Make Me Bad (Page 21)

That’s all he gives me. No affirmation one way or the other, no piercing gaze locked with mine confirming I’m the most beautiful woman he’s ever laid eyes on.

I want to demand more, but I don’t get the chance.

“Heads up!” someone shouts from across the grassy field just before a bright yellow frisbee flies into my peripheral vision. I yelp as hard plastic collides with my forehead.

“It’s not so bad,” Mrs. Allen assures me at the library on Monday. “I can hardly see it.”

“That’s because you’re not wearing your glasses.”

“Oh.” She reaches for the beaded lanyard around her neck, positions her glasses in place, and then gasps. “Oh dear! We need to get you to a doctor!” She reaches for the phone. “Let me call 911.”

I hold down the receiver.

“I’ve already been to the doctor, remember? I just told you all about it.”

Ben took me on Saturday even after I insisted I was fine. It was a waste of time. The doctor just confirmed that I knew where I was and then poked and prodded my head a little. It hurt, but I would live. He prescribed ice and rest.

The strangest part about the whole ordeal isn’t the fact that I now look like I have two heads; it’s the way Ben has acted about the whole thing. He insisted I see the doctor and wouldn’t hear of dropping me off around the block from my dad’s house afterward.

He nearly snapped at me when I fought him on it.

“I’m taking you home, Madison. Jesus, you could have a concussion.”

I held the ice pack to my head and kept my mouth shut. If he wanted to deal with my dad, so be it. Turned out, I was worrying for nothing—my dad wasn’t home. Ben pulled up to our empty driveway and shot out of his car to open my door before I could. He wanted to carry me up the front walk, but when I insisted I could do it on my own, he resorted to toting me along like a wounded soldier. My feet barely touched the ground. At the door, he took the keys out of my hand and unlocked it, pushing it open for me.

I stepped inside and he hovered there, toeing the line.

“Do you think you have enough ice packs?” he asked, brows furrowed in concern.

I gestured to the one currently in use on my head and the two others the doctor had given me that would promptly get placed in the freezer.

“Do you have some medicine to take for the headache? The doctor said you could.”

“Yes. Lots.”

His eyes widened. “Don’t overdo it.”

“Ben,” I said, stepping forward and patting his chest to get him to calm down, but then my hand sort of had a mind of its own because his chest was unreal, like a living, breathing brick wall. I pat, pat, patted it, and he didn’t even tell me to stop because I think he assumed my injury had really set in. I wasn’t in control of my actions. I could have declared my love for him right there and he would have blinked and told me to go lie down.

“How many times a week do you work out?”

He shook his head and stepped past me. “That’s it. C’mon, I’m going to help you get set up so you can rest.”

“Ben! Oh my god, you have to get out. What if my dad comes home?!”

I leaped in front of him as he tried to walk down the hall to the kitchen, my ice pack forgotten on the ground. I propped two hands on his chest, dug my heels in, and then pushed him with all my might. Nothing. I groaned and tried again. Worse—he moved me aside.

“Where’s your room?” he asked, walking away from me.

“Not there! That’s the kitchen!”

I was freaking out, scared my dad would stroll in any minute. What would he think if he found me alone with Ben in the house? Oh dear god, I wasn’t prepared to find out.

“My room is up this way!” I shouted, hoping if I was extra compliant, I’d satisfy him enough that he’d leave.

I took the stairs two at a time and pushed the door open at the end of the hall. There she was in all her glory, my childhood-bedroom-turned-adult-hideout.

Sure, I updated my comforter from the zebra print to a nice neutral blue a few years back, but the bed itself is still baby pink, and the ceilings are still bordered by a thin row of colorful daisies. I’ve been meaning to do something about all those old posters on the wall, but it was too late because Ben was there, right behind me, staring at them and judging my love for the Backstreet Boys.

Or maybe not. He swept his gaze across the space with near indifference until his attention settled on my bed. Did it meet his standards? Did he sleep with women on queen-sized mattresses or was his lovemaking so rambunctious that only king-sized would do?

“C’mon. Take your shoes off,” he said, pushing me toward my unmade bed.

“Huh, I always thought my first time would be more romantic than this.”

My attempt at humor was lost on him.

“Sit down. Socks too.” He pushed me down to sit on the edge and kneeled to peel off my boots and socks. In the process, his finger pad ran along the bottom of my foot and goose bumps bloomed down my spine.

“I take back what I just said about this not being romantic—that was downright erotic. Put my socks back on and take them off again.”

His mouth stayed right smack dab between a smile and a frown. He wasn’t going to give in to my delirium.

“Lie back,” he insisted, pushing to stand and lifting my legs up onto the bed for me.

I had a bump on my head, but to him, it was like my entire body had stopped working. I wasn’t even trying to play it up as a terrible injury or anything; he’d come to that conclusion all on his own. I think it was because he blamed himself for the frisbee hitting me in the first place, as if he should have been standing guard like a sentry or something.

“Do you want anything from downstairs?” he asked, moving to the door. “I’m going to get you some water.”

“You don’t have to tend to me. I’m fine, I swear.”

After ignoring me, he returned five minutes later with some water, a bottle of Advil, an apple, and a bag of pretzels. He must have raided my bathroom cabinet and the pantry.

“Are you feeling okay?” he asked, passing me a pill and the water.

I downed it and smiled, tugging the blankets to my chin. “Peachy. How do I look?”

I fluttered my lashes and he frowned. “You’ll heal up. Do you want me to stay? I could find a show or—” His gaze swept to the paperback on my nightstand. “Read to you.”

My hand reached out for his arm, gripping it so tightly I likely cut off circulation. He had to stop. Was he trying to send me to an early grave?

“I’m fine. I promise.”

He nodded and stood up. His hand got dragged through his hair for the hundredth time since the frisbee smacked into my skull. “Right. Well, I’m only a phone call away if you need something.”

“All right, when my glass of water gets low, I’ll give you a call,” I teased.

He finally cracked a hint of a smile and then bent down to gently brush the side of my forehead. “I’m sorry our picnic ended this way.”

Not sorrier than me.

Sunday, Ben texted me twice, once in the morning—just before my dad noticed my bump and I had to feed him a lie about how I’d tripped at the library—and once at night to check in on me and make sure I hadn’t taken a turn for the worse. He thought I was on my deathbed. From an errant frisbee. My life is just not that interesting, sorry dude.

Back in the library on Monday morning, Mrs. Allen says since I won’t let her call the police (she means an ambulance), she has a great olive oil I can rub on my head to help it heal quicker.

“Do you mean an essential oil?”

“They’re the same, I think. This one’s extra virgin.”

Oh good, extra virgin—just like me.

Then she leaves me alone at my desk with Katy. We just had a new shipment of board books arrive and we’re adding them to the library’s system. Obviously, by that, I mean I’m adding them and Katy is mostly scrolling through Instagram.

She cracks up at something, ignoring me when I ask her to hand me a book.

“Katy.”

Nothing.

I try again. “Katy.”

She groans like I’m a pain in her ass, and I recall the conversation I had with my boss earlier where I tried to insist Katy be fired or moved to a different department far, far away from me. “No can do,” was his response. Apparently, we get a small grant from the city for taking on interns like her and I’m the only dummy willing to put up with her.

She finally reaches for a book and holds it out to me without looking. It’s not even remotely within my reach. I have to stand up and bend over to grab it. When I do, I resist the urge to smack her with it just as her gaze lands on something other than her phone. It’s a first. There’s either a celebrity or a zombie in her line of sight, and I pray it’s the latter. At least then I’d be rid of her.

“Jeez. Who’s the hunk?”

I glance up to see Ben walking into the library. His presence is like a solid punch to the gut. Oof. His suit is black. Oof. His face is sharp and mean-looking and worthy of being carved into stone. Oof.

He spots me right away and his expression eases a bit until he notices the nice bruise on my forehead. His brows tug together again, and I blanch. I should have worn a hat. I tried on a dozen: fedora, beanie, scarf tied around my forehead. In the end, I settled on acceptance. This is me, world, bruise and all.