What My Mother Never Told Me
About Badboys
When Ronny Harper walked into the music store, I saw nothing but another long-haired, leather clad, foul-mouthed biker. That’s not to mention the fact that his taste in music slid neatly into the category of heavy metal which turns me off so quickly, I wouldn’t spend five minutes with a guy like that—let alone, a whole evening. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-two even though he had a swagger and a smile intended to make me think he was reasonably mature. I’d never trust him, that was for sure, and as I usually did, I kept a fixed eye on him as he browsed my shop for a CD.
I suppose in one respect Ronny was sort of cute, his sleek brown hair smoothly combed back into a ponytail, bound with a leather tie, his flat gray eyes inquisitive
