Page 5 of The Best Kind of Bad

“Sounds good, man. I’ll see you around.” I step past them, not wanting to get bogged down withSkunk. Juice is good people, but he’s a God-awful judge of character. I know firsthand that some of those ‘friends’ of Juice’s are nothing but trouble.

I step inside Tia’s Place and the music instantly fades behind me, easing the insistent anxiety that’s been dogging me ever since I talked to Carl.

The bar would normally be crawling on a Friday night, but it’s empty, save for one pretty little thing.

Dark hair cascades down her back in soft waves that I’d love to reach out and touch. She’s got on a faded black band shirt, a flowy leopard skirt and black boots.

Looks like she belongs on the set of a music video somewhere.

Definitely not from around here.

Tia notices me first, nodding at me as I approach, and the girl looks up, turning to glance over her shoulder at me.

I was sold by the skirt alone, but holy shit, that face.

I am not usually a man who is short on words, but one look at her and I can’t remember my own name.

Dark, expressive eyebrows flick upward as she takes me in. Her eyes are a strange amber color. I’ve never seen freckles on someone with that deep of a tan, but there they are, dusting her cheekbones and upturned little nose.

I’m staring at those plump lips. Riveted, if I’m being honest, when they quirk into a sly grin.

Tia scrubs a rag across the top of the bar. “Dusty, you gonna stand there staring, or did you come in here with a purpose?”

4.

Marnie

There must be something in the water out here.

Every man I come across is over six feet tall and handsome as all get out.

But this guy. Judas Priest. Towering over me, he’s a walking Calvin Klein ad.

He’s got to be almost six and a half feet tall and broad shouldered. In fact, I’d bet good money he played football out here. He’s got the stealthy stride of an athlete.

But that face is just plain pretty.

Soft, smiling gray eyes. Straight nose, chiseled jaw covered in a light dusting of scruff. Messy blonde hair.

Actually, everything about him looks a little rough and tumble. Like he just popped in from the field. His jeans are the sort that have holes in them from hard work, not because he bought them like that. And his gray t-shirt, that matches those pretty eyes, is doing its darndest to stretch across a very fit chest. And… I’m staring.

I’ve been told my poker face is shit. I wonder what it was doing just now, because I know where my thoughts were and they were somewhere in the vicinity of his zipper.

He moves closer, giving me the sweetest smile. “Mind if I sit for a while?”

I shrug, feigning indifference. “Be my guest.”

He slides onto the stool with an exhausted sigh. Resting his elbows on the bar, he props his chin on his palm. Tia comes closer. “Whatcha having tonight, Dusty?”

He glances at me, gaze sliding from my face to my half-finished drink. “What’s she got?”

“Vodka tonic.”

“Another round of that, then.” He circles his finger, including me in his order.

Tia nods, slipping away.

I try to study him without being obvious. This guy has farm boy written all over him. And yet, winking in his left earlobe is a small, silver hoop. A bit of a bad boy, then.

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