Bad Judgment Read online

  Copyright © 2016 by Meghan March LLC

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved.

  Editor: Pam Berehulke, Bulletproof Editing

  www.bulletproofediting.com

  Cover design: @ Emma Hart

  www.emmahart.org

  Photo: © anetta

  www.shutterstock.com

  Interior Design: Stacey Blake, Champagne Formats

  www.champagneformats.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Visit my website at www.meghanmarch.com.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  About This Book

  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

  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

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Epilogue

  Also by Meghan March

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  About This Book

  He’s so arrogant.

  She’s so self-righteous.

  I can’t stand him.

  I want her.

  He’s a distraction I don’t need.

  She’ll say yes eventually because I’m not giving up.

  Justine Porter is stuck between a rock and a stripper pole. She lost her law school scholarship, which means she has two choices to keep her life on track: strip for her tuition or tutor the most distractingly sexy guy in her class—the one she’s been turning down for two years straight. It should be an easy choice, but tutoring Ryker Grant could derail her plans to graduate with honors faster than two-for-one night at the Déjà Vu. Then again, topless has never really been her color.

  She could take the easy road, just this once . . . but the deal has enough loopholes to trip anyone up.

  Who knew they taught bad judgment in law school?

  Justine

  “Becca saw Ryker at the gym last night and he was wearing these shorts, and let’s just say she said his dick print looked massive. Cock-a-licious, to quote her properly.”

  I drop my overstuffed chicken burrito on the metal pie plate, and the tortilla splits down the side. Perfect. When I snap my attention to my best friend, Merica’s face is the picture of innocence. The devil dancing in her gray eyes is the only thing that gives away her dirty thoughts.

  “Really? Are you trying to kill my appetite on purpose?” Because I’m not interested in anything that has to do with Ryker Grant, or his penis. No, really, I’m not.

  Merica’s blond brows wing up toward her hairline in a what could you possibly mean expression. She gestures to me with her fork. “Look, if a sexy-as-hell guy had been hitting on me for two years, I’d be pretty damn interested now that I have some inside info about what he’s packing.”

  The last thing I want to hear about is one of our mutual friends staring at the crotch area of Ryker Grant’s shorts at the gym, trying to gauge the size of his package by the imprint it leaves. Who made up the term dick print anyway?

  “Not. Interested.” I enunciate each word clearly as I stare down at my burrito.

  I’m in law school to study, kick ass, and graduate with honors. For ten years, I’ve been pushing toward this goal. Which means I don’t have time for distractions, and Ryker Grant would be the biggest distraction of all. While he might be tall, sexy, and mouth-wateringly gorgeous, he’s also got a lock on the crown for the kingdom of Entitled Douche Bag.

  I reach down to retrieve my busted burrito, but pause before wrapping my fingers around it. Before today, I would have said nothing could put me off the chicken, rice, beans, pico, and avocado goodness before me, but I would have been wrong. Now I can’t look at it without phallic thoughts running through my head.

  Hearing about Ryker Grant’s dick print has officially thrown me off my game. On top of being a Grade-A jerk, he’s stupid hot. As in, the kind of hot that makes smart girls stupid. Which is why I’ve been turning him down since our first week of law school.

  No time for distractions.

  It’s not like Ryker has been crying into his beer over my rejections. He’s been seen with plenty of girls in our law school class in the early hours of the morning at the bars along Red River Avenue. I absolutely and unequivocally refuse to admit that I might have watched him out of the corner of my eye on the rare occasions I let Merica drag me out for a night.

  “I’m just saying that even I’d consider taking a ride on that stallion if I didn’t already have my own stud. Come on, Jus. It might be good for you to de-stress a little.” She leans closer, pressing both elbows on the metal table between us. “Plus, you’ve got to confirm the dick-print rumors for womankind.”

  Wanting to do anything I can to stop this conversation before I get some kind of terrible idea in my head, I wrap my hands around the burrito and lift it to my lips. Or at least, I try. Stalling out midair, all I can picture is this supposedly massive dick Ryker is packing in his shorts heading for my mouth.

  And . . . nope. Operation: Stuff My Face to End Conversation fails. I can’t be thinking thoughts like that. I’ve got finals coming up, and then it’s off to my legal aid job for the summer to make an actual difference in people’s lives.

  That’s what matters—making a difference. That’s why I’m
studying more hours each week than most people put in at a full-time job. I’m not here to fantasize about the hottest guy I’ve ever met.

  I drop the burrito on my plate again and consider it a total loss. I can’t be wrapping my lips around anything that makes me think of Ryker Grant’s penis. Bad. Plan.

  I reach for a brown paper napkin to wipe my hands, determined to get my mind back on track. Crumpling the napkin into a ball, I meet my friend’s laughing gaze.

  “Stop. Seriously. You know I’m not going there. Never gonna happen.”

  “But you want to. You can deny it all you want, but we both know the struggle to not think about his equipment is real.”

  I toss the balled-up napkin at her head, and Merica bats it away one-handed as she shovels more of her burrito bowl into her mouth. You’d never know from her napkin-defense skills that she’s one of the most uncoordinated people I’ve ever met.

  First day of law school orientation as we were filing into the amphitheater-style auditorium, she tripped going up the stairs. Somehow her flailing hands reached me first and we both crashed to the floor in front of three hundred people. My cheeks burned with embarrassment, but Merica popped right back up and took a bow. Her positivity is infectious, and we’ve been best friends ever since.

  She drops her fork and pushes the bowl away. “Come on, you know you want to. He can be your reward for kicking ass on finals!”

  I rub a hand across my face. “My reward for kicking ass on finals will be getting the grades I need to keep my scholarship. That’s all that matters right now—not Ryker’s supposedly massive dick.”

  My scholarship is riding on my GPA staying above a 3.75, and without it, I won’t be able to finish school. The sale of Gramps’s small house left me enough to cover most of my living expenses and buy books. That’s what he told me to do with it, because this was his dream for me too. He wanted me to make a difference, just like the legal aid lawyer who helped him fight for custody of me when my deadbeat parents tried to suck me deeper into their cons. So here I am, and I’m going to make this dream come true for both of us.

  “You know my only other choice is to ask Kristy Horner about Ryker, and I’m not doing it. She takes up two parking spots in the garage with her BMW, even when she sees you coming and knows there are no other spots left. Do you know how many times I’ve been late to class because she’s a bitch?”

  “Kristy being a bitch isn’t a new development, but you’re still not getting that info from me. Sorry, babe. You’re going to have to live with the mystery.”

  Merica leans back in her chair, releasing an exasperated sigh. “You’re impossible. I’ve been getting the same dick for two years, and I need to live vicariously through my friends to get the variety I’m missing. You need to take one for the team here, hottie.”

  I choke on the sip of water I’m taking and lower the cup to the table quickly enough to have it sloshing over the sides.

  “Really? Take one for the team? Pun much?”

  Merica’s smile is quick and bright. “You know you want it. How long has it been anyway? I mean, your va-jay-jay is probably waving a distress flag because it thinks you’ve forgotten about it.”

  She’s not wrong, but I’m also not going there.

  “Ryker and me? Never going to happen.”

  “Famous last words.” Merica stands and tosses me a cheesy wink.

  Justine

  Two weeks later

  “Can I get you another?” The bartender at Ziggy’s leans forward as I take up space on a bar stool, playing with my straw and my empty drink.

  I scan the room for Merica, wondering how she can possibly take seven years to go to the bathroom, before I jerk my gaze back to his face. His shoulders stretch his tight black T-shirt as he stares at me.

  I’ve been watching him for the last five minutes as he’s been reaching, leaning, pouring, and doing other bartender-y things. I know, there are actual verbs for those things, but right now I’m running on a strong mixture of vanilla vodka and root beer, and I used up all my actual smart words on my finals. Which are finally done. Thank God.

  And now the bartender is staring at me, waiting for an answer.

  Crap. I have to respond. Get with it, Justine. Do I really need another drink? What would it hurt? I’m celebrating, after all. Second year of law school, in the books.

  “Sure. One more. That’d be good.” My words don’t sound slurred, thankfully. Winning.

  “Root beer and vanilla vodka, right?”

  He remembers my drink?

  I nod, ignoring the fact that I probably look like a bobblehead. “That’s right. Thanks.”

  “I haven’t seen you around much,” he says as he turns to grab the liquor and then reaches for the soda gun. “You here by yourself or with friends?”

  “Friends.” I clear my throat as if to dislodge the words. “We’re celebrating our last finals being over.”

  I scan the packed barroom again for Merica, but don’t see her blond head through the crowd of students. I’m a failure when it comes to flirting and making small talk, and I can always count on her to rescue me from my own awkwardness.

  The bartender slides the glass across the bar on a cocktail napkin. “This one’s on me then. Congratulations on knocking out your exams.”

  Wait, what?

  Fumbling for the cash I shoved into my pocket, I fish out a few bills. “You really don’t need to do that.”

  He holds up a hand. “I insist. You deserve it.” His lips curve up into the kind of smile that would ensure he wouldn’t have to leave the bar alone any night of the week. Messy blond hair falls over his forehead and curls around his ears.

  I open my mouth to thank him for the gesture when an arm slides around my shoulder and a bill is slapped down on the bar in front of me.

  “I got this one. It’s a rare day when my girl goes anywhere but the library or class. You sure you don’t want something more festive, baby? This deserves its own celebration.”

  Heat burns across my cheeks as the bartender narrows his eyes on Ryker’s possessive touch. The bartender lifts his chin at Ryker.

  “Grant. Where’s your flavor of the week?”

  I want to thank the bartender for not automatically assuming I’m Ryker Grant’s flavor of the week, but Ryker pulls me closer into his side. Now it’s not just my cheeks heating, but every point of contact between us. Bad Justine. This is why I avoid him. Stupid hot, I remind myself.

  “You should watch how you talk about women, Caruthers. They don’t like to be called flavor of the week.”

  I’m surprised Ryker knows the bartender, but then again, I’m sure he spends way more time here than I do.

  “They probably prefer to be treated better than you treat them,” Caruthers says, pushing Ryker’s money back across the bar. “Her drink is on the house. I don’t want your money.”

  As I duck out from under Ryker’s arm, I block out how amazing he smells under those layers of entitlement. So freaking good. It’s just because I’m drunk. That’s the only reason. I need to find Merica and get out of here before I do something stupid.

  I grab my drink and step away from the danger zone surrounding Ryker.

  “I’ll just get out of here so you guys can whip ’em out and measure them.” Forcing myself not to drop my gaze to Ryker’s crotch to gauge the truthfulness of the dick-print rumor for myself, I drop a ten on the bar. My pride won’t let either of them buy me a drink.

  “I need to get back to my friends,” I toss out as I walk away, impressed at how steady I am on the heels Merica forced me to wear with my short black skirt and borrowed black low-cut top. Not my normal outfit choice at all, but how often do you get to celebrate finishing your second year of law school?

  Cocky about how well I’m doing on my balance, I sip my drink—and catch a toe on the lip of the stairs. My entire body pitches forward and a vision of the drink flying everywhere as I land on my face flashes before my eyes. At least Merica won’t judg
e.

  Before even a drop spills over the side, an arm wraps around me and a hand plucks the drink from my grip.

  “Are you in such a hurry to get away from me that you’d rather cause a scene?”

  Ryker. His deep voice and scent of all man mixed with off-limits for a good reason identify him immediately. He maneuvers us over to an empty booth as my heart hammers, and I plop down onto the maroon vinyl cushion.

  Wrapping both hands around the edge of the table, I suck in a breath. Obviously, I don’t need any more to drink, but I unclench one hand to reach for my cocktail anyway and chug a few gulps to steady my nerves. It’s not until I put the glass down that I notice the crumpled ten on the table next to it.

  “You okay?”

  My gaze darts up to his brilliantly blue eyes as he towers over me. “What is that for?”

  “You shouldn’t be buying your own drinks.” He says it like this is some obvious piece of information of which I should be well aware.

  “I’m not letting you buy them.” Needing to extricate myself from this situation, I scoot out to the edge of the booth and stand.

  But Ryker doesn’t step back like I expect him to, and my boobs press against his chest as soon as I’m vertical.

  My nipples peak with interest at the contact. Traitors. I have to force myself not to lean into him. He’s solid. Hard. Man. I freeze for a beat, hoping he’ll step back, but he doesn’t.

  “Excuse me.” My words are a hushed whisper. I need to step back. Move. Something. I have to stop touching him.

  Ryker’s gaze drops to my cleavage, and I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t do anything but stare at his lowered eyes and wonder if he’s feeling what I’m feeling.

  It doesn’t matter. No distractions allowed.

  Several agonizingly long seconds pass before his gaze travels up to meet mine.

  “You’re not going back to that bartender. Your money is no good with him. He wouldn’t even let me pay for the drink. So quit worrying about it.”

  An odd sense of relief washes over me that Ryker didn’t pay for my drink, and I sit back down, desperate to remove all points of contact between us before I do something stupid like press against him harder and let my hands roam.