her head, smiling a little. “Was he a big football star, too?”

“He was, actually. That’s where he got the nickname.”

She smiles, but when another crash of thunder sounds overhead, she winces. “Dusty?”

“Hm?”

“What’s it going to take to get you to kiss me again?”

The skin across my shoulders and neck goes ice cold as the blood rockets south. “All you had to do was ask.”

Wrapping my hands around her soft hips, I haul her onto my lap.

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