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

“Not yet.”

  “What? You left him out there? Alone?” Panic flickers in my chest and I crane my neck to look out the window. I don’t see him.

  “He’s cleaning out pens, Mave.”

  I glare at Paul. “What if he steals a dog?”

  “He’s not going to steal a dog. He’s definitely an idiot, but I don’t think he’s going to risk his freedom like that.”

  “I want him off this property.” I start toward the door. Paul steps in front of me. He crosses his arms over his chest.

  “Sis, you agreed to do this. You knew what you were getting into. You’ve got to give him a chance.”

  “Are you seriously siding with him?”

  “Of course not. But it’s been like,” he looks at his watch, “thirty minutes. You agreed to let a convicted dog flipper work off his community service at the Farm. You knew about his attitude. If you back out on the first day, the judge is going to think we’re unprofessional.”

  That stops me, and I pause to chew on my bottom lip. “You think?”

  Paul narrows his eyes. My brother knows me well.

  “Yes, and if you were hoping to ask him to help with the dog fighting laws—”

  “How did you know I was going to do that?”

  “Because I’ve known you your whole life, Mave. You see an opportunity for help with something that’s important to you. I don’t blame you for taking the risk, but if you’re going to do it, you have to do it. You can’t kick McGuire out of here on day one.”

  He’s right. I’ve had an ulterior motive this whole time. If I can get Judge Johnson to support the anti-dog fighting bill animal rights activists are trying to get through the state legislature, it could go a long way to getting it passed.

  “Fine,” I say, going against all my better judgement. “I won’t call, but if he says one more insulting thing about my babies—"

  “Then you’ll educate him. Calmly and rationally, it’s why he’s here.”

  I frown, my heart at conflict with my mind.

  “Can you do that?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I reply, begrudgingly.

  He reaches out and pulls me into a big hug. “Let me deal with him today. You guys can start fresh tomorrow.”

  I lean back and look up at my brother. “You promise you won’t let him hurt any of my animals.”

  He holds my eye. “I promise.”

  I sigh. I trust Paul more than any other person in the world. I have to. Other than my animals, he’s all I’ve got.

  He tousles my hair like I’m five, and heads outside. I force myself not to follow him, and spend the rest of the day inside getting ready for the open house on Saturday. I’m hopeful we can find homes for a few cats and dogs. I hate the administrative work and normally I leave most of it up to Sherilyn, but when we’ve got an event like this, it’s all hands on deck.

  A notification alert pops up on my phone. It’s a text from an animal rights group I’m in that keeps an eye out for dog-flippers, abused animals, and other suspicious activities. I click the link. It takes me to a familiar website. It’s the one that I was on when I busted Griffin flipping the Great Danes. It’s a standard classified-ad site, Cooper’s List, where people can list their furniture, cars, and services for sale. I click on the tab for “Animals” and skim the new listings.

  Most seem legit—people truly trying to find homes for unwanted puppies or kittens. But occasionally I’ll see an ad that draws my attention. I mark a few to check out later.

  I don’t realize how much time has passed until I see Max’s car pull into the driveway. School must be out. I grab the to-do list off the desk and meet the high school senior on the porch. He’s a nice kid who seems to do better with animals than people his own age.

  “How was school?” I ask.

  “Boring,” he says, just like every other day. “What’s on the list?”

  “Same old. Change the water, walk the dogs that can’t go in the pen. Oh, and the black cat had her kittens. We’ll need to go in and out to make sure they’re getting used to people.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Max brushes the swoop of hair out of his eyes and nods at the black Jeep in the driveway. “Who’s that?”

  “We have an uh, volunteer, working for us for a few weeks.” I don’t think it’s a good idea to get word out that we’re assisting someone with animal cruelty charges. “He’s not experienced with animals so if you see anything wrong, let me know.”

  “Sure.”

  I decide to take a break and head out to the cat shelter to check on the kittens. I pass through the main room, greeting and petting all the cats, then enter a small closed-off room for cats that are injured or with special needs. I spot the mama cat curled up in a cardboard box with a clean blanket. Her bowl has water in it and there’s still a bit of food left from this morning. Since the mother is with them, they don’t need much assistance. She’s feeding and cleaning them. It’s when they don’t have a mother that we have to pay more attention and help with round the clock feedings.

  “Hey mama,” I say, stroking down her back. The tiny, palm-sized kittens snuggle against her belly.

  I know Paul’s right. I agreed to let Griffin come here despite the fact I knew about his attitude and history. I thought I could handle it, but just being around him triggered the one thing I try to keep buried.

  Is rehabilitation right?

  Sure. On paper.

  Does it work?

  Not in my experience.

  Rehab, in my experience, just delays the inevitable. Second chances just increase the opportunity for hurt.

  I’ve been hurt before. So has Paul.

  Letting this guy into our world, our sanctuary, sets me on edge.

  But my brother is right, I do need the Judge on my side—for something bigger than me. Bigger than my baggage. And for that I’ll do what I can to make this work.

  I spend a few minutes in the room, wanting everyone to get used to my scent, before adding a little more food to the bowl, and leaving the cat shelter. I stop short when I see Griffin McGuire waiting outside. His fancy boots are covered in mud, along with the hem of his jeans. There’s dust and streaks of dirt down his thighs and some kind of brown mess on his shirt. He looks worn out and I fight a laugh at whatever terrible job Paul forced him into for the day.

  “Can I help you?”

  He runs a hand through his hair. “I’m about to leave for the day.”

  “Okay.”

  “I thought maybe I could…well, maybe we could start over.”

  Over his shoulder, I see my brother carrying a bale of hay. He won’t meet my eye. Something tells me he sent Griffin over here.

  “How do you propose that?”

  It happens in a blink; one minute the man in front of me is my enemy, everything I fight against. But the smug, arrogant man from the courtroom and that I faced off with in the kennel earlier today vanishes and is replaced by a kind-faced guy with a lopsided grin and bright eyes.

  He offers his hand. “I’m Griffin McGuire. I’m excited about spending the next month working at Maverick Farms. It’s nice to meet you.”

  I stare at his hand, then look back up at his handsome face. Geez. You could cut marble with that jawline. I swallow back my attitude and shove my hand forward. His engulfs mine and his skin is soft against my callouses. “I’m Maverick Frayer, owner of the Farm Animal Rescue.”

  “Your name is Maverick?”

  “Do you have a problem with that?”

  “Nope,” he says quickly. “It’s unique.” He assesses me, eyes sweeping down my body. I fight the urge to shift in discomfort. “It suits you.”

  I realize my hand is still in his and I pull it back, feeling the lingering warmth.

  “I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot.”

  “It happens,” I say. “Just make sure that’s the last time.”

  “Gotcha,” he says, smiling appreciatively. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “I guess so.
”

  My phone buzzes in my back pocket, signaling another notification coming in. I pull it out and glance at the message. It’s a time and address. I frown at the screen.

  “Everything okay?” Griffin asks.

  I turn off my phone. “Sure. Just a text. No big deal.”

  “Cool. Alright. Tomorrow, then.”

  He crosses the yard, waving to Paul, and climbs in his Jeep.

  My brother walks over, dusting off his hands. “You two make up?”

  I snort. “Unlikely. You’re right about Judge Johnson. I do need his support on the anti-dog fighting bill. If I have to play nice with Griffin to get it, I can do that.”

  My phone buzzes again. This time I don’t look at it until Paul has gone back to work. Once he’s busy, I open the message and enter in the address to the map program. The blue dot appears, showing me exactly where to go.

  I type a message to the group.

  MV: I can go check out this tonight.

  AR: Alone? It could be dangerous.

  MV: Just surveillance. I won’t approach.

  AR: Don’t, you never know what you’re getting into with a dog-fight.

  Animal Rescue is right about that, but it’s not going to stop me.

  7

  Griffin

  The bracelet on my leg vibrates in warning. Ankle monitor. I have two hours before I’m supposed to be back at Redemption House. I’m not mad about it. Not today, at least. My body aches from all the work Paul had me do. I lifted, shoveled, carried, raked, fed, and cleaned. I also chased a dog into a pit of mud while a pig watched me.

  A pig named Hamilton.

  I’ll give Judge Johnson one thing, he certainly knows how to pick a punishment.

  The train runs though the town, forcing me to wait for it to pass. I glance down at the gearshift and see the paper that’s slipped between the seats.

  My time sheet. It’s due daily. I’m supposed to get it signed by someone at the Farm every day when I leave to prove I’ve been at work. You know, in case the leg monitor is lying.

  I stare at the passing train for a minute, then check behind me for cars. I back up and turn around, heading back out to Maverick Farms. There’s no way I’m going back on my first day empty-handed. Not after everything I went through.

  My neck starts to heat just thinking about the woman that runs the Farm. Maverick? I snort, what kind of name is that? Images of fighter planes and cocky pilots comes to mind, not a feisty brunette with adorable freckles across her nose. People named Maverick don’t have soft-looking pink lips and long, thick eyelashes. And they definitely don’t have curvy hips and long legs.

  I slap my hand over my face.

  Nope. No. No.

  I am not attracted to this woman. She’s crazy. A zealot. Not that she’d ever believe me, but I’m not an animal hater. I’m just an opportunist. And she thinks animals are more important than people.

  The only person that would believe that is the kind that didn’t have to fight to put food on the table.

  I pull up to the driveway just as a pickup truck is pulling away, headed the other direction. I catch a glimpse of Mave’s hair in the headlights. A quick look tells me the gate is locked.

  “Good grief,” I mutter, glancing over at the form on the passenger seat. I can’t go back without it.

  I slam my foot on the gas and speed onto the dark country road, following the taillights in the distance. Anxiety builds as we get further from town. The clock is ticking on my curfew—something that’s embarrassing to admit as a twenty-three-year old man. We’re about twenty miles out of town when the truck slows and Mave pulls into the driveway of an old warehouse. Faint lights brighten the parking lot and a dozen cars fill the spots.

  I slow, confused. I’ve passed this place before. It’s no longer functioning and a big “For Sale” sign sits close to the road. There’s no doubt in my mind that going on the property would be considered trespassing—a sure violation of my probation. The list is long. Gabrielle read over thirty bullet points last night and made me sign it.

  I glance down at the paperwork, feeling caught between a rock and a hard place. Besides that, there’s another feeling gnawing in my chest: curiosity.

  Where is Little Miss Do-Gooder going and who is she meeting?

  The monitor on my ankle vibrates in warning a second time. One hour.

  Curiosity makes the decision for me.

  8

  Mave

  Against all sensibilities, I park in a shadowy corner of the lot—the best area for a fast escape. Not that I plan on needing to run. This is just a recon mission, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.

  Through the glass I can hear the sharp echo of dogs barking from inside the warehouse. The sound makes my stomach ache and bile burns the back of my throat.

  Recon, I tell myself. This is not a rescue mission. At least not yet.

  I take a deep, steadying breath and hop out of the truck, easing the door shut. I’ve got my phone in my pocket, fully charged. I need audio and video. Tossing one leg over a split-rail fence, I lower myself into the overgrown grass surrounding the building.

  “What the heck are you doing?”

  I jump, heart leaping into my throat. My first instinct is to run and that’s exactly what I do, taking off toward the building. The guy follows, his legs swishing through the grass. I’ve got no idea where I’m going to go or how I’m going to get out of this. Up ahead is the building or a long field, neither seeming like a good option. I stop abruptly.

  The person chasing me rushes up, his chest heaving from exertion.

  I start to panic. If it’s one of Marco’s guys, or worse, Marco himself. I swallow thickly and turn around.

  And blink.

  “Griffin?”

  I’m not sure why I said his name like a question. There’s no doubt Griffin McGuire is standing in front of me, cheeks red and breathing hard.

  He runs one hand through his hair, in the other is a sheet of crumpled paper.

  “What are you doing out here?” he asks.

  “Nothing,” I reply, eyes narrowed. “What are you doing out here?” Dogs bark, reverberating off the metal building. Realization sets in. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  He frowns. “What?”

  “You’re here for the fight!” I whisper yell. “I knew it. I knew you were in deeper than you were admitting.”

  His forehead is still scrunched with confusion. “What are you talking about? What fight?” The dogs bark louder, answering his question. His eyes pop wide and he lifts his hands defensively. “No. No way.”

  “Of course you are,” I say, already convinced of his guilt. I’ll call the judge first thing in the morning. I should call the police.

  “You have to listen to me. I am not here for this fight. I shouldn’t be here at all. I just need my paper signed before I get back to Redemption House tonight.”

  “Your paper?” I glance at the crumpled sheet in his hand.

  “I forgot to get it signed and turned around and came back to the farm. I saw you leaving and, well, followed you.” He holds up the paper. I take it from him. Sure enough, there’s a spot by each day and a note at the bottom that says it has to be filled out daily.

  “Got a pen?”

  He blinks. “Uh, yeah.”

  He pulls one out of his pocket and hands it over. In the dark, standing in itchy, damp grass, I sign my name and hand both back over. “Okay. Done. Get out of here.” He folds the paper into a square and tucks it into his back pocket. He turns to leave but pauses. I scowl. “What? If you’re not here for the dog fights, then get out of here.”

  “Not until you tell me what you’re doing.”

  “I can’t imagine that it’s any of your business.”

  He grimaces. “It’s not, but whatever you’re thinking of doing can’t be a good idea.”

  “Again, not your business.”

  “Maverick.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

&nbs
p; “It’s your name.”

  “If you have to call me something, you can call me Mave. Right now, you need to call a cab and get out of here.”

  “I’m not leaving you at a dog fight.”

  I roll my eyes. “Why not?”

  “Because it’s illegal and dangerous.”

  “And you’re on probation. If anyone needs to get out of here, it’s you.”

  His jaw tightens.

  “Look, Maveric—” I shoot him a glare. “Mave, do you think you’re going to stop this?”

  “Not tonight.” I pull out phone and turn on the camera. “I’m here collecting evidence.”

  He places his hands on his hips and exhales. “Fine. Get it and then we’ll go.”

  “There’s no we.”

  “There is until you leave here. I told you, I’m not letting you stay here alone.” He shifts on his feet and his expression softens, along with his voice. “Like I said, I’m not into dog fights, but I do know a little bit about this world. If they catch you out here, things could go bad. These aren’t good people, Mave.”

  There’s a sincerity in his tone—in his eyes, and as much I can’t stand this guy, I know he’s right. Marco is dangerous, and I know he’ll stop at nothing to keep his fighting ring running.

  “Give me ten minutes.”

  He looks down at his feet. “Hurry.”

  If I think he’s going to let me go alone, I’m wrong. He’s inches away as I do my work. There’s a back door that has a loose chain, allowing me to get a good look inside. My heart aches as I see all the dogs, panting and anxious. I block out my feelings, focusing on my job. I can get the dogs, but I can’t get what I need to make this mission a success, and I mutter under my breath.

  “What was that?” Griffin whispers.

  “I need a shot of Marco. But I can’t get him. He’s just over to the side.”

  Griffin peers in the opening between the doors, and frowns. Then he stands, looking around. He points to a window a few feet up. “What about up there?”

  “What about it? I’m not tall enough to reach. Neither are you.”

  He looks me up and down, making my skin itch. He scratches the back of his neck. “Want a boost?”