This isn't your common bad boy story.
This bad boy doesn't drive a motorcycle, he isn't rich, he doesn't have tattoos, or risks lung cancer by smoking, and he doesn't love the good girl.
He smashed into her life when he tried to rob her.
She smashed...
I just opened my eyes and find myself barely standing under the shower in Jamie's and I's cramped apartment. I must be really hung over. The water drums down against my sore body, the warm water feeling good against my clammy skin. Still tasting last night's booze in my mouth, I dunk my dark head under the shower, the poor water pressure runs down the back of my neck, making my dark hair stick my skin.
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My head jerks up as the curtain slowly pushes aside, revealing Jamie and the look she gives me every morning when I wake up hungover. Each time I stay all night drinking, Jamie's green eyes become so formidable—A dark green mixture of disappointment, seriousness, and worry—making it hard each time to meet her eyes.
"I don't remember, but I'm going to apologize anyway for probably waking you up last night." I don't bother covering myself up. It's not like she hasn't seen it all before. As I start to tug the shower curtain back in place, I expect Jamie to fold like usual. Since the first day I meet her, if I was too much, she'd fluster up. Not this time.
Her freckled hand lands on mine, stopping me from shutting the curtain. I'm not sure what exactly to do when I notice she isn't looking at me like that anymore, but offering me that soft grin that I look forward to seeing every damn day. I don't move a muscle—almost like I forget how to—I'm enraptured by her. Without breaking eye contact, she pulls her white sweater off over her head, and drops it by her feet.
"Jamie," I find my voice, but it's quiet with shock. I'm short of breath as I take in all the freckles that I never see, since they're always shielded by her clothes. She steps in, not seeming to mind the water coming down on her. She leaves no room between us. Her hands trail down my chest, her finger tips gingerly grazing over my scars. Her green eyes meet my brown ones, the disbelief in mine no match for the complete affection in hers.
She's so sure.
Giving in, I pull her against me, my hands landing onto the small of her back and the nape of her neck. I don't hold back. I press my lips against her throat, up her jaw, till I'm kissing her with everything I have.
Then I notice it. The wet lock of dark hair sticking to a long neck that isn't covered in freckles.
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