Drunken Barbie Bonnie was going to town on a samosa frommytakeout container. Flakes of fried dough littered the shiny bar top as she closed her eyes and moaned around a mouthful, “Ermahgerd, I loooove these.”
I shook my head in disbelief.
Kayla was right. This was what I got for being a control freak. Work/life balance, my ass.
I approached the little dinner thief and plucked the appetizer out of her hand. “These are mine.”
She squawked, a wrinkle forming between her brows. “I already bit off it. Can’t I finish it?”
“No, you may not.” I popped the lid back on the Styrofoam box. “When the cops catch someone in the middle of robbing a bank, Clyde, they don’t just let them finish the job because they already started.”
“It’s Bonnie,” she corrected. “The other half of the duo.”
I shook my head. “No, Clyde fits you better. You’re trouble.”
Bonnie eyed me suspiciously, or maybe she was seeing double and was trying to figure out which one of me to focus on. “You’re not how I thought you’d be.”
I tucked away the rest of my food—Jesus, did she already eat all my pakora?—then tied the bag closed.
Leaning forward, I placed my elbows on the bar and met her gaze. It was slightly more focused. “Oh, yeah? And how did you think I’d be?”
Her eyes were interesting—honey brown almost with a dark ring around the outside. Not something you saw every day. The frown she was trying her best to commit to looked strange on her face, like her muscles weren’t used to the shape and flitted inadvertently toward a smile when she wasn’t paying attention. Whatever lipstick she’d had on at the beginning of the night was long-gone and now her lips just looked soft and full and pink. She had a slight gap in her front teeth that was oddly endearing.
Then I remembered she’d swiped the dinner I’d been looking forward to and resumed scowling.
“I thought,” she mused drunkenly, “you’d be less concerned with legalities.”
I felt my brows climb high on my forehead, an uncomfortable weight settling in my stomach. At one time, I wouldn’t have been concerned with something as minor as theft or even grand larceny or breaking and entering. But I’d left those days behind. I hadn’t been a delinquent teenage asshole in a very long time.
But it did make me curious what she meant by that and how the hell someone who was publicly intoxicated was staring down her nose at me from atop her high horse.
It just went to show you that small towns had long memories. Once you got labeled a loser, it didn’t matter how many successful businesses you owned or operated, you couldn’t shake the label in the end.
Bonnie didn’t do the polite thing where you looked away once you’d drudged up someone’s embarrassing past. She kept her gaze right on me. “You were two grades ahead of me. I had a free period in the afternoon to help with the yearbook, and Mrs. Crowder’s window looked out over the practice field and the field house.”
I nodded, knowing where this was going. It wasn’t shame churning around in my gut but it was close enough.
“You’d skip out of last period nearly every day,” she said conversationally, no malice or judgement in her tone, a small smile tilting her lips. “I’d watch you get on your motorcycle and roar off down the street. A real lone wolf.”
Then Bonnie cupped her small hands and held them above her ears and let loose a high-pitched howl that had every head turning in our direction.
I fought a laugh as I looked down at the wood-grain surface. But I brought my attention back to her when she said quietly, “You didn’t know I existed. I was just a sophomore, and you were Mister Badass with your leather jacket.”
“Still have that leather jacket,” I said.
But she didn’t seem to notice. “And your attitude and you harem.”
I frowned. “Okay, I don’t think it was a harem.” I heard Sasha make a choking sound to my left, but I ignored her.
“And youstilldon’t know I exist,” Bonnie said on a sigh. She placed her elbow on the bar and rested her chin in her hand. “We play softball against each other once a month.”
She played third base for the teachers’ team, but I wasn’t about to correct her. Now that I’d placed her, I knew who she was. One time, she’d tagged me out on the ass and then followed me into the dugout apologizing profusely, her face so red, I thought she might pass out.
But other than rec league sports, our paths didn’t really cross—not in any meaningful way. She was right about that.
I didn’t remember her from high school. Mostly because I was too angry and stupid to notice anyone like her. And now, well, why would I?
Bonnie Clark was a bright, shiny do-gooder. I didn’t know what grade or subject she taught, but I was sure she excelled at it. She wanted to mold young minds and support future generations. I bet she came in early, stayed late, and bought classroom supplies with her own money.
