Make Me Bad - R.S. Grey Page 0,57

asks.

I clear my throat. “It’s nothing. The bank.”

Clearly my taunt about a bank heist is still on my mind.

“The bank?” he asks skeptically. “Since when do they send texts?”

“I’m sorry.” I shake my head and turn off my phone. Get it together. “Not the bank, just some spam thing. Oh look, they turned the game on.”

I point to the small TV mounted over the bar. Some sports team is on there, running around a sports field catching sports balls of one sort or another. I am so distracted. I need to talk to Ben, now. What does he think he’s doing?!

My dad turns to see what I’m talking about and I glare at Ben over his shoulder, hoping to send him a whole slew of warnings with just one glance.

It’s no use. My scowl is met with bold indifference. Those amber eyes are locked on me as he throws an arm across the top of the booth. The cherry on top of the sundae is his barely contained smirk. He’s thinks he’s untouchable. He thinks this is all fun and games. He likes how nervous I am, how uneasy I feel.

I watch as the waitress walks by their table, and if she was putty with my dad, she’s completely helpless when Ben aims a handsome smile her way. He’s pointing at my booth, saying something, and she nods, grinning.

My scowl only deepens as I watch her walk away and disappear into the kitchen only to reappear a few moments later with a big ol’ chocolate milkshake.

Ice cream confections are meant to be innocent little things, but this one is lethal. She waltzes right over to our table and starts to set it down.

“This is from that—”

“Oh! Thank you!” I reach up to yank it out of her hand, and I can tell she’s annoyed that I cut her off.

She tries again. “That gentlema—”

“Gentle machine makes the best milkshakes,” I finish for her. “I know. Thank you for bringing this over. I’ve been craving one all day.”

Her eyes narrow and it’s obvious she thinks I have a few screws loose.

My dad watches the exchange with equal amounts of confusion. When she walks away, he tilts his head, studying me. “Did you order that?”

“No. She must have just sensed that I needed one. Here, have a sip.”

I don’t have to tell him twice. It’s perfect, really. My dad has a bigger sweet tooth than I do, and this chocolate milkshake is the just the diversion I needed.

Thank you, Ben.

I stand and explain I’m going to the bathroom. As I pass Ben’s table with my chin raised and my shoulders pushed back, I completely ignore him.

It doesn’t matter. I know he’ll follow me anyway.

I barely take two steps down the side hallway where the bathrooms are located before I sense him behind me. I pick up my pace as if I’m trying to outrun him. I reach the door of the first bathroom and am about to twist the handle when his hand covers mine, keeping me from opening it.

His mouth hits the shell of my ear as his chest hits my back. His body blocks out the hallway light, casting me in shadow.

“Don’t you want to know what my challenge is?” he taunts.

I squeeze my eyes closed, trying to stay steady on my feet.

Isn’t this already a challenge? Having to stand here in this hallway with his skin on my skin and his body on mine? Keeping the truth from slipping out, burying my true desires—it’s all a challenge.

“Madison…”

Has he always seemed this intimidating or is it worse right now when my heart is stumbling over itself and my hand is shaking? We can’t do this—whatever this is.

We’re in a busy diner. This bathroom probably isn’t empty. In a second, someone’s going to try to turn the handle and exit but they won’t be able to because we’re keeping it closed from the outside.

“Ben,” I whisper. “My dad is going to find us.”

“He doesn’t have to know.”

His voice is low and menacing. He’s playing the villain I cast him as. Eli’s words filter through my mind: He wants you—bad.

“Did you try the milkshake?”

I hear the amusement in his tone and squeeze my eyes closed.

“That was reckless. You nearly got me caught.”

“And yet here you are.”

Voices carry down the hallway. Conversations seem to close in on us. Is that my dad? Is he still at our table?

Ben’s free hand squeezes my shoulder, and he applies just enough pressure that I’m forced to spin