Bad Girl Read online

  Scrunchie maintains his trademark apathy.

  He’s probably the only male on campus who can in the face of Serena’s affections.

  “Right.”

  “But you’re back now. For good.” She sets Scrunchie down and straightens.

  “Yeah. I’m back.” I drop my bag and hug her.

  We talked almost every day, but seeing her for the first time since she showed up at Jax’s show two months ago, I realize how much I missed her.

  “You look good,” she says, pulling back and doing a little twirl thing with her fingers. I turn obediently. “Damn, waitressing was good for your ass.”

  “It was good for my bank account too.”

  “You mean I can stop taking gentleman callers to pay the milkman?” She bats her eyelashes.

  “You haven't told me a thing about gentleman callers lately. Which means you have one and you like him,” I point out.

  Serena crosses to the kitchen and pulls out two glasses and something from our booze cabinet. “I like him. I haven't decided if I'll keep him.”

  “You decided to keep Scrunchie after one date.”

  “True. This guy’s in a frat, and he's obsessed with his own face. But it is a great face, and he eats me with it. So…”

  I shudder.

  “Haley. I swear to God oral sex is not the apocalyptic event you think is it.”

  “Agree to disagree.”

  “Have you ever tried it?”

  She sounds so aghast I need to defend my position, stat. “I can’t get past the part where a guy is looking at you down there, not to mention sucking on you like a damned milkshake. Call me crazy.”

  Serena tosses her hair, indignant. “Whoever did that to you should be shot. That’s B-minus technique at best. But you find a guy who knows how to do it…” She makes a noise low in her throat I wish I could unhear “… you’ll be converted.”

  “I’m a pretty staunch atheist.”

  I take one of the cups she offers and sniff it. Definitely vodka.

  It’s two in the afternoon, and I’m about to point that out until she speaks again.

  “What if it was Jax Jamieson?”

  What the hell? It’s five o’clock somewhere.

  I take a long drink from the cup, wincing as I swallow. “I’m probably never going to see Jax again. If there even was the beginning of anything that would conceivably lead to milkshake slurping, it's over.”

  “First, never say milkshake slurping again. EVER. Second…” The laughter that starts in her belly has me wondering if she’s already had a few. “It's so not over.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Let me spell it out for you: your dad is a huge record exec who happens to own Jax Jamieson.”

  I roll my eyes. “Jax is retiring.”

  “Artists don’t cut ties with a label. The contacts your father has—”

  “Cross.”

  “Sorry. The contacts Cross has, the money, the power? You don’t turn your back on that. Even if you want to. You think you'll never see Jax Jamieson again? You're deluded.”

  I turn that over. I’m afraid to believe her because she might be blunt, but she’s a silver-lining-girl at heart. There’s every possibility I won’t see Jax again except on TV or YouTube. And even then, maybe he’ll recede into obscurity and stop doing media altogether.

  Or maybe she’s right.

  Maybe he’ll show up when I least expect him. Looking hot as sin with that smirk that says he knows all my secrets.

  Because really, he does.

  That low-grade pulsing in my gut, like a bass reverb you can’t quite kick, starts up again.

  Seeing him in Atlanta was totally unplanned and equally thrilling. I’m glad we weren’t alone because how the hell did he get hotter?

  The temptation to throw myself at him was almost impossible to resist.

  “Speaking of daddy dearest,” she goes on, bringing me back, “when are you going to see him?”

  I carry my cup-o-relief to the couch, stepping over Scrunchie, who likes to press himself up against the front like a fluffy pancake, and dropping onto the cushion. Serena follows me, perching on the arm at the other end. “I was going to say never. But now I'm thinking tomorrow.”

  As I explain what happened with my school enrolment, her eyes get progressively wider until she toes me with her sock foot.

  “No way. You got kicked out of school?”

  I hold up a hand. “Not kicked out! I’m facing a minor administrative hurdle.”

  But she’s not fooled for a second. “They kicked your ass out of school. Haley Telfer—or is it Cross now?—you are a bad girl.”

  I groan and down the rest of my drink as she cackles.

  “Why are you laughing?”

  “Because you are so much cooler than even I knew. You’re the daughter of a record executive, and the hottest guy in the world is strung out over you. And,” she goes on before I can tell her how wrong she is, “I know you'll get out of this. And I can't wait to see how.”

  “I appreciate the vote of confidence. I think.”

  I shift off the couch and take my empty cup to the kitchen.

  “Refill time?” Serena asks, hopeful.

  “Nope, I gotta unpack.” I grab my bag and start toward my room.

  “Fine. But Wednesday, you should pick up music night,” she calls after me. “I think Dale’s going into withdrawal without you.”

  Getting a meeting with Cross the next day is easier than I expected. It’s almost as if he’s waiting for me.

  Going to the meeting is harder than I expected.

  Wicked is the way I remember, and not. I sit outside Cross’s office, rereading the poster about the building and forcing myself not to tug at the hem of my T-shirt.

  Nothing’s changed. You’re the same person you were yesterday. Four months ago. Twenty-one years ago.

  “Mr. Cross will see you now.”

  I suck in a breath that fills my belly, as if the ratio of oxygen to carbon dioxide in my body can save me.

  Hold it as long as I can before letting it out.

  I need to get back into school, or all the plans I’ve made will go up in smoke. I can’t bartend my whole life. Not because I don’t respect the work or the people I did it with, but because I want more.

  Not just want. I need more.

  This summer only increased my conviction.

  I force my feet to carry me into that black-and-white room.

  “I wondered how long it would take you to come.” Cross’s hands are folded on the desk as if he was posing for a portrait before I interrupted.

  His eyes are blue and nothing like mine. His cheeks are lean.

  But his chin. Maybe the nose…

  “Have a seat.”

  I do, my gaze falling to the floor as I shift to get comfortable, landing on that giant fur rug under the conversation set. “You shoot that yourself?”

  “No. Does it bother you?”

  I look up at him as my fingers curl around the cold metal of the chair armrest.

  “A lot of things bother me. The attention span of undergrads when you try to tell them how to reset their passwords. The state of the Middle East. When I go to the vending machine in the computer science building and my chips get stuck in that spiral thingy. What you do or don’t put on your floor doesn’t bother me.” There’s a reason I’m here, and it’s not to talk about how this man is my father or how he chooses his décor. “I need a letter to the school stating I completed my term.”

  His brows draw together as if he’s disappointed, not guilty. “You didn’t complete your term.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You left without notice with two remaining shows.”

  I glance toward the open door and back, lowering my voice. “Because I found out you were my father.”

  And there it is.

  The statement hangs between us. I wait for him to acknowledge it, or deny it, or start talking ab
out my mom.

  Instead, he simply folds his hands on the desk in front of him. “So?”

  I pick my jaw up off the floor. “So you hired me. You put me on tour. I didn’t end up there because I deserved to, because I’d earned it.”

  “And because you resented this assumed nepotism, you left without fulfilling the terms of said agreement. And yet you expect to be compensated for it.”

  When he says it like that, it does sound bad.

  “I made you a deal. One month counted for four. You didn’t fulfill that.”

  “I left because of you.”

  “Because of me? Or because of him?”

  I know he means Jax.

  I shift out of the chair because suddenly the room feels too small.

  My feet are soundless on the plush carpet as I turn away, finding myself face-to-face with the painting of the field. My blood pressure declines a few points.

  “I want the letter, Mr. Cross.”

  “You have nothing to bargain with.”

  Two months ago, I would’ve turned tail and run.

  Now, I’m smart enough to know that won’t work.

  I turn and step up to the desk, my heart hammering.

  Cross wants me here. I see it in those eyes that, now that I look into them, aren’t so different from mine.

  “Don’t I?”

  His mouth curves. It’s not a smile. I bet he’s handsome if he ever lets the facade go. “So, you are my daughter after all.”

  The word has my fingers flexing. It’s been so long since someone called me that, but I’m not sure I like how it sounds.

  “What do you want? Sunday dinners?” My voice is smaller than I’d like.

  “I want you to pay back the time you owe. A full four months.”

  “One semester?” Holy shit, he’s insane. “I wouldn’t be back in school until next semester?”

  “That’s right.”

  My hands form fists at my sides. “How is that fair? Fathers aren’t supposed to blackmail their daughters.”

  “Life isn’t fair, Haley. Case in point: you’re ready to condemn me for all I’ve done to help you when I’m not the one you should be judging.”

  Cross reaches into his drawer and produces a black flash drive. The thing lies in his hand, and I stare at it as if it’s a snake.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Women will forgive Jax anything. You’re no exception. But everyone does things in their darkest moments. Things that come back to haunt them.” My mind races as he says, “It’s yours to do with as you see fit. Consider it a gift.”

  Maybe Serena was right and our story isn't over.

  I don’t want anything this man has to offer. But I want to know more about Jax.

  The idea teases me, calls to me.

  I take the drive and shove it into my pocket, ignoring the glint in Cross’s eye.

  I turn toward the door, but a voice brings me back.

  “Well? What do you say to our new deal.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  He tilts his head, and it occurs to me what he looks like. A bird.

  A raven.

  “I’ll throw in one more gift.” He spreads his hands. “Ask me. Whatever it is that’s causing you to look like that, ask me.”

  “No.” A million thoughts circle my mind like moths swarming a flame. Choosing one seems impossible. “I’m not giving you the satisfaction of asking you why you never told me who you were. Why you never came to see me. How you could you live in the same city as me my entire life and never do anything.”

  His dark brows pull together. “Good. Because those are the wrong questions.”

  I want to tell him to go fuck himself. I’m sure that’s what Jax would do.

  Instead, I can’t help but ask, “What’s the right one?”

  Cross smirks.

  “When you figure that out, we’ll understand one another far better.”

  4

  Haley

  “What do you think? I wrote it about working this summer and the frustration of not being able to express yourself.” Dale grins expectantly as he hits pause on the track I’m listening to.

  I look past him at the familiar backdrop of the café. The tables are just starting to fill for music night.

  “Yeah. It must have been really intense,” I say. “Working at…”

  “The library,” he supplies.

  “Right.” I try to get excited about it, but it’s harder than it used to be.

  I want to see things. Do things.

  I want to take control of my destiny.

  Somewhere in between helping Jerry in the sound booth and slinging beers in a country bar, I saw a glimpse of what my life could be like.

  Since meeting Cross on Monday, I’ve decided a few things.

  I’ll do what he asked and finish my work for Wicked. But I’m not waiting around for him to hand me a letter.

  I got my textbooks even though I’m not in class. I’ll read them all so I’m ready. And I’ll knock on every door of the administration until I get readmitted.

  “I’m going to make you sing with us on stage one day,” Dale teases, bringing me back to the cafe. “I still remember the time you rehearsed with us.”

  The idea of Dale making me do anything is funny, but he’s so sweet I can’t resist. “What the hell. I’ll sit in a set.”

  I pack up my computer and drop my backpack backstage before going onstage. A few people clap, and I ignore the pang of dissonance. Nothing here’s changed even though I have.

  Being on stage reminds me of Jax, as if I’m sharing this moment with him somehow.

  I didn’t expect to hear from him after his tour wrapped, but that doesn’t stop me from wondering what he’s doing. How he’s feeling.

  It’s like there’s a part of my body, my soul, that’s gone quiet. I want to send out a signal. Make sure it’s still there.

  I put everything I can into the song even though I’m only half in the room.

  There’s a key change, and we navigate it, a little hit of dopamine in my brain as we ride the swell of it.

  Then… another change.

  Not in the music. In the air.

  Rock stars don’t chase college dropouts. It’s not a story worth writing.

  But my fingers tighten on the mic, and chills race down my spine, and before I open my eyes, I know.

  I wonder why he’s here.

  I wonder what took him so long.

  I wonder what he’s going to do to me when I get off this stage.

  Jax stands a few feet inside the door, hands in his pockets. The Astros cap is pulled low on his head, and his long-sleeved shirt hides his tattoos but not the hard lines of his body. As a result, he’s drawing more than a few envious glances from around the café.

  “Haley,” Dale whispers, and I realize I’ve stopped singing.

  I force myself to finish the number.

  “Can we take five?” I ask the band when we’re done.

  I set the mic back and step off the stage before Dale can respond, my heart hammering in my ears as I cross to Jax.

  Seeing him in Atlanta in his element was one thing. This time, he’s in my backyard.

  Somehow he owns it too, as if it’s just another town, another arena.

  I tilt up my chin to meet his gaze. “Do you even follow baseball, or is that just your disguise?” I ask, glancing at his hat.

  “The Houston Astros are top of the AL West. Altuve is a six-time all-star. He’s even shorter in person than he looks on TV.”

  “Right. You and Lita should go into sports broadcasting in your retirement.”

  “Nah. We could buy a team though.”

  I can’t tell if he’s joking. “Don’t tell me you’re here for the coffee, because it sucks.”

  “I was in town for a meeting at the label.” He shoves a hand into the pocket of his jeans, retrieves a piece of black plastic that he holds up. “You know anything about this, Hales?”


  That careless, intimate way he says my name makes me shaky, but I try to stay composed. “Why would you think that?”

  “There’s no way Cross held onto this flash drive for the better part of the decade and decided to dangle it in front of me now.”

  “He gave it to me. I thought you should have it, so I had his assistant send it to you.”

  “About what’s on it—”

  “I didn’t look.”

  His eyes widen incrementally.

  “Whoa.” Dale’s voice makes me wince. “Anyone ever tell you you look like Jax Jamieson?”

  Jax doesn’t flinch. “All the time.”

  “Huh.”

  “Dale, this is my friend—”

  “Leonard.”

  The easy deadpan has me choking back a laugh. Because, dammit, even on my home turf, I can’t ignore his physical presence, or the masculine scent that makes my insides warm, or the spark in Jax’s eye at our private joke.

  “Dale.” Dale nudges his shoulder against mine, then glances toward the stage. “We should get back to it.”

  Jax watches him go, hands in his pockets. “Should I be worried?”

  “About that flash drive? Or about Dale?”

  He pockets the flash drive, and Serena’s words about Jax being hung up on me come back to me.

  “Haley, you want a drink?” one of the servers interrupts, and I force myself to look at her.

  “Sure. Iced tea.”

  “What about you?” she asks Jax, her gaze lingering on his body.

  “Nah, I'm good.”

  “You're here for music night, you have to order something,” I say. “They make good iced tea.”

  “Fine. Make it two.” She leaves, and Jax’s gaze flicks back to me.

  “Jax. What are you doing here?”

  He studies me a moment, like he’s still trying to answer that question himself.

  “We finished our last show, and I packed up to go home to Dallas, and I realized something. I like knowing where you are. What you're doing. It helps stop the voices in my head.”