Bad Boy Ink (Get Ink'd #5) - Ali Lyda Page 0,44

learned to escape through coding... and that turned into hacking when I needed an outlet for my own anger and resentment toward my parents. It felt like such a satisfying ‘fuck you’ to steal and hold that kind of power over other people. A lot of the hacking I did was focused on taking money away from people who had too much of it, who were hurting other people instead of helping them.”

His eyes brightened at that. “So you view yourself as a modern-day Robin Hood?”

I shook my head. It was so strange to be in the hot seat. It had been ages since I’d been this open with anyone—even Bryan and I didn't get into the details of my past like this. But with Bryce, the truth kept tumbling out.

“To be a Robin Hood, I would’ve had to give the money I've stolen to others. Do good with it. But I've just been giving it to myself, sitting on a bank account that's accumulating interest as kind of a back-up plan.”

It was hard to admit my selfishness out loud. It sounded so crude and beneath my skills and where I wanted to be in my life. Who I wanted to be.

Bryce sat up and moved closer to me. He put his hand on my knee and it burned me through my jeans, radioactive in intensity. I was so aware of him then, the largeness of his body, the hard angles of his face...the softness in his eyes.

“I can't blame you for that or judge you for it,” Bryce said seriously. “I know you looked me up, so you know I did the same thing. My reasons might have been a little different, but theft is theft. Survival can take a lot of different shapes and forms, and it doesn't mean you're a bad person for choosing the method you did. Even if you know it’s not the right thing to do.”

My breath left me in a rush. His words were a punch to the gut, hollowing me out. Leaving me empty and open to the potential that he might actually believe I was a good person. Despite everything.

My father’s rejection of me (and my mother turning a blind eye) hadn’t just angered me...it had wounded me. Deeply. While I’d thrown a fast bandage on it, finding the sugar daddy app and stealing from those who had more than they needed, who wielded their money like a weapon just like my parents had, who didn’t take me any more seriously than they had—it had just allowed me to ignore the infection that was brewing underneath my hurt and anger.

Because somewhere along the way, I’d begun to believe my dad. That I wasn’t worth keeping. That I was easy to abandon. In retaliation, I’d buckled down more on the daddy app, and then at the job fair, I’d latched onto this idea of the FBI job to try to prove to my parents how wrong they’d been about me.

But my father would never give a shit. No job would impress him unless it was one he’d picked out for me, and he could put me on a pedestal in front of all his friends as the perfect, accessory-worthy son.

It didn’t matter what I did, because my dad was an asshole. So what did it matter if I got the job for him?

It didn’t. It mattered to me. I wanted to prove myself to me. I needed my talents to be useful. I wanted to show off. I wanted to do good.

Bryce lifted his hand from my knee, still waiting for a response. How could I tell him all of that, though, when I was only now understanding it about myself?

Bravado was second nature to me, and it kicked in in time for me to say, “I won't be a Robin Hood if I work at the FBI, but I can get satisfaction proving that I'm the best at what I do. What can I say? I love challenges.”

Ah, but how weak it sounded to my ears. How certain I was that he’d see straight through me to the little boy suddenly terrified of what others thought about him. The space around me seemed to shrink as I held my breath, waiting for judgment.

Bryce leaned back, his eyes shrewd as if trying to decipher my real answer. The one left unsaid. My fingers tapped on the ground as I waited to be called out, breath held. But he didn't call me out.