The Truth About Bad Boys

The Truth About Bad Boys

Gray’s POV

She doesn’t reply until Sunday, and it’s the most agonizing two days of my life.

Did I go too far? Did I not go far enough?

The more I think about her, the more I like her. I can’t think of one, single detail about her I don’t like. Voice? Sultry and sexy. Smile? Sweet and charming. Style? Pretty much how I would dress if I was a girl. Body? Smoking hot, to a degree that just isn’t even fair.

And the answers she gave me, once she started opening up to me? Drummer chick with a life of crime who hates Lancaster boys? Even the sad stuff she revealed (without actually revealing anything) just made me like her that much more—and want to hit whoever did that to her very hard, repeatedly, in the face.

I hope she didn’t hate my article. I did say it was a rough draft. Did I come on too strong in the body of the email? Did I come on too strong the day I met her? I’m pretty sure I’ll come on too strong the next time I see her, if I haven’t already. I’m kind of an all-or-nothing kind of guy.

When she finally replies, I drop everything—okay, I drop the bong I’m sharing with my roommate, Devon, in our dorm room—to read it.

Stoner boy, the intro reads. I can’t help but chuckle at that. I liked your article. Maybe take out the piece about my crimes rivaling yours… since, unlike you, I was never caught.

Damn, she’s good.

I take a deep breath before diving in.

- - - - -

The Truth About Bad Boys

By Memphis Edgerton

When you’ve had bad experiences with boys, your subconscious starts trying to train you. That one’s dangerous, it likes to warn you. That one looks like trouble. That one smells like trouble.

For a while there, I thought I had it figured out. Avoid the boys who look at you like you’re a piece of meat. Avoid the boys whose breath smells like alcohol. And, above all else, avoid the bad boys.

I’m not even entirely sure where that particular stigma came from. Not from personal experience, I must admit. It seems like the sort of thing we’re warned about from an early age by our own mothers, and even our friends. “What a James Dean. Sexy, but stay away if you know what’s good for you.”

But what did James Dean ever do to anybody, other than die far too young?

What I realized, as I interviewed (and then sat through my own interview—thanks for the heads up there, Mrs. Indigo) Gray Gehrig, is that a “bad boy” does not a bad boy make.

Bad boys—the kind who actually do traumatizing and unforgiveable things to girls—come in all shapes and sizes. They might be disguised as jocks, punks, or even nerds. Bad boys might give the illusion of being more dangerous than those other types of guys, but that does not, in fact, make them guilty of any such crime.

Take Gray, for example. Guilty of crime? Sure. Many, from what I gathered during his interview. But guilty of those crimes—the only ones I care about?

Not likely. In fact, I’d go so far as to say he’s the first guy I’ve met who’s actually tried to do something to punish the real bad boys committing those crimes.

I wish I had asked Gray more questions, because he probably would have had some interesting things to say. But in lieu of that, I will summarize this article with the following: The truth about bad boys is, not all of them are bad.

Also, don’t make assumptions about people, because you’re probably wrong.

- - - - -

I sit there, half-stoned, half-dazed, re-reading her article over and over again, with a stupid smile on my face.

“Dude,” Devon finally says. “What are you reading, Moby-d**k?”

I laugh, but I still don’t manage to peel my eyes away from the screen. This is good, right? She may not have liked me going into the interview, but she liked me going out of it. In fact, the themes of our mutual articles were almost identical.

Surely that’s a sign?

I scan the body of her email again. Why didn’t she mention anything about meeting up? Why didn’t she send me her phone number? Is that her way of saying my article wasn’t quite impressive enough to actually allow me to take her out, or did she just forget?

“Must be some girl,” Devon mutters, shaking his head.

I scan her email one last time, then nearly jump off my bed with joy when I see it: there, in her tiny email signature, beneath her name. Her number.

“She is,” I tell him.

And I dial.

She answers on the first ring. “Hello?”

I wasn’t quite expecting that. I glance at Devon with a frown before heading for the hallway. I don’t want to have this conversation in front of him. “Hello. Is this Memphis?”

“Depends who’s asking.”

I’ve made it to the courtyard now. I take a seat on the very bench where I was last with her, relaxing. “It’s Gray.”

She’s silent for a beat. Then, “How did you get my number?”

“Man, way to make a guy feel creepy. It was in your email signature.”

“Oh.” Another beat of silence. Then, “Nobody really calls anymore. I’m surprised you didn’t text.”

Is she calling me old? “Well, maybe I wanted to hear your voice again.”

“Mmm. Or maybe you were scared I wouldn’t reply to a text.”

“Ouch.” Harsh, but sexy.

“Just kidding.” I think she means it; I can hear a bit of a smile in her tone. “I actually prefer talking to texting.”

“Noted.”

“Well, did you read it?”

“The article that the hot, drummer redhead in the Clash tee wrote about me, that I was on the edge of my seat waiting for all weekend?” I word-vomit out. “Yeah, I might have read it.”

She laughs, which is something. “And?”

“And… I loved it. I don’t think anyone’s ever written anything that nice about me before. I especially liked the part where you compared me to James Dean.”

“I’m not sure that’s exactly what I did.”

“Close enough to flatter me.”

She gives a small chuckle at that, but I get the sense I’m losing her. “Well?” I ask hopefully. “Was mine enough to convince you to go out with me?”

She’s silent for a second—the most agonizing second of my life, I swear. Then, “We’re meeting up with Kai tonight for drinks at the Velvet Room.”

“Kai? My Kai?” Kai Tolbert is a good guy, but not exactly the type who can get into a 21-and-up bar with ease—nor who would want to. Not to mention, he’s not exactly known for scoring dates with three beautiful girls in one night.

“Yeah. Bridget’s a bad influence. Guess she’s getting him a fake ID.”

Wasn’t Bridget the one who looked like a female Ezra? Apparently I was wrong about all three of those girls, not just Memphis. “Damn. You girls know it’s a Sunday night, right?”

She laughs. “I know. Our favorite bartender works Sunday nights. Gives us free drinks.”

For the second time since meeting Memphis, I feel the green monster stirring. Who is this bartender, and how soon into the night am I going to have to kick his ass?

Maybe I should just be grateful for the invite. Though she hasn’t explicitly invited me yet. “Are you saying I’m invited?”

“Maybe. Do I have to get you a fake, too?”

“Please. Do you know who you’re talking to?”

She laughs. “Okay, Frank Abagnale. See you at eight.”