Rescuing the Bad Boy: Bad Boy Sweet Romance (Last Chance at Love Book 1) Read online

  Rescuing the Bad Boy

  Last Chance at Love

  Anna Catherine Field

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Untitled

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  1

  Griffin

  “Thief!”

  “Villain!”

  “Home wrecker!”

  “Lock him up! Lock him up! Lock him up!”

  I follow the police officer into the courthouse past the group of protestors. The group of men and women isn’t big, but they’re vocal; chanting and holding up signs. Some are generic. “Stop Dog Flipping!” “End Animal Cruelty!” others are more personal, with my mug shot plastered on the poster board.

  “You’re a monster,” a woman shouts as I walk by. Her sign has a photo of my mugshot photoshopped to look like male Cruella DeVille.

  The police officer stops, and I’m stuck in front of her. I glance over at the young woman.

  “How would you feel if someone stole your child?” Her eyes shine with anger.

  I roll my eyes. “That’s a bit extreme, don’t you think?”

  My lawyer hears me speak and jerks me forward pushing me through the room.

  “Monster!” she cries again.

  She’s the monster, I think, not letting her words touch me.

  “I’ve spoken to the prosecutor,” my lawyer, Burgess, says, flipping through a stack of file folders on the table. He’s court appointed. Old with gray hair and bushy eyebrows. “Since this is your third offense in the last year, I don’t see the judge being lenient. You’re looking at a minimum of six months—max twenty-four.”

  “Six months of prison? I didn’t do anything wrong. If anything, I was trying to help.”

  He sighs heavily. “Please don’t use that defense with the judge.”

  “But it’s true.”

  “Griffin, do you deny you placed the ad for the Great Danes online? And that you claimed the dogs were a rescue from an abusive family?”

  “Would a good family let their dogs run free? They could have been hit by a car.”

  “You posted stolen goods online and sold them for a profit. You’re not stupid, Griffin, you know that’s illegal. And the judge knows you know it’s illegal.”

  “I’m not here for your judgement. Aren’t you supposed to defend me?”

  “I’m here to tell you the truth.” He gives me he a long, hard stare. “Something you won’t accept. I know your uncle is involved in this. The police tried to get you to turn him in. You won’t, so now you’re the one facing the consequences.”

  He’s right about that. I’m not turning on anyone. Especially Uncle James. I clamp my mouth shut and look behind the bench.

  The door opens and closes at the front of the room. The Judge, “Last” Chance Johnson, steps up to the bench. It’s not the first time I’ve been in front of Judge Johnson, and I’ve learned not to let his boyish good looks fool me into thinking he’d be lenient. He’s tough and notorious for doling out extreme “Last Chance” punishments. I stand next to my lawyer and wait to be told to sit down.

  This guy may be tough, but I refuse to believe he’ll waste state resources on a dog flipper.

  “Griffin McGuire,” he says, looking between the paper in front of him and back up at me with irritated blue eyes. “I thought I told you I didn’t want to see your face in my courtroom again.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say. “You did.”

  His hair glints like a halo—a smug golden boy—he’s probably never had to work hard for anything in his life. He reads through my file.

  “Want to tell me why you’re still flipping dogs?”

  I shrug. “I’m an animal person. Dogs like me. I can’t help the fact that when I’m out, loose and stray dogs find me. If you think about it, I’m doing the community a service by finding these pets a new, safe home.” The lie stretches as I speak. I’d heard my uncle say them a million times, drilling them into my head. “If you ask me, it’s the pet owners you should be talking to, why aren’t they making sure their animals are secure behind a fence or on a leash? Aren’t they the real criminals?”

  From the look on Judge Johnson’s face, and the mutter under my lawyer’s breath, that last sentence may have been a bit much. It turns out that they’re not the only ones not buying my line.

  “None of that is true, your honor,” a voice calls from the back of the room.

  Judge Johnson frowns and both me and my lawyer turn around. The woman with my mugshot/Cruella poster stands a few rows back with her fingers curled around the top of the bench. She’s slight, with dark brown hair and a scattering of freckles over the bridge of her nose. Her eyes are bright—livid, and her mouth is twisted downward.

  The judge doesn’t look happy with her interruption. “And you are?”

  “Mave Frayer.” Her gaze flicks to me. “I own Maverick Farms. I know the owners of Molly and Gus, the Great Danes. They weren’t lost or off their leashes illegally. They were at a dog park, which is where Mr. McGuire preys on innocent animals and their owners.”

  I arrange my face into the picture of innocence.

  “This is what he does. Over and over. He breaks up homes. Steals loved ones. He causes a lot of stress for both the humans and pets involved.”

  I watch the judge to see what he’s thinking of this drama-fest. I mean, this woman is laying it on a little thick.

  “Although I appreciate your information, Ms. Frayer, I do not condone interruptions in my court room.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” she says, in a less hostile tone. “I’m just very passionate about this.”

  His lips twitch, threatening a smile, but he never breaks. “I can see that.” He shifts his attention back to me. “Mr. McGuire, you’ve been in my courtroom three times in the last year. Each time it’s evident that you have zero remorse or even an understanding that what you’re doing is wrong. Not even the police or the expense of these court dates are getting that trhough your thick skull.”

  I open my mouth to argue. My lawyer jabs me with his elbow.

  Judge Johnson leans forward. I can see the clear-blue intent in his eyes. He’s made a decision. My stomach drops.

  “It would be too easy to put you in jail for theft and selling stolen goods. The Great Danes each cost over five hundred dollars, pushing this into a felony charge.” I shift uncomfortably in his gaze, unsure where he’s going. “I see from your information that other than dog flipping, you have no record. No drugs. No DUIs. No aggressive behavior. You go easily with police when arrested. You have your high school diploma and three years of college.” He scans the paperwork. “You went to the state university before leaving abruptly. Why did you drop out?”

&n
bsp; Why? The list is long, and I didn’t plan on going into it today. Not in front of strangers, and especially that judgmental woman in the back of the courtroom. Who knows how she’d use it against me. “Personal problems, I guess.”

  “And your uncle? The police think he’s the ringleader of this dog flipping enterprise? What do you have to say about that?”

  I lift my jaw. The first rule of family is no squealing. James may not be the best family in the world, but he took me in when I needed him. He’s all I’ve got.

  He frowns, dissatisfied with my lack of answer. “You may have heard that occasionally I find a case, or rather a person, that I feel deserves one last opportunity to prove themselves before I send them off for a prison sentence. Despite your recidivism, I think you may be one of those people.” He looks at my lawyer. “Mr. Burgess, what do you think?”

  “I think a suitable program could work. I’m not seeing any rehabilitation efforts in his record.”

  Unease fills my chest. What kind of rehabilitation program are they talking about? What does this mean?

  Judge Johnson looks at me. “Griffin McGuire, I am sentencing you to the Last Chance program. You’ll spend the next thirty days living at Redemption House and working with a service project chosen by me and the director of the program. Once you’ve completed your time, you’ll come back here, and we will discuss your future plans.”

  My jaw drops. “I have to live there? In what? A half-way house?”

  James isn’t going to like that.

  “Trust me, Mr. McGuire, it’s much more comfortable than the state prison. You’re to report to Redemption house by eight tomorrow morning. If you do not appear, consider yourself in violation of your sentence.”

  He bangs his gavel, indicating that the hearing is over, then stands and exits through the back door. Sweat breaks out on my forehead and neck. “He seriously thinks I’m going to a half-way house and living with a bunch of losers?” I ask Burgess.

  “He doesn’t think it, Griffin,” he says, placing files in his briefcase and snapping it shut, “he knows it. It’s an order of the court. You have no other choice.”

  He walks toward the front of the room, stopping to speak to the reporter. I rub my head and see the woman, Mave, that spoke out during my hearing, heading toward the door. She avoids my eye but I step toward her, blocking her way.

  “I guess you’re happy.”

  “Not really,” she says, looking up at me. “I’d hoped you'd get jail time, but I suspect you won’t be able to fulfill your obligation anyway, and we’ll be back in here sooner than later.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “You think I’m a monster, don’t you?”

  “I think you’re a con-man and a thief that doesn’t understand the relationship between a dog and their owner. I don’t think you understand what happens to the dogs you sell—who you’re selling them to. I think you’re petty and despicable and have gotten away with all kinds of things because of your handsome face and charming disposition. I think you’re selfish and probably won’t last two days working for any kind of service project. Not because you’re dumb, but because you’re mean and heartless.”

  She pushes past me, leaving me with in a waft of gentle perfume. My pride wants to run after her and set her straight, tell her that I’m a man of opportunity and enterprise, that I’m loyal and committed, but I don’t. I watch her exit the room, feeling the gnawing in the pit of my stomach, and not wanting to acknowledge that this woman I don’t know, have never met, and don’t plan on ever seeing again, called me out on every flaw I have.

  2

  Mave

  The drive out to the farm gives me time to cool down—a little. Nothing gets under my skin like someone that treats animals badly, and Griffin McGuire is a perfect example. I’d told him as much before leaving the courtroom. He’s selfish, heartless, cruel, and a thief. Judge Johnson should have tossed his pretty little behind in jail.

  Yeah, I said pretty.

  I can only imagine his looks help him with his con. He looks like the typical college boys roaming around the university. It’s easy to trust a guy with lush dark hair and brilliant green eyes. His lips looked soft and probably turn into an assuring, confident smile, putting those around him at ease. One minute he’s a friendly, handsome dude at the dog park—the next he’s stolen your beagle.

  My heartrate spikes again and I grip the steering wheel, taking deep, steadying breaths.

  I turn off the main road and down the dirt one, pebbles and dust kicking up behind the pickup truck. I stop at the iron gate, getting out to unlatch the chain securing it to the post. The process is tedious. I have to drive through and park on the other side, latching it, but it’s necessary. It’s my job to keep the animals at Maverick Farms safe, and on a day like today, it hammers home how important that is.

  Once I’m on the other side and the gate is secure, I hop back in the truck and drive the half-a-mile down the road toward the main house. We’ve got pasture land, two barns—one converted into a kennel for the dogs, another for the horses. There are troughs for the two donkeys, a coop for the chickens. A small screened-in patio for the cats. I pass Paul, my brother and right-hand man, carrying a sack of feed out to the coop. I park by the main house and wave to Sherilyn, our office manager, who is working at the desk. The three of us, with the help of Max, a teenager from the local high school, run the farm together.

  I step out of the car and Lolly, my dog, waddles up to greet me. She only has three legs—the first lost when she was used as bait for fighting dogs.

  “Hey pooch,” I say, bending down to pet her sleek gray fur. She’s a mix breed but the pit bull in her is a dominant feature, giving her short legs and a barrel-sized body. I know people are afraid of this breed, but she’s loving and sweet. Just petting her makes my heartrate instantly settle. She sniffs my shoes, my knees, and my fingers.

  Sherilyn walks out on the porch, tucking a lock of her graying hair behind her ear. “How did it go?”

  “Not great. No jail time, but he has to report to a residential program for a month and do intensive community service.” I don’t try to hide my bitterness. “I think even Judge Johnson is swayed by his pretty boy looks.”

  She tosses her arm over my shoulder. “Rehabilitation is important.”

  “I know.” I walk into the farmhouse. The main room is part office, part living room. There’s also a kitchen and laundry room downstairs. Three bedrooms and a bath upstairs. “It’s just…something about this guy is the worst. He’s so smug and totally unrepentant. I doubt any kind of program can make him grow a heart.”

  “What happens if he doesn’t complete the program?”

  “He reports back to the judge who threatened to give him jail time.”

  She nods and sits at the desk. It’s filled with adoption applications. On Saturday we have an open house for people to come look at the healthy, ready to adopt animals. I point to the stack. “Anyone good in there?”

  “A few families. A widow looking for companionship. Oh, and I think we may have a place for Gracie.”

  “Seriously?” Gracie is an older cat with a chronic respiratory problem. She needs a specific kind of home that has been nearly impossible to find. “They know all of her limitations?”

  “Yep. No other pets, can’t be spayed, must be indoor only.” She hands me the application.

  “I’ll check it over later.”

  “I’m going to head out early, if that’s okay. Tommy has a soccer game.”

  “Sounds good. Max should be by here later to help Randy with the feedings.”

  “Oh, I forgot,” Sherilyn says. “The black cat had her kittens.”

  “How many?”

  “Five.”

  I frown. It’s doable. “Go ahead and make her appointment with Dr. Tricia to get fixed, and we’ll start making profiles for the kittens online."

  “Sounds good. I’ll have the profiles ready for the open house.”

  “Perfect. Hopefu
lly it’ll bring in some much-needed donations.”

  The farm is a non-profit and we run on grants and donations. The adoption fees for the animals only cover their care—if that—but many people give an extra donation.

  “Oh, and one more thing.” Sherilyn rummages around her desk for a scrap of paper. “You got a call from someone in Judge Johnson’s office.”

  “He called?” Maybe there had been a change in the sentencing. Or maybe he wanted to talk to me about interrupting the court.

  “They asked for you to call back as soon as possible.”

  A loud braying sound comes from the driveway. Dexter the donkey has gotten himself caught in the fence. Again.

  I tuck the number in my pocket. “I’ll call him once I get Dexter loose.”

  I fight the wave of overwhelming exhaustion threatening to crash over me. As much as I love the farm, there’s always so much to do. There are always more animals that need care, or pets to rescue from a bad situation, or new kittens or puppies that need a home.

  People like Griffin McGuire only make my job harder.

  3

  Griffin

  “Thirty-days? For selling a dog?” my uncle asks, scratching the back of his head. He’s only ten years older than me and we often pass for brothers.

  “For stealing a dog,” I clarify, walking over to the closet and pulling out a few pieces of clothing. The Judge Jones gave me until five p.m. to pack and report to Redemption House. I flip through my shirts. Since I don’t know where I’ll be working, I’m not sure what I should pack. “The judge could’ve sent me to prison. This is a reprieve.”