THE BAD BOY BARGAIN

Chapter 5: Cracks in the Armor

The ride home from Jake’s was a blur—pedaling hard against the night wind, my mind stuck on that crash, that yell. Glass breaking wasn’t just noise; it was a warning, a peek behind Jake’s smirk into something messy I didn’t know how to handle. By the time I collapsed onto my bed, backpack dumped on the floor, it was past ten. My phone buzzed—Ellie, demanding, “Alive? Spill!” I texted back a quick “Fine. Weird night. Talk tomorrow,” and buried my face in my pillow. Sleep didn’t come easy.

Morning hit like a truck. I dragged myself to school, eyes gritty, Gatsby notes crumpled in my bag. Ellie pounced in the hall, pink hair bouncing. “You look like death. What happened at Bad Boy Central?”

“Kyle happened,” I muttered, shoving books into my locker. “He’s a trainwreck. Jake kicked me out after.”

Her eyes widened. “Kicked you out? What’d you do?”

“Nothing! It was… tense. Something broke—glass, I think. Jake yelled. I don’t know.” I slammed the locker shut, harder than I meant. “He’s a mess, El.”

“He’s a mess?” She snorted, falling into step as we headed to class. “You’re the one tutoring him in his dumpster fire of a house. Dump this deal, Mia. Wedding’s not worth it.”

I stopped, gripping my bag straps. “It’s not just the wedding anymore. He needs to pass English, and I… I said I’d help.” The words felt flimsy, but they were true. Jake’s tired “Go” had stuck with me, heavy and raw.

Ellie groaned. “You’re too nice. He’s gonna drag you down with him.”

“Maybe,” I said, quieter. “But I’m not bailing yet.”

She shook her head, muttering about my funeral, but I barely heard her. All day, Jake’s voice looped in my head—sharp with Kyle, soft with me. By lunch, I’d decided: I wasn’t done with him. Not until I figured out what was under that leather jacket.

He wasn’t at school, though. No motorcycle in the lot, no smirk in the halls. I texted him—“You okay? Tutoring tonight?”—and got nothing back. Radio silence. It gnawed at me, but I had bigger fish: the wedding was three days away, and Mom had already called twice about my “mystery date.” I lied through my teeth—“He’s nice, you’ll see”—and prayed Jake wouldn’t flake.

By 7 PM, I was pacing my room, Gatsby open on my desk, when my phone finally buzzed. Jake: “My place. 8. Bring the book.” No apology, no explanation—just him, like always. I grabbed my stuff and biked over, nerves buzzing louder than the chain rattling under me.

412 Oak Street looked the same—dingy, dim, the motorcycle parked crooked out front. I knocked, half-expecting Kyle, but Jake answered, bruised knuckles catching the porch light. He looked wrecked—dark circles under his eyes, hair a disaster, T-shirt wrinkled like he’d slept in it. “Hey,” he said, voice rough. “Come in.”

I stepped inside, the air thick with something stale—beer, maybe, or regret. The living room was tidier, though—no cans, no pizza boxes. Just the couch and that wobbly table, a cracked lamp in the corner. “You okay?” I asked, setting my bag down. “Last night—”

“Forget it,” he cut in, sharp enough to make me flinch. He rubbed his neck, softening. “Kyle’s crap. Not your problem. Let’s just… do this.”

I nodded, unsure, and pulled out Gatsby. We sat—him closer this time, knee brushing mine under the table—and I started. “Chapter 4. Gatsby’s past. What’s he hiding?”

Jake leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the page. “He’s a fake. Made up some rich-guy story to fit in. Daisy doesn’t even know.”

“Right,” I said, surprised he’d caught it. “He’s pretending. Kinda like…” I stopped, biting my lip.

“Like me?” He glanced up, a ghost of a smirk there and gone. “Say it, princess.”

“I didn’t mean—” I fumbled, heat creeping up my face. “You’re not fake. Just… guarded.”

He snorted, but his eyes held mine, steady and unreadable. “Guarded’s one way to put it. You’re not wrong, though. Saturday’s your show—I’ll play the part. What’s the script?”

Relief hit me—he was still in. “Okay. Wedding’s at six. Black tie—jacket, no tie if you hate it. Smile, dance a little, charm my mom. She’s the judge.”

“Charm’s my specialty.” He grinned, fleeting but real. “Dancing, though? You’re screwed.”

I laughed, tension easing. “I’ll lead. Just don’t step on my toes.”

“Deal.” He paused, tapping the book. “You’re good at this, you know. Teaching. I actually get it now.”

The compliment caught me off guard, warm and sudden. “Thanks. You’re not as hopeless as you think.”

“High praise,” he teased, but his voice was softer, eyes lingering. For a second, I forgot the book, the wedding, Kyle—just him, close and quiet, bruised knuckles inches from my hand.

Then the doorbell rang, shrill and jarring. Jake tensed, glancing at the door like it might bite. “Stay here,” he said, standing fast. He crossed the room, peered through the peephole, and cursed under his breath. “s**t. It’s Coach.”

“Coach?” I whispered, heart jumping. “Why—”

He didn’t answer, just yanked the door open. A stocky guy in a tracksuit stood there, gray hair buzzed short, face red. “Ryder,” he barked. “We need to talk. Now.”

Jake stepped onto the porch, shutting the door behind him, but not before I caught Coach’s next words: “You’re off the team if this keeps up.”