THE BAD BOY BARGAIN

Chapter 2: Midnight Rules

The old pier smelled like salt and regret, the kind of place you’d see in a horror movie right before someone screamed. Waves crashed against the rotting wood, and the wind tugged at my hoodie, making me wish I’d stayed home under my quilt with *Pride and Prejudice*. But no—here I was, pacing in the dark at 11:58 PM, waiting for Jake Ryder to decide my fate. My phone’s flashlight bobbed over cracked planks, and every creak made my stomach lurch. This was a terrible idea.

I’d almost bailed twice. Ellie had texted me a dozen skull emojis when I’d told her the plan, followed by, *“If he murders you, I’m not cleaning it up.”* Fair. But my sister’s wedding loomed in five days, and Mothball Man’s cat hair was already haunting my nightmares. Jake was my last shot, even if meeting him at midnight felt like signing a deal with the devil.

Headlights sliced through the fog, and my breath caught. The rumble of his motorcycle growled closer, vibrating through my sneakers. He rolled to a stop ten feet away, the engine cutting off with a sputter that left the night too quiet. Jake swung his leg over the bike, all shadow and swagger in that dumb leather jacket. His hair was messier than at school, like the wind had claimed it, and his smirk was back—sharper in the moonlight.

“You showed,” he said, voice low, like he’d bet I wouldn’t. He shoved his hands in his pockets and strolled over, stopping close enough that I had to tip my head up. “Gutsy, princess.”

“Don’t call me that,” I snapped, clutching my phone tighter. The flashlight beam danced between us, catching the scar above his eyebrow. “I’m here. What’s your price?”

He chuckled, a sound that sent heat creeping up my neck. “Straight to business, huh? No ‘Hey, Jake, nice night’?” He stepped closer, and I backed up, my heel bumping a loose board. His eyes glinted. “Relax. I don’t bite. Much.”

“Funny.” My voice shook, but I squared my shoulders. “Look, I need you Saturday. One night—wedding, family, done. What do you want?”

Jake tilted his head, sizing me up like I was a puzzle he hadn’t cracked yet. “You’re in AP English, right? Miss Carter’s class?” I nodded, confused. “I’m failing it. Bad. Tutor me, three nights a week, ‘til I pass the next test. Then I’ll be your arm candy.”

My jaw dropped. “Tutor you? That’s it?” I’d expected something insane—cash I didn’t have, or worse, some creepy favor. Not… homework.

“That’s it.” He shrugged, but there was a catch in his tone. “I need a C, or I’m off the team. Coach’s rules. You’re my ticket, brainiac.”

I blinked, processing. Three nights a week with Jake Ryder, in my space, smirking over textbooks. My quiet life was about to get loud. “Fine,” I said, before I could overthink it. “But no slacking. You show up, you work, or the deal’s off.”

“Bossy,” he teased, stepping into the flashlight’s glow. His grin was all teeth. “I like it. Deal.” He stuck out a hand, and I hesitated—his fingers were calloused, smudged with grease. I shook it anyway, his grip firm, warm, lingering a second too long.

“Good,” I said, pulling back fast. “Saturday, six PM. Black tie. Don’t be late.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He turned toward his bike, then paused, glancing over his shoulder. “One more thing—tutoring starts tomorrow. My place, eight. Bring your fancy words.”

“Your place?” My voice cracked. “Like, your house?”

“Where else?” He swung onto the bike, kicking it to life. The roar swallowed my protest. “Don’t flake, Mia. I don’t do second chances.”

“Wait—” I started, but he was already peeling away, taillights fading into the fog. I stood there, wind whipping my hair, heart hammering like I’d run a mile. His place. Tomorrow. What had I just agreed to?

The walk home was a blur of salt air and panic. I replayed his words—*tutor me, three nights a week*—and pictured my neat little world crashing into his chaos. Ellie was right; this was a disaster. But as I slipped into bed, the wedding invite glaring from my nightstand, I couldn’t shake the stupid flutter in my chest. Jake Ryder, with his smirk and his bike and his ridiculous deal, was trouble. And I’d just said yes.

I barely slept, tossing until my alarm screamed at 6 AM. School dragged—Ellie grilled me in homeroom, whispering, “Midnight? At the *pier*? Are you insane?”—but all I could think about was eight PM. His place. I didn’t even know where he lived. How was I supposed to—

My phone buzzed at lunch, an unknown number. The text was short, no hello: *“412 Oak St. Don’t bring that book snob attitude.”* Jake. I stared at it, my sandwich forgotten. 412 Oak Street. That was the rougher side of town—peeling paint, loud dogs, the kind of place I’d never gone alone. Ellie peeked over my shoulder and groaned. “You’re so dead.”

By 7:45, I was pedaling my bike down Oak, nerves buzzing like a live wire. The street was dim, streetlights flickering, and 412 loomed ahead—a squat house with chipped blue siding and a sagging porch. Jake’s motorcycle sat out front, gleaming under a rusty lamp. I propped my bike against a tree, my backpack heavy with textbooks, and took a shaky breath. This was it.

I knocked, the sound swallowed by a dog barking somewhere down the block. The door swung open, and there he was—Jake, in a black T-shirt, hair damp like he’d just showered, that smirk dialed to eleven. “Right on time,” he said, leaning against the frame. “Come in, princess. Lesson one starts now.”

He stepped aside, and I froze, staring into the dim living room—pizza boxes, a worn couch, and a coffee table stacked with notebooks. Then he shut the door behind me, the click loud in the quiet, and my stomach dropped.