Make Me Bad - R.S. Grey Page 0,1

a cocky pose. He’s daring gravity to get him.

He spits on the floor at my feet. “We don’t want your fuckin’ charity.”

Andy frowns. “Now that’s just not nice.” He points down. “You got spit on his shoes. No one wants spit on their shoes, man.”

Wiry guy makes a real show of hacking up more phlegm in this throat and then he takes careful aim at my feet again. To anyone else, it’d be enough to elicit a reaction, but I don’t give a shit about this guy and his overproduction of saliva.

It’s Mac who finally hits the target.

“Did you hear me, Ben?” Mac prods, sitting up to his full height. “I asked about your mom. She still fuckin’ crazy? Oh, wait, that’s right, I forgot she’s—”

The rubber band inside me snaps. Without an ounce of hesitation, I step forward and kick the legs out from under wiry guy’s chair.

Consequences be damned.

2

Madison

Today is my 25th birthday and I’m standing in the middle of the children’s section at the library while my coworkers serenade me. This is my official birthday party, the only one I’m going to get. I wish I were in Vegas at one of those clubs where the Kardashians have their birthdays. Strobe lights would be flashing, my dress would be killer, and I’d stumble upon a billionaire financier who just so happened to have the body of an NFL player in the hall on the way to the bathroom. I’d accidentally trip and fall—oops!—right into his path. He’d fall too, for me, instantly. My life would forever be changed.

As it is, here in reality, there’s a small cake and a few streamers hanging haphazardly from the ceiling. Most have already fallen to the ground, crunched beneath our shoes. To his credit, my friend Eli brought in a fancy fruit and cheese tray this morning, but there’s really only a few blue cheese crumbles and sad melon left since we’ve been taking swipes from it all day.

“Happy birthday to you,” he sings loudly, trying to carry the torch for the other two partygoers. He even waves his hands back and forth like an orchestra conductor as if that will energize them a bit. “Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday dear Madison—”

A lone voice breaks out from the pack. “Madeline…er…Madison.”

Our intern, Katy, still doesn’t know my name, and she’s been here for six weeks. Also, she’s currently texting.

Eli shoots her a glare and carries the song home for everyone. “Happy birthday to youuuuuu! Woo!” He claps uproariously. “Make a wish!”

My lone candle is seeping blue wax down onto the cake, which is homemade courtesy of Mrs. Allen. She’s admittedly not a baker, but her heart was definitely in it, and she even wrote my name across the top in shaky white cursive. I love it.

I close my eyes and try to think of a wish right when Katy whispers to Eli.

“Do I have to be here? Like, am I still getting paid?”

All day, I’ve been carefully avoiding the urge to take stock of my life, a universal instinct on birthdays. I’ve stayed off of social media lest a stray engagement or birth announcement catch my attention. I’ve removed all temptation to text old flames (of which there are exactly 1.5) to see if they want to “catch up” by locking my phone in my desk drawer. Now, though, in the span of one millisecond, I’m struck with the quarter-life crisis I’ve so desperately been trying to fend off.

HOW IS THIS MY LIFE?!

I keep my eyes closed, tumbling through a wormhole of disbelief. How did I get here? As a preteen, I thought by the time I turned 25, my life would have really come together. I’d have a sleek red convertible, a three-story dream house, a hip-to-waist ratio under .75, and a boyfriend named Ken. Admittedly, I now see that was Barbie’s future, not mine.

I blink one eye open, praying that, by some miracle, I’ve teleported myself to that club with the Kardashians and the billionaire, but unfortunately, my life is still the same. There are three people at my birthday party: Mrs. Allen, the 75-year-old library administrator; Katy, the uninterested intern; and Eli, my best friend who works up in Fiction on the second floor.

We’re quite the motley crew.

I lean forward and blow out my candle, not bothering to make a wish that won’t come true anyway. “No, Katy, you can head home.”

She grins and I can tell she barely stifles the urge to punch the air with glee.