Bad for You (Dirty Deeds) Read online

  J. Daniels is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of the Sweet Addiction series, and the Alabama Summer series. She loves curling up with a good book, drinking a ridiculous amount of coffee, and writing stories her children will never read.

  Daniels grew up in Baltimore and resides in Maryland with her family.

  Visit J. Daniels online:

  https://www.facebook.com/jdanielsauthor

  Twitter: @JDanielsbooks

  Instagram: authorjdaniels

  www.authorjdaniels.com

  ALSO BY J. DANIELS

  The Dirty Deeds series

  Four Letter Word

  Hit the Spot

  Copyright

  Published by Piatkus

  ISBN: 978-1-405-53997-5

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by J. Daniels

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  Piatkus

  Little, Brown Book Group

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  About the Author

  Also By J. Daniels

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue: Sean

  Chapter One: Shayla

  Chapter Two: Sean

  Chapter Three: Shayla

  Chapter Four: Sean

  Chapter Five: Shayla

  Chapter Six: Sean

  Chapter Seven: Shayla

  Chapter Eight: Sean

  Chapter Nine: Sean

  Chapter Ten: Sean

  Chapter Eleven: Shayla

  Chapter Twelve: Sean

  Chapter Thirteen: Shayla

  Chapter Fourteen: Sean

  Chapter Fifteen: Shayla

  Chapter Sixteen: Sean

  Chapter Seventeen: Shayla

  Chapter Eighteen: Sean

  Chapter Nineteen: Shayla

  Chapter Twenty: Sean

  Chapter Twenty-one: Shayla

  Epilogue: Shayla

  To Bobby.

  I’m sorry we didn’t do more for you. You were loved and are loved still.

  R.I.P.

  And to my brother, J. R.

  You got this.

  Prologue

  SEAN

  “I need new clothes for school. Can we go to the store?”

  Mom kept her eyes ahead, going back and forth between the show she was watching and the toenail she was painting as I stood beside the sofa.

  She didn’t look at me. She never looked at me.

  I didn’t know why I still got sad over that.

  “No. I’m busy, you little shit,” she snapped, causing the cigarette stuck between her lips to bob and drop ash on the carpet.

  “But school starts tomorrow.”

  “So?”

  “My shoes are too small, and they got holes. My big toes are sticking out.”

  And they hurt my feet, I didn’t say. I didn’t want to sound like a baby. She’d yell at me for that.

  Mom dipped the nail brush back in the red, gloopy polish and kept painting, kept watching her show, kept refusing to look at me.

  “Sew up the holes. You don’t need new shoes,” she said.

  I bit my lip and turned away.

  I was going to be stuck wearing the same clothes I wore last year to school. Same shoes. Same book bag. Everyone else would have new things, and they’d notice when I don’t. There’s no way they wouldn’t notice that.

  Third graders notice everything.

  “Can I just get a new shirt or something?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Just one?”

  She stopped painting then and peeled her gaze away from her show. Keeping hold of the nail brush, she pinched the cigarette between two fingers of her other hand and pulled it away from her mouth to bark, “I ain’t made of money! You want new clothes, go out and get a damn job. It’s about time you started pitching in around here anyway, since you don’t do fuck-all else. What the fuck are you good for? Huh? Nothing! Just taking up space.”

  “I can’t get a job. I’m only eight,” I told her.

  I didn’t think other moms needed to be reminded how old their kids were. But I was constantly having to do it.

  She waved me off with her hand holding the cigarette, ash dropping onto the sofa in the process. “Not my problem. Now, go do something before I get mad and smack the shit outta you. You’re making me miss my show.”

  Tears stinging my eyes, I turned and left the room.

  I knew asking for anything was a long shot, but it didn’t stop me from asking. It never did.

  I wanted nice things. Newer things. I wanted what other kids had.

  I wanted a different life. I hated this one. I hated everything about it.

  I walked past Mom’s bedroom and saw the guy she’d brought home last night passed out on the floor. I didn’t know his name. I never knew any of their names. They never spoke to me. And I stayed clear of them.

  I learned that lesson when the one pushed me into the wall so hard, I threw up and had a headache for days.

  I hated throwing up, but I just couldn’t help it sometimes.

  I stopped in the doorway and looked at the guy. He was hunched over, his back against the bed and his head hanging down. A needle stuck out of his arm.

  Mom said she wasn’t made of money, but she always had enough for those needles with the stuff in them that made everyone so sleepy. I found those needles all over the place.

  The guy’s wallet was open on the bed next to trash and empty bottles. I walked over to it, keeping my steps light so I wouldn’t wake him up, and flipped open the soft leather.

  There were three one-dollar bills inside.

  I thought about what my teacher had said about taking stuff that wasn’t yours, but then I thought about how much my shoes hurt my feet, so I took the money, tossed the wallet where I’d found it, and ran.

  I shut the door to my room and moved quickly to the dresser. I kept my money hidden there—cash I found lying around the house.

  My hand curled around the crinkled bills tucked behind my socks. I added them up with the money from the wallet. Total, I had eight dollars.

  Maybe that would be enough for shoes and a new shirt. I could just wipe off my pants real good. Kids might not notice how old they were if I did that.

  This plan felt like a good one. I actually smiled a little, and I never did that. Not here.

  Keeping quiet, I snuck out the window instead of using the front door, worried I’d get caught, and ran as fast as I could down the street.

  The closest store was a Payless Shoes. I walked inside and looked at what they had, picking out my favorite pair. They were all black with red stripes. I thought they looked so cool.

  I took them up to the front where the woman was standing behind a tall counter, slid my box up beside the register, and dug my money out of my pocket. I flattened out the bills and handed them over.

  The woman looked at the money, then at the shoes, and then back down at me. She was wearing a strange look, like she was a little sad about something. I didn’t understand why.

  I was buying new shoes. That wasn’t sad.


  “Um, this isn’t enough money, sweetheart,” she said, placing the bills down on the counter and sliding them closer to me.

  I looked at the money and then back up at her. “What?”

  “These shoes cost fifteen dollars. You only have eight.”

  I frowned. “But I don’t have any more money,” I said.

  She was frowning now too. “I’m sorry. You’ll just have to wait until you have enough.”

  The phone behind her started ringing. She turned away to answer it. I looked at the money again and at the shoes I wanted.

  No. Not wanted. Needed.

  I needed those shoes. My feet hurt so bad from that run.

  Again, I thought about what my teacher always said. Stealing was bad, but she was talking about people who took stuff when they had other choices, and I didn’t have other choices. My toes were bleeding now through my socks. I could feel it.

  I wiped harshly at my face when I felt tears, and then, making sure no one was watching me, I did it.

  I grabbed my money and the box of shoes, and I ran until I couldn’t anymore, because it hurt too bad.

  Hiding behind a car, I pulled off my old shoes and put on my new ones. They fit so good. They didn’t hurt me at all. I thought I’d feel bad for taking them, but I didn’t. I needed these shoes.

  The run home felt so much better.

  Mom never noticed me, so I never got into trouble. But I would get into trouble eventually.

  My teacher said stealing was wrong, but sometimes people needed to do things that were wrong, because they didn’t have another choice.

  I was nothing to nobody.

  I never had another choice.

  Chapter One

  SHAYLA

  I wanted to tell her no. I wanted to lie to Gladys or Dorothy, whatever this sweet old lady’s name was seated in my section, and say we were fresh out of ranch dressing, and the little cup of it that came with her large garden salad was the last drop. If I didn’t and obliged her request, it would mean walking back over to the kitchen window I avoided like the plague and speaking to him—Sean “Stitch” Molina. The keeper of the dressings. The cook at Whitecaps Restaurant. He hoarded the ranch back there, and the only way to get more of it was with words.

  And we didn’t do words anymore. Not as of eight months ago.

  So, instead of doing my job as a waitress, I contemplated the dishonest route, which could very well get me fired.

  Was I willing to roll those dice? Maybe. It might be worth a shot. My boss, Nate, could overlook my wrongdoing. He was understanding enough.

  We’re fresh out of ranch, I could tell the lady. And all other dressings, for that matter. I am so sorry. Could I maybe get you another refill? Or something else not located in the kitchen?

  I thought on this plan—it could work. Maybe she would believe me. Or maybe she would rethink her request and decide she no longer needed more dressing.

  Help a fellow woman out here, Millie. Christ.

  “I just need a little bit more,” the lady requested with a gentle smile. “Would you be a dear? I won’t trouble you for anything else, I promise.”

  “Of course,” I replied, the response compulsively leaving my tongue. I couldn’t fight it. I couldn’t lie. I’d feel terrible.

  Besides, this was my job. If someone requested more ranch dressing, I got them more ranch dressing, even if it meant speaking to the man I was completely and pathetically infatuated with, no matter how badly it hurt me to do so.

  I gave the lady a smile in return before moving away.

  My steps were slow as I weaved between tables and headed toward the kitchen. I tried to keep my head down, to focus on the tile floor disappearing beneath my feet, but I couldn’t.

  I had to look.

  Who was I kidding? I wanted to look.

  As I approached, Tori was leaning close to the window that separated Sean’s domain from everyone else’s. She slid two plates of food off the ledge, commenting, “Looks good. Thanks, Stitch,” before walking off to deliver her orders, winking at me as she passed.

  Sean only went by Stitch when he was here, I was assuming. I wouldn’t know for sure since I’d never spent any time with him outside of work. It was a nickname Tori and I had given him when he’d cut himself a bunch of times during his first week on the job, and he didn’t seem to mind being called that.

  Back then, he didn’t seem to mind a lot of things, like listening to me talk and talk about anything and everything, putting my problems on him in between waiting tables, my stresses, my fears, needing a person to vent to and him being the only person I wanted to vent to because of the way he listened and looked at me.

  No one had ever seemed so interested in what I had to say before.

  Like what I was saying meant everything to them. Like it was a privilege just to listen.

  And no one had ever looked at me the way Sean did—glances that only ever lasted a few seconds at a time, but those few seconds of eye contact—holy crap. I thought my skin was going to combust it would tingle and heat up so quickly. The man had a stare unlike any stare. Equal parts intense and intimidating. But his eyes, sweet mother of God, his eyes were unreal, this rich, golden copper color. And when they were on you, you didn’t just see that beauty—you felt it.

  It was a two-punch combo that turned me into a puddle. No man had ever affected me that way before.

  And that effect wasn’t going away. I was still feeling it.

  Even now with us not speaking to each other, or rather, with me not speaking and him not listening, I still couldn’t get Sean out of my head. I missed what we used to have, yes, but it was more than that. It was so much more.

  A man I barely knew, who seldom spoke, and who had never showed interest in me in that way had somehow taken hold of my heart and twisted it all up. I didn’t understand how it had happened, I just knew it happened.

  Pathetic, right?

  I reached the counter silently, which was a miracle considering how loud my heart sounded in my ears. Keeping my breathing quiet, I looked through that window and peered into the kitchen.

  Sean had his back to me as he flipped burgers and stirred something in a pot. I allowed my eyes to travel the length of him, something I hardly ever let myself do anymore. We shared quick glances now, that was it.

  Sean was well over six feet tall—way taller than me. His back was broad. His hair was long, a beautiful caramel color, and almost always pulled back; his arms were covered in tattoos and roped in muscle; and he had a thick, short beard that hid what I just knew was a strong jaw.

  Sean was beautiful. And he was intimidating. Not just how he looked, but how he acted too.

  He smoked. He drove a motorcycle. He never smiled. He rarely said a word. Everything about Sean said leave me alone, but eight months ago I couldn’t.

  And eight months ago, I didn’t think he wanted me to.

  I thought that was why he looked at me the way he did and listened so well. I wasn’t even nervous when I finally asked him out after hearing about a local party. I was excited.

  I wanted Sean. I wanted to kiss him and touch him and God, hear his voice more. I had gotten so little of it. I wanted to do everything with him. And I thought we would. I thought we’d go to that party together as friends and leave as something more.

  But Sean wasn’t interested in the more I’d been after. He wasn’t interested in me at all.

  Now, that was perfectly clear.

  Sensing me, or maybe he was finished minding the burgers and whatever he was stirring in the pot—I didn’t know for sure, since I was still letting my eyes wander—Sean spun around and stepped forward, snapping my gaze off his body in a panic. Our eyes met.

  Mine widened.

  His narrowed angrily, like I’d pissed him off and he hated me for it, and further hated me for catching him pissed off about it.

  I didn’t understand that look, but no way was I asking about it. I was doing what I came over here to do, and then, hopefull
y, staying far away from this window the rest of the day.

  Maybe I could convince Tori to put in my orders.

  “My lady needs more ranch,” I informed Sean, swallowing thickly when my voice came out sounding stressed and distorted. “Could I get a little more for her?”

  Sean’s gaze lowered to my mouth like he was waiting for more words, which didn’t make sense to me, until I considered the one word I left off he was most likely waiting for.

  “Please?” I added.

  His eyes lifted to mine and stayed narrowed. His nostrils flared. His jaw set.

  I almost apologized for being polite and for not lying to that woman about our condiment supply. Things were so awkward now, I couldn’t stand it. I missed how easy this used to be.

  Memories flooded my mind in an onslaught as I stood there waiting, and my back stiffened. I pictured Sean watching me with care and concern. I remembered the smiles behind his beard I used to catch, and the way his eyes would follow me through the restaurant and brighten when I would wave. We were friends. I wanted to scream at him for ruining that. I wanted to scream at myself for still caring. What was wrong with me? He had completely shut me out. We were nothing now. We were this.

  But with a quick hand, Sean snatched a dressing cup off the shelf and ladled some ranch into it before I spoke another word. He sat the cup on the ledge, removing his hand before our fingers touched, and briskly turned back to the grill without giving me another glance.

  “Thank you,” I mumbled at his back, turning before I lingered another second.

  He shut me out. I needed to do the same to him.

  I delivered the cup of ranch to the sweet old lady, picked up a check for a table who didn’t wait for change, and took care of their tab at the register. Then because I didn’t have any other tables needing anything from me at the moment, I moved to a vacant booth far away from that window and busied myself filling ketchup bottles.

  The next time anyone needed extra dressing, I’d send Tori.

  Three Days Later

  I am getting one of everything.

  Twisting the dial on the radio, I quieted the music I was listening to when the truck ahead of me pulled forward, allowing room for my Civic to squeeze up next to the speaker.