Return of the Bad Boy Read online

  Caught off guard in these shoes, which don’t mix really well with the terrain, I stumble a little, then take the bag, and heft it onto my shoulder. I take a step toward the cab of the shiny red Harding Garage truck, and nerves creep in.

  I have to be alone, in that truck, with him? Oh, hell no.

  I stop short. “Wait, what? You didn’t even look under the hood. Maybe it’s something you can—“

  “I can what?” He’s staring me, incredulous. “Wave my magic wand over and fix?”

  “Well, you’re the Car God.”

  He holds up a hand and stalks to the front of the VW. He hefts it open and stares at it for a beat, two, pretending to consider it. Then he crashes it closed. “Nope. I can’t undo the shit that happens when people don’t take care of their cars.”

  “Thanks for the lecture, Dad,” I mumble.

  “You always did treat Little Blue like trash,” he admonishes. And, car-obsessed freak that he is, he’s back to petting my car. The car has officially gotten more action from him than I ever have. Not that I care. He holds out a finger and preaches, “You love your car . . .”

  I roll my eyes. “I know, I know,” I say, finishing the lecture he’s told me about a thousand times. “It’ll love you back. But you obviously love it enough for the both of us. And anyway, I did do regular maintenance. Just like--”

  I stop. I can’t say that it’s just like he taught me. I don’t want him to think I actually remember everything he told me all those years ago. After all, he didn’t even care to know what city I’d moved to.

  He lets out an exasperated sigh and now he’s looking at my VW as if it’s a terminal patient. “But you obviously used a shit Pep Boys wannabe mechanic for your oil changes and got taken advantage of. Now your lines are all clogged up and I gotta take it in to get it unclogged so the pump’ll work. Got it?”

  His face is so serious now, like I personally insulted him. But as far as I can recall, he was the one who screwed me over.

  “Fine,” I say, looking at my phone. I thrust my chin into the air and plant my feet. “Forget the ride. Just tow my car. I’ll get a ride with my parents and call the garage in the morning to find out the damage.”

  His expression softens. “Come on, Katydid.” He reaches out to put a hand on my arm, but then must think better of it, because he stops. I stare at his hand, frozen mid-way between us. “Look. I was joking. You never could take a joke.”

  “Joke? It sounded like you were accusing me of murdering my car.”

  “Come on, come on. Don’t bug your parents. Just let me drive you home.”

  “That’s not my home,” I remind him.

  He nods and his face looks slightly pained. “Right. I know. Figure of speech.”

  Part of me feels a fleeting pang of sadness as I see the look in his eyes, and I try my best to brush it off and forge ahead. “Okay, you can drive me, but only if your promise not to keep lecturing me about what a bad job I did with my car.”

  “I won’t say a word, seeing as how everything I say gets you pissed.” He zips his lips and holds up his three fingers, scouts’ honor, as if a guy like Dax would ever be caught dead in a Boy Scout uniform. He kicks the tire with the toe of his workman’s boot, and an uncomfortable silence ensues.

  I look down at the display of my phone, containing my half-typed apology to Fowler. Just then, the screen goes blank. I jab at it, trying to remember how much charge I had. But my phone is old; even if it was fully charged before I left Boston, with my GPS running, it’s probably lost most of it by now.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  “Thanks,” I say, mumbling a little. Hefting the bag higher on my shoulder, I march onto the shoulder, where his truck is. My pumps squish through muddy puddles and gravel pings my ankles, but I soldier on, determined to hold him to that promise of not saying another word to me for the rest of the ride.

  And the truth is, I’m being like this because I have to stay strong or else I might break, and I can’t let Dax know that.

  I can’t ever let him see how weak he makes me.

  Suddenly the enormous weight on my shoulder eases a little. He’s behind me, trying to take the bag off my shoulder. Alarms sound in my head. Too close. So close I can feel the head radiating from his body. I knew he had some manners buried in there somewhere, but it’s those manners that get women everywhere to drop their panties for him. And I refuse to be taken in by them. I tear the bag away from him and swat his hand away.

  “What? I can’t—“ He stops when he sees the wrath in my eyes. He backs away and points to my VW. “Okay, I’ll just get the hitch.”

  “Just . . . remember your promise. No talking,” I mumble, thinking, Let’s do this in double time. The sooner we do, the sooner I can be away from him.

  And I need to be away from him. After all, escaping my parents wasn’t the only reason I left Friesville. In fact, it wasn’t even the biggest reason.

  No, the biggest reason was Dax Harding.

  Chapter 3

  Despite it being the dead of summer, the ten-mile ride up Callow’s Hill Road to my house is decidedly icy. Or maybe that’s just because Dax insists on blowing the AC full-blast, right at my face and bare arms. The boy has always had a temperature problem. He’s hot, literally. His skin is always on fire, unlike mine. We went to the movies once, and I sat with my legs and hands piled on top of his, to ward off the arctic air in the Forum theater. I find myself thinking of the way he used to sit in the driver’s seat, just like he’s doing now, and snake his warm fingers under my hairline and tickle the back of my neck. If anyone else tried that, it would’ve annoyed me. But something about Dax Harding’s callused mechanic’s fingers, that rugged, intoxicating smell of oil and grease that used to burrow itself in his every pore…

  No. Stop thinking about him.

  Remember how hard you worked to forget. You can’t fall back into old habits now. He’ll be gone soon and then you can pretend this was all just a dream and get back to your real life.

  Except that real life and my real job haven’t exactly been going so well either, lately.

  I shake off the old memories and anxieties and drum my fingers on the armrest in tune to some country song playing softly through the truck’s speakers.

  We are so different, it’s hard to believe I never saw it before. Everyone was shocked when we became a couple, the nerdy good-girl and the jaded bad-boy. It’s just like my parents kept telling me: We have absolutely nothing in common.

  Despite myself, I venture another look over at Dax. He has his arm hooked easily over the wheel and is mouthing the words to the song, looking out at the tree line as if it’s the most glorious thing he’s ever seen. The thing is, Friesville is trees. Trees and farms. And that’s it. There is barely anything new anywhere. It’s completely smothering. And yet this boy obviously can’t get enough of it.

  I can’t help it. I laugh. He is kind of cute when he’s peaceful like this, which makes me instinctively want to poke him.

  He looks over at me, confused, an amused smile creeping over his face. I wait for him to ask me what I’m laughing about, but he doesn’t. So I say, “You are such a hick.”

  He narrows his eyes at me, but doesn’t say a word. I realize it’s because he promised not to talk, and that only makes me laugh harder.

  Finally he speaks and his voice is strong and confident, as always. “Just because I’m not dressed up like some dog’s dinner, like you? You’ve spent too much time in the city, Katydid.”

  I reach over and change the radio station. It’s mostly static, but then I get something guaranteed to annoy him: Celine Dion.

  He winces as if in physical pain. “You didn’t just touch my radio.”

  “Yeah. Um. This song rocks. Titanic? Only one of the greatest movies ever.”

  He’s staring at me as if I just announced my decision to shave my head and join a cult. “Do it again, and this hick is going to hog-tie you,” he says, switching it back.

  “Hmm.
Not a Leo fan, I see.”

  He stares straight ahead. “I don’t watch chick flicks.”

  “It’s not a chick flick. There’s action and adventure. Spoiler: The ship hits an iceberg. Chaos ensues.”

  He’s giving me a warning look, but his eyes drift down to my chest. “If it’s anything like that song, no thanks, darlin’. I don’t want my eyes bleeding, along with my ears.”

  I’d been sitting there rigidly, with my arms folded over my chest, but I must’ve gotten too comfortable and let my guard down. Because of the frigid air blowing right at me, my nipples are still hard. I quickly cross my arms back over my chest. I can not get comfortable with Dax Harding. That’s the worst thing I could possibly do.

  I cross my legs tightly to hide the sea of goose bumps on them, but he catches that, too. “What. You nervous?”

  “No, of course not,” I snap. “Cold. It’s like the frozen tundra in this cab. I think I saw a polar bear back there, trying to hitch a ride.”

  “Oh. Why didn’t you say something?” He reaches down and turns off the air, sounding genuinely apologetic. That’s the closest thing to an apology I’ll ever get from him. When he removes his hand, it grazes my knee for a split second, sending fireworks straight up to my center. I flinch.

  He should not be allowed to make me feel that way, after all this time.

  He notices my reaction, too, and clears his throat. “How long are you in town for?”

  “Just a week.”

  He reaches across to the glove compartment and pops it open with his fist. An assortment of lollipops greet me. “Blow pop?”

  I shake my head, stunned to see such a blast from the past. Dax started smoking when he was twelve, because his dad was too busy drinking his life away to care much about him and his younger siblings. The first time he kissed me, I wanted to take the focus off the obvious fact that he was my first kiss, so I told him that I hated cigarette smoke, even though truthfully, I’d never felt or tasted anything so amazing. The next day, he told me he’d given up smoking. He went and got himself a bunch of lollipops to suck on, whenever he had a craving.

  One of the many things he’d done to contradict the Dax Harding reputation everyone always whispered about.

  But as it turned out, those nice things he did? Lies, all lies.

  “Are you still having cravings?” I ask as he closes the glove compartment and unwraps the candy.

  “Cravings?” He shakes his head and pops the head of the lollipop into his mouth. “Why, are you?”

  “For what?”

  He gives me a long, appraising look that makes me flush, but I look away and snort, trying to cover the fact that I’m weakening as we speak.

  “For you?” I scoff. “No. Please.”

  “Yeah? So what brings you back here after all this time?” he asks. “You had to find out what I was up to, right?”

  He’s kidding, being the jokester he always used to be, which makes me smile, even though the truth isn’t far off. I have thought of him. Often. More often than is healthy. In fact, during my first year away, all I did was have this pathetic fantasy that he’d show up at my dorm, telling me he couldn’t live without me. I shake my head. “Sorry to disappoint, but no.”

  “Admit it. You staged the breakdown just so you could see me again.”

  I have to laugh. “No, it’s not that.”

  “Then what is it?”

  Dread pools in my stomach as we pull up to my little ranch house. My parents hate Dax. I know, hate is a strong word, but in this case, it fits. My father is big on protecting me, but he’s also big on me being happy, so if there’s something I really want, he can usually be counted on to cave and let me have it. But the last time my father and I discussed Dax Harding, my dad used a phrase he’d never used before or since: I forbid it. In fact, my father’s never called Dax just Dax, or even Dax Harding. It’s always, always been “That Dax Harding”, as if there are a dozen other ones living in town. As in, I don’t know what you see in That Dax Harding. You’re selling yourself short, spending time with That Dax Harding.

  Dax is obviously thinking the same because he doesn’t even pull into the driveway. He idles in the center of Callow Hill Road, grabs a Phillies cap that’s stuffed in the visor, and screws it down over his ears. “Forgive me for not coming in,” he says, pulling the cherry lollipop from his lips with a smack. “I’ll give you a call tonight.”

  I clench my teeth, thinking of the many secret, hushed phone conversations I’d had with him while hidden behind the piles of old model railroad memorabilia in the basement. “But—“

  “About your car,” he says. “I should be able to get it looked at right away.”

  “Oh. Right.” Stupid, Kath. Really stupid.

  As if on cue, the front door to my house swings open, and out pops my father’s balding head. Perfect. I can’t quite make out the expression on his face but I don’t have to. He has an expression reserved for Dax and Dax alone: eyes narrowed, lips are set in a straight line, face flushed like a red zit on the verge of popping.

  I swallow hard as my thoughts trail to the real reason I’m here. I think about telling Dax, but then I decide against it. He’s history, and he needs to stay that way. The less he knows about my life right now, the better.

  I gnaw on my lip as I push open the door and slide out of the seat. He reaches into the back and hands me my bag. “Don’t wait for me to get inside,” I mutter. “Just go, okay?”

  He’s staring at my dad, who looks like he’s about to shoot death-lasers from his eyes. Dax gives a little wave and a sly smile. “Yeah. See you later, Katydid.”

  Oh, that nickname. It did me in, every time. He used to say it mockingly: Katy did’n do nothin’ bad. But then every time he’d coax me to doing something just a little bit dangerous, like sneaking out to meet him under the tree outside the house, he’d cock his head to the side, grin mischievously, and say, Katie did. What else can Katie do?

  And now his green eyes lock with mine, and I can’t help the way it forces the air out of my lungs. I open the door and step outside, and I know something for sure.

  I need to stay away from this man. Far away.

  If I don’t, I’m going to fall harder than I did last time. And last time?

  It was a disaster.

  Chapter 4

  The rain has pretty much stopped as I step out at the curb of the home I grew up in. Dax’s tow truck growls to life and grinds slowly away.

  I force myself not to look after his truck as he drives off, try my best not to be aware of the churning ache in my chest and stomach as I experience the sense of loss when he’s gone.

  Just a few minutes of seeing him, hearing his voice, and I’m back, as if I’ve stepped into a time machine. Back to being in his grip, needing and wanting him all over again, the way I swore I’d never let myself feel again.

  I stand at the curb until there is nothing but the sound of the birds chattering in the tall trees surrounding our property. I walk up the long, puddled gravel driveway, bracing myself for the third degree to come. My father has disappeared from the front door, but that doesn’t mean the thought of Dax has disappeared from his head.

  No, more than likely it’s blooming in his head, turning into all these crazy scenarios in which That Dax Harding has corrupted his only child.

  The house hasn’t changed since Christmas, except now the Santa decoration on the roof is gone, the lawn is freshly mowed, my mother’s geraniums are popping up from the window boxes, and they’ve added a new red birdfeeder to the large oak at the side of the house.

  I met Dax at the base of that oak a dozen nights for hungry, forbidden kisses, his hot fingers skirting my ribs, searching desperately underneath my t-shirt . . .

  Shaking off that memory, I suck in a breath as I step onto the front porch. My father suddenly appears behind the screen door, popping it open and stepping outside. “Oh, Katie!” he says, as if he’s surprised to see me. He has a Robert Ludlum thriller in his hand
s and is using his finger to bookmark the place, but he wraps his other arm around me and gives me a kiss on the top of the head.

  I study him as he pulls away. I only saw him for graduation three months ago, but he’s changed since then. He has a smart new haircut and he looks thinner. When I’d spoken to mom a few months ago, she’d said he’d gotten pretty serious into exercising on the treadmill. But despite the new, fitter look, his eyes look . . . tired. Sad. Defeated.

  He pokes his head past me and searches down the hill, but Dax is long gone. “Was that a tow truck I saw?”

  Real smooth, dad. “Yeah, my car broke down.”

  “What? What’s wrong with your car?” He peers at me over his bifocals. “Why didn’t you call us?”

  “I don’t know. But I can handle it. I called the auto club and they sent Dax out,” I explain breezily, but I can already see my father’s body responding in the way it always does whenever Dax Harding’s name is mentioned: eyes firing up, posture tensing, fists clenching. I add quickly, “Don’t worry, Dad. He just gave me a ride.”

  He presses his lips together. “I told you . . .”

  Yes, he’s told me lots of things. And for the most part, I’ve always listened.

  He’s standing in front of the door so I can’t even escape past him into the house. I give him a friendly nudge. “Come on, Dad, it’s no big deal.” I look past him. “Where’s Mom?”

  He steps aside, then grabs my bag from me. “In the kitchen. We were expecting you for dinner, so she made your favorite. Summer stew.”

  I step into the foyer, inhaling the mouth-watering aroma of tomato sauce simmering with zucchini, and look around. My mother thinks decorating a house means filling every square inch of the walls with photographs, and since I’m their favorite subject, there are about two-dozen photos of me in this room, covering the flowered wallpaper. I walk past the leaded glass mirror and smile at the newest addition: a photo of the three of us from my college graduation.