THE BAD BOY BARGAIN

Chapter 15: The Real Bargain

The gym door’s slam echoed in my skull as Buzz Cut dragged Jake away, his voice—“Mia!”—cut off mid-plea. I stood frozen in the hall, heart pounding, the test papers still scattered on Miss Carter’s desk behind me. He’d passed, fought for it, and now this—cops, Kyle, another spiral. I snapped out of it, running after them, sneakers squeaking on tile, bursting into the lot just as the cruiser’s lights flared red and blue.

“Stop!” I yelled, voice cracking, but Buzz Cut shoved Jake into the backseat, door thudding shut. Jake’s face pressed against the glass, eyes wide, mouthing “Go” as the car peeled out. I stumbled, breath hitching, then fumbled for my phone—Ellie, now. “Cops took Jake. Downtown. Lawyer. Please.” Her reply buzzed fast: “On it. Stay calm. There in 20.”

I biked to the station, legs burning, mind racing—Kyle’s “something bigger” could be anything: Lexi’s debts, old fights, lies. The building loomed downtown, gray and cold, and I stormed in, hair wild, demanding Jake. A desk cop—older, bored—waved me off. “Family only. Sit.”

“He’s got no one else,” I snapped, slamming my hands on the counter. “I’m with him.”

She sighed, typing slow, then nodded. “Wait. They’re questioning him.”

I paced the lobby—linoleum scuffed, chairs hard—texting Ellie updates as minutes bled into an hour. Finally, she burst in, dragging a guy in a cheap suit—her dad’s lawyer friend, balding but sharp. “Mia,” she said, hugging me quick. “He’s got this. Breathe.”

The lawyer—Dan—marched to the desk, all business, and ten minutes later, Jake walked out, jacket wrinkled, eyes tired but free. I ran to him, throwing my arms around him, and he hugged back, tight, burying his face in my hair. “You’re here,” he mumbled, voice rough.

“Always,” I said, pulling back to check him—no cuffs, no bruises, just him. “What happened?”

He exhaled, leaning on the wall. “Kyle flipped—said I ran bets with him last year, tied to Lexi’s guy. Total bullshit. Lawyer shut it down—cops had no proof, just his word. They’re keeping him, letting me go.”

Relief hit, warm and dizzying. “So you’re clear?”

“Yeah,” he said, a small smile breaking through. “For now. Kyle’s… done. Facing real time.”

I nodded, chest tight—Kyle was a wreck, but he was Jake’s wreck. “You okay with that?”

“Gotta be,” he said, shrugging, but his eyes were heavy. “He’s been sinking me too long. I’m done drowning.”

Dan clapped Jake’s shoulder, gruff. “Stay out of trouble, kid. Call if they dig again.” He left, Ellie trailing with a wink—“You owe me fries”—and we stepped outside, night air cool and crisp.

Jake grabbed my hand, lacing our fingers, and we walked to his bike, parked crooked from our rush. “Test’s tomorrow,” he said, voice lighter. “Carter’s grading fast. Coach’ll see.”

“You aced it,” I said, squeezing his hand. “You’re back on the team. I know it.”

He grinned—real, bright, the Jake I’d fallen for. “Thanks to you, princess.”

“Stop calling me that,” I teased, nudging him, and he laughed, pulling me close. His lips found mine—slow, sure, tasting of freedom—and I kissed back, world fading to just us.

Tuesday morning, school buzzed—test results posted, whispers about Jake’s absence. I found him by his locker, 217, playbook in hand, grinning like he’d won the Super Bowl. “C+,” he said, waving the graded paper. “Carter’s shocked. Coach called—practice tonight.”

I whooped, hugging him, and he spun me, laughing as kids stared. “Told you,” I said, breathless. “You’re in.”

“Yeah,” he said, setting me down, eyes soft. “We’re in.”

Lexi was gone—rumors said she’d split after the wedding, no trace. Kyle’s arrest hit the local paper—vandalism, petty theft, a year looming—and Jake let it go, focusing on the field, on us. Mom grilled me about “that boy” over dinner, and I just smiled—“He’s real, Mom. You’ll see.”

Weeks later, we hit the pier—the spot where it started, midnight deal sealed. No tutoring now, just us, bikes propped nearby. The moon glinted off the water, waves crashing soft, and Jake leaned on the rail, jacket off, scars bared—literal and not.

“Season’s good,” he said, glancing at me. “Coach eased up. Team’s solid.”

“You’re solid,” I corrected, stepping closer. “No more faking?”

He turned, pulling me in, hands warm on my waist. “Nah. This is real.” He kissed me—deep, steady—and I wrapped my arms around his neck, tasting salt and him.

We broke apart, foreheads pressed, and he grinned. “Best bargain I ever made.”

“Me too,” I said, laughing as he tugged me toward the bike. “Where to?”

“Anywhere,” he said, helmet on, eyes bright. “You’re driving this time.”

I climbed on, him behind me, arms tight, and gunned it—wind whipping, heart full, no deals left to fake. Turns out the best bargains aren’t the ones you plan.