THE BAD BOY BARGAIN

Chapter 4: Words and Walls

Jake’s living room felt smaller the second time, like the walls were closing in with every tick of the clock on the mantle. It was 8:15 PM, and I sat at the wobbly dining table, my English notes spread out like a battle plan. Jake slouched across from me, twirling a pencil between his fingers, staring at The Great Gatsby like it had personally insulted him. The TV muttered in the background—some sports recap—and the air smelled faintly of burnt toast. Kyle was nowhere in sight, thank God, but the memory of his leer still prickled my skin.

“Okay,” I said, tapping my pen on a highlighted quote. “Let’s pick up where we left off. The green light—why does Gatsby keep staring at it?”

Jake smirked, leaning back so the chair creaked. “’Cause he’s got nothing better to do? Rich people problems.”

I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. “No, it’s hope. Daisy’s across the water, and the light’s his dream of her. It’s symbolic.”

“Symbolic,” he echoed, dragging the word out like it was a joke. “You sound like Carter. Next you’ll say the curtains mean he’s sad.”

“They’re not just curtains!” My voice spiked, louder than I meant, and I caught myself, cheeks burning. “Look, you need to get this. The test’s in twelve days, and you’re nowhere near a C.”

He dropped the pencil, smirk fading. “I’m trying, princess. Maybe you’re just a crappy teacher.”

The words stung, sharp and sudden. I gripped my pen tighter, ink smudging my fingers. “I’m not the one who ‘skimmed’ a classic and called it good. If you’d actually read—”

“I did!” He snapped forward, chair slamming all four legs down. His eyes flashed, hazel turned stormy. “Half of it, anyway. Last night, after you left. It’s boring as hell—bunch of whiny rich kids chasing stuff they can’t have. Sound familiar?”

My mouth opened, then shut. Was that a dig at me? The wedding? I shoved the thought down. “Fine. Prove it. What happens in Chapter 3?”

He leaned in, elbows on the table, close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his irises. “Gatsby throws a big party. Everyone’s drunk, nobody’s happy. Some chick’s crying about her dress. That enough for you?”

I blinked. He wasn’t wrong—bare bones, but accurate. “Okay, good. Why’s Gatsby doing it, though?”

“To impress Daisy,” he muttered, slumping back. “Guy’s obsessed. Kinda pathetic.”

“It’s romantic,” I countered, voice softer now. “He’s chasing a memory. Don’t you ever… want something like that?”

Jake’s gaze flicked to mine, sharp and searching, and for a second, the room went quiet—no TV, no clock, just us. Then he snorted, breaking it. “Nah. Memories screw you up. Better to keep moving.”

I frowned, but before I could push, he grabbed the book and flipped pages, voice flat. “Next question, teach. Let’s get this over with.”

The shift threw me, but I nodded, flipping to my notes. “Fine. Tom Buchanan—describe him.”

“Asshole,” Jake said without hesitation. “Loud, cheats on his wife, thinks he owns everyone. Reminds me of Kyle.”

I paused, pen hovering. There it was again—his brother, a shadow creeping into every gap. “Kyle’s… not like Tom, right? I mean, not that bad?”

Jake’s jaw tightened, and he stared at the table, tracing a scratch with his thumb. “Worse, sometimes. Doesn’t matter. Ask something else.”

I wanted to press—who is Kyle to you, really?—but his tone was a wall, and I wasn’t brave enough to climb it. Not yet. “Okay. Uh, Jordan Baker. What’s her deal?”

He shrugged, loosening up. “Golfer chick. Lies a lot. Hot, though.”

“Hot?” I raised an eyebrow, half-teasing. “That’s your analysis?”

“What? She is.” He grinned, the smirk sneaking back. “You jealous, princess?”

“No!” I sputtered, face flaming. “God, you’re impossible. Focus.”

He laughed, low and rough, and it did something stupid to my stomach. I buried my nose in my notes, rattling off questions—Nick’s narration, the valley of ashes—while he tossed out half-serious answers, half-baiting me into arguing. An hour slipped by, and we hit a rhythm, bickering over symbolism like it was a game. He wasn’t hopeless, just lazy, and I almost forgot why I was there.

Until the front door banged open.

Kyle stumbled in, a six-pack dangling from his hand, eyes glassy. “Well, well,” he slurred, spotting us. “Study date’s still on? You two look cozy.”

Jake shot up, chair scraping. “I told you to stay out tonight.”

“Didn’t feel like it.” Kyle lurched closer, beer sloshing, and grinned at me. “She’s cute when she’s mad. You keeping her warm, little bro?”

“Shut up,” Jake growled, stepping in front of me. His shoulders were tense, fists balled. “Go sleep it off.”

Kyle laughed, wet and mean, and tossed an empty can at the couch. It clattered, and I flinched. “Touchy. Fine, I’ll crash. Don’t let her tire you out.”

He staggered down the hall, leaving a sour stink behind. Jake didn’t move until the bedroom door slammed, then turned to me, face hard. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I lied, heart racing. “He’s… a lot.”

“He’s a dick.” Jake rubbed his neck, avoiding my eyes. “Look, we’re done tonight. Go home.”

“But we didn’t finish—”

“Go.” It wasn’t harsh, just tired, and it hit me harder than Kyle’s mess. He grabbed my backpack, shoving it into my arms. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I nodded, numb, and headed for the door. But as I stepped onto the porch, bike in sight, I heard it—a crash from inside, glass shattering, and Jake’s voice, low and furious, yelling something I couldn’t catch.

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