Good for You Read Free Page A

second chance by hooking up with other girls when she didn’t cave.
    I begged her for another shot, but the damage was done.
    By the time the cast met up for the premiere, she was with Graham, another costar. My longtime ex, Brooke, wanted him. She offered me a devil’s bargain: Brooke would seduce Graham, and Emma would fal right into my arms.
    Graham didn’t go for it, but thanks to Brooke’s scheming, Emma thought he had. She was distraught.
    Fragile. I had her right where I wanted her, but I couldn’t do it. One of the few principles I have where girls are concerned: lying to get a girl in bed is cheating. If I cheat to win, I didn’t real y win.
    I got a little overly introspective after that. A short-lived state, luckily. I snapped out of it after my accident, when I had a few compulsory meetings with a court-appointed therapist who suggested that maybe I was trying to kil myself. I laughed in his face. I mean, there’s a difference between being suicidal and not giving a shit if you live or die. Right?
    “Sir?” the driver says. “We’re here… if you’re sure this is where you want to be dropped…”
    Outside the dark tinted glass lies a sea of generic bungalows—paint fading, bars on windows and doors, each house separated by a few feet from the next one and surrounded by limp, untended palm trees amidst otherwise sparse vegetation. I stare at the partial y-completed house, which is literal y steps from the road—just like al the others.
    A house number sloppily painted onto a piece of raw plywood leaning against the front matches the number on the court info.
    “Yeah, this is it. Be here at or before three to pick me up. I don’t want to wait, for obvious reasons.” I normal y wouldn’t be caught dead driving through this neighborhood, let alone helping to build yet another piece-of-crap house.
    This sucks ass.
    “Yes, sir, I’l be here by 2:45.”
    Activity around the house has come to a standstil , because everyone is staring at the guy exiting a chauffeured Mercedes in the gang-infested neighborhood.
    Man, I seriously should have thought about arriving in some other mode of transportation.
    As I walk up the unfinished pathway, a girl comes out to greet me… although greet is generous. She’s glaring as she walks towards me, her brows drawn together in an expression I go to concerted efforts to avoid making, even when I’m pissed.
    I have about twenty seconds to sum her up physical y.
    The process takes me ten.
    She’s wearing an oversized, faded t-shirt bearing the M.A.D.D. logo. Unintentional? Doubt it. I can’t tel breast size or shape under that thing; ditto whether or not she has a waist. In my experience, if a girl has either, she’s going to dress to at least hint at the fact. Her tent of a t-shirt tel s me she’s hiding inadequacies, not assets.
    Her shorts are so far out of style that I’m not sure they were ever i n style. Sprinkled with flecks of paint, her construction boots are worn and scuffed. Stil , she manages to pul off this part of the manual laborer look because her legs are the only thing remotely hot about her.
    Her calves are perfectly shaped, strong and muscled. Most of the girls I know—actresses, society girls—want long, thin legs. But legs like hers are what I go for when I’m feeling particular.
    She’s tan wherever I see skin. Not a Rodeo Drive sunless tan, either—the real thing. I know this because there’s a pale strip of skin on one wrist where she usual y wears something—a thick-banded watch, maybe. I don’t know a single girl who goes outside without a mil ion SPF
    sunblock.
    Hair—generic brown and pul ed back from her face into a ponytail. Probably goes wel past her shoulders when down. Assuming she ever wears it down.
    Face—predictably, no makeup, not even a swipe of blush or lip gloss. Dark, dark eyes. A light smattering of freckles across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose—the girls I know would have had those burned off or