Page 12 of The Bad Girl
Chapter 5
Nadine
When I said I was panicking before—I lied. Or at the very least, I greatly exaggerated, because now, at this very moment, I am in full-blown panic mode.
I drop my phone after nearly chucking it across the room.
Tom Decker wants to meet me for coffee. Heck, he wants me to be his date for a wedding. The same Tom Decker I propositioned six years ago, which resulted in my epic humiliation and the straining of a life-long friendship.
The same Tom Decker I stalked this morning. The one with the tattoos and mess of hot, questionable women.
How have I circled back to this after so many years?
I know the last thing I should do is reply right away. It’s the most basic rule there is. I learned it early in my college years when I found out through a friend that I was looking embarrassingly desperate.
Come on, Naddy. Logic your way through this shit.
Fact: Last night, Tom asked via messenger if I would be his date to Allison’s wedding.
Regardless of my many questions, it all boils down to this: he either wants to date me, or he does not. Every scenario regarding his request fits into one of those two buckets.
I guess the big question after that would be: Do I want to date him?
That’s simple—hell, yes!
I’m pretty sure my fixation with bad boys began with him. I was around fourteen when I started having serious feelings for him. He was sixteen and going through a leather jacket, smoking in the back of the school phase.
And by the looks of it, that phase never ended. If anything, he perfected the look by putting on even more muscles, getting some tattoos, and adding a couple scars.
I look at my reflection in the full-length mirror standing next to the entrance to my bedroom. I’m not an ugly woman, but I am a ‘safe’ woman. The kind of woman men look for to settle down with and start a family. I could be a preschool teacher and sing in a church choir. I could have dinner on the table by six every night. I could never be bad.
Which should be great! After all, I’ve been dreaming about my wedding day since I was four. Except, my stupid brain isn’t attracted to ‘safe’ men, the kind of men that women look for to settle down with and start a family.
My brain is attracted to full sleeves, leather jackets, and loud motorcycles that you most certainly can’t put a car seat on.
But even a bad boy wants to settle down eventually. A place to call their own. A woman by their side. And while I may be ‘safe,’ sometimes the illusion of danger can be just as powerful as the train wreck that’s truly dangerous.
I don’t have to be a bad girl to play the part.
If I do this, I’m going to need help. I’m going to need someone to coach me, walking me through what to wear, what to say, how to stand, how to do my hair, how much tits to show, what I should talk about—all the things that get a bad boy’s engine revving.
Unfortunately, I don’t have bad girlfriends, and I can’t go back to the stripper down the hall—that was an epic disaster.
Maybe one of the women I’ve helped at the shelter can school me?
On second thought—nix that. The last thing I need is to set a bad example.
I don’t think there are YouTube tutorials on how to appropriate the bad girl image, but just to be sure, I grab my phone from where I left it on the bathroom floor and do a quick search. The first thing that pops up is a video by YouTuber Might Be Meghan talking to women about their experiences with bad boys.
I go online to various edgy-looking stores, hoping to find something that could help me perfect the look of a fake train wreck, but there’s a flaw in my plan that can’t be overlooked.
My whole online presence is me being responsible—reasonable, and I already know Tom’s seen my Facebook, so me dressing up like a bad girl is only going to make me look unauthentic. If I want to pull off bad, it has to be all about my attitude, while making subtle changes to my wardrobe.
This requires an inside out makeover, and I know the perfect person for the job—Harry Crummings. Unfortunately, Harry is my workplace nemesis, opposite of safe, life of the party, and coincidently, with the exact same taste in men as myself.
Only he has better luck.
It can’t be Harry.
