The Bully’s Dare: A Why Choose Enemies-to-Lovers Romance (The Truth or Dare Series Book 1)

I’d love to rub my prank in Jason King’s smug face.

But I can’t.

Because he doesn’t show up at Healing Touch after that.

Which should be nice—no loud music playing all night, no constant cheering, as though we’re docked next to a football stadium.

But it’s not nice. It’s boring. I find myself sitting on the bow of Sweet Serenity staring mournfully at the uninhabited cockpit, almost—

—No, don’t say it—

Well, I almost miss the guy. Complete with his six-pack abs and arrogant smile.

Even Donovan and I are running out of things to talk about when we can’t complain about Jason and his Merry Band of Jerks.

I’m starting to get that sinking feeling in my stomach…like maybe I went too far at the beach. I have a bad habit of not knowing when to draw the line. In trying to out-jerk the jerk…have I become the jerkiest of them all?

Ugh. The thought keeps me up at night more than I’d like to admit.

It’s been about a week, not that I’m counting, since I’ve seen hide or hair or cocky grin from Jason King.

As if to compound the problem—karma kicks me in the ass.

“We’re going on a sailing trip!” Pearl explains over breakfast at The Blue Heron—they do brunch specials for boaters. “Isn’t that exciting?”

I break the yoke on my Croque de Madame. “Huh?”

“Three nights on the old blue,” Four says, grinning. “Just you, me, your mom, and the stars. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

Double ugh.

The only thing worse than being without Jason is being without Donovan.

“It’s only three nights,” he says when I tell him, feeling close to crying for no reason at all. “I think you’ll live.”

I don’t feel like I’m going to live, though. I pout even as Donovan and his dad cast us off, Sweet Serenity’s motor purring.

“Heads up,” Donovan says as he unhooks the rope from the cleat and tosses it my way. I catch it.

We’re officially cast off. Ready to leave the marina.

Donovan, however, grabs the siding before we can get too far. “Hey, Kenzi. For the road.”

He reaches into his back pocket, pulls something out, and hands it over.

It’s a flat CD case. Inside, a CD with sharpie written on it. “For Kenzi.”

A mixed tape. Donovan made me a mixed tape.

I bite my lip to keep my smile from overwhelming my face. “Thanks, bud.”

“You’re welcome, bud.” He releases the side and the boat chugs out of the slip, leaving Donovan standing on the pier. His form gets smaller, but it’s still there as Four steers us out of the mouth of the harbor and into the open waters.

I slip on my headphones. The boat vibrates underneath me, the engine making the whole thing hum. There’s a folded up piece of paper in the CD case, where Donovan listed all the songs and bands. The first song is by a band called the Pixies and, immediately, their dark, chaotic sounds sweep me away. It’s all very Donovan and I close my eyes to enjoy it.

We’re sailing up Long Island to Block Island. It’s about a five hour trip by sailboat, give or take, depending on the “knots”, says Four. Four comes out, takes off the sail cover, and hoists the sail up. I help him a bit, but I’m pretty sure it’s just his attempt to “bond” with me. Besides, Pearl is far too busy downing daiquiris in the cockpit.

Pearl makes guacamole and we munch on chips as we sail. Sailing, like fishing, swimming, and everything else in the water, is slow and tedious. All about the journey, not the destination, blah, blah, blah.

I listen to Donovan’s CD twice, read a few chapters, and play about twenty hands of Black Jack with Pearl and Four. Four even lets me take the helm, which is, admittedly, more fun than I expected.

I feel so short behind the huge wheel, but he points to a small blinking green dot ahead. “Just make sure to keep that on your left,” he tells me. “Otherwise, we’ll end up in the rocks.”

No pressure.

Just as I’m starting to get the hang of it, I hear a howling behind me. I glance over and see it—

In the middle of this calm, glass-sea day…a roaring monster.

The Healing Touch speeds through, slicing through the serenity. The motorboat flies passed us, bouncing along.

As they go by, I can see the passengers: the King family. Mrs. King is sunbathing on the bow—the forty-year-old has a body that even I am jealous of. Mr. King is at the helm. And then there’s Jason. In his polo. He’s hanging his long limbs over the edge of the boat, looking bored. But when he sees me, he smiles. For me.

Cue my stomach, clenching.

And, just like that, they’re gone.

“Hold on!” Four says.

At first, I don’t know why, and then it hits—The Healing Touch is followed up by a series of wakes, and they roll through the water, shaking our boat back and forth.

Hour nine of complete confinement with Four and Pearl.

Pearl is taking a midday nap to avoid a hangover later. Four is playing solitaire.

I entertain myself by sitting in the cockpit and painting my toenails. Seashell pink.

I’m touching up my big toe when Jason’s face breaks through the water.

I screech. My polish goes everywhere.

Jason clings to the stairs. His hair is darker when wet. Saltwater drips down his chest, making the muscles glisten.

“Hey, Trouble,” he says. He blinks water from his eyelashes. Have I noticed before how long they are?

“Jesus! Are you a mermaid?”

“Maybe.” He’s grinning again—that cocky smirk. “Dad wanted to invite your family over for dinner tonight. We’re grilling steaks.”

I’m trying to ignore the way the water sparkles on his broad shoulders. The droplets slipping down his biceps.

“Okay,” I say. “I’ll pass on the word, I guess.”

“Good. We’re on Moor 16.”

A loud whistle cuts through the air and Jason glances over his shoulder.

“Is that for you?” I ask.

“Dad is timing my swim,” he responds. He looks back at me, his eyes sweeping. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Maybe.”

“Do better than maybe.” He winks and then pushes off the side of the boat. He moves through the water effortlessly, his arms swinging up and over.

I’m not ashamed to admit I watch the muscles of his back flex as he glides through the water.

Okay. Maybe a little ashamed.

What’s gotten into me?

Pearl fits me into a purple blouse and white pants—which seems like a stupid idea, ultimately, because my butt gets wet as soon as we get in the dingy.

Four steers us through the water and to The Healing Touch. The boat has its own underneath boat lights, and they make the water look emerald green in their spotlights.

“Ahoy there!” Four says, like the nerd he is.

“Terry,” Mr. King smiles. “Glad to have you. I’ll toss you a line.”

We tie up to their boat. Mr. King extends a hand and helps us all on board, one by one.

It’s funny—it doesn’t feel like the same boat with the rest of the King family here. I’m used to seeing this as the party boat. Now, I see it as it’s supposed to be. The wings of the center console have fanned out into a long table. There’s soft jazz music playing, not the normal rancorous pop tunes. The table is set, a bottle of wine in the middle, flanked with salad, bread, and steak and potatoes.

It’s amazing how The Healing Touch cleans up when it’s not covered in wine coolers and slutty teenagers.

Pearl and Mrs. King get along like gangbusters. They’re both gold diggers, wear the same brand of jewelry, and ascribe to the same skincare routine. It stands to reason. The grill is attached to the back of the boat, and Mr. King and Four hover over it, talking about…meat and fishing, I guess. Guy stuff.

Jason’s brother, Ian, is at the bow of the boat. Every now and then, a gust blows the smell of clove cigarettes our way.

Jason himself is dressed in a nice white button up. Tan slacks. We sit side-by-side and his arm hair tickles my skin.

“Should I keep an eye on you?” he asks.

“Why?”

“Every time you’re around, bad things happen to me.”

“Then, yes. You should definitely keep an eye on me.”

His dad announces that dinner is ready, which is good. It’s bad for me to have Jason King this close, smelling like patchouli and salt water. It gives me a bad urge to lick him from his collar bone, up his Adam’s apple, to his plump bottom lip.

God, I need to lose my virginity. Like, now. This repression is no good for anyone.

I take it out on my steak. I cut into it like Jack the Ripper. It’s cooked perfectly—just a little on the rare side. I try to focus on the meat on my plate, instead of the man meat sitting beside me.

Jason is different around his family, though. Like the boat, he’s cleaned up. Hair slicked back. Eyes bright and alert. I’ve known him as the party animal, but here, under his dad’s eye, the boy might as well have a halo over his head. He’s that much of a good boy.

“I feel like I haven’t seen you around lately, Jason,” Four says as he cuts into his steak.

Realizing I’ve tuned out, I tune back in.

“He’s grounded,” says Ian—which is the first time I’ve heard him speak all night. He has a particularly joyful glint in his eyes when he says it, and I get the impression it’s a rarity even in the confines of his own house for Jason King to suffer the consequences of his actions, and Ian is gloating about it.

“There was an incident at the marina,” Mr. King expounds. “Jason, why don’t you tell us about it?”

“He got the boat stuck on a sandbank,” Ian snickers.

Mr. King glances sideways at Ian. “Is your name Jason?”

Ian drops his eyes. “No, sir.”

I freeze mid-chew, the meat half masticated in my mouth. My eyes lock on Jason, waiting for the sharp sting of just revenge. Four and Pearl know nothing about the prank Donovan and I played and, I guess, it’s due time I got drawn and quartered for it on the dinner table.

Jason’s blue eyes sweep to me—a parting got ya? But then he does something strange.

He shrugs and turns back to his plate. “I tried to take it out at night. My bad.”

Is he…taking the blame?

I’m shocked. I didn’t think Jason King had a martyr bone in his body, but here he is. Taking the rap and doing time—in his dad’s mansion, but still—for my crime.

Why would he let us off the hook like that?

I swallow my bite of steak. The lump feels weird in my throat.

“Listen to this boy—my bad,” Mr. King repeats, a smile playing softly on his lips. “It tore up the bottom of the boat. We had to have it re-sanded.” He points his fork to the sky. “Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Pearl asks.

Mr. King takes out a small remote from his pocket and presses a button. The music gets louder. “The popping in the stereo.”

I can barely hear it, but if I strain, every five seconds, there’s a small pop of air in the beats.

“Music blasted too loud wears and tears on the system…” He turns the music down again. “Kids have no respect for the power of the tools they wield.”

Jason shrugs. “Sorry.”

“I remember when I was a teenager,” Four says with a chuckle, “Couldn’t blast my music loud enough! It’s why I can’t hear a damn thing anymore.”

Mr. King doesn’t seem to hear Four, though. He’s staring directly at his son. “Jason,” he says smoothly, “Would you like to try that again?”

Jason’s hands stop moving. The table lapses into a silence, except for the small clatter of forks and knives moving.

“What?” he asks.

Mr. King’s fingers lace together. “Your apology. Would you like to try that again?” He smiles, but the nice mask of his face doesn’t match the intensity of his words. “With meaning, this time.”

I don’t understand what he’s asking for, but Jason’s expression sobers completely, like he’s been hit with a pale of ice water. Slowly, he puts his utensils down. He rises to his feet and puts his palms flat on the table, like something practiced.

“My actions were irresponsible and immature,” he recites to the table. “And they’ve ruined the ambiance of this dinner. Please accept my apology.”

My breath is caught in my throat and I can’t look at Jason. The second-hand embarrassment is unreal. Mr. King may as well have put him over his lap and spanked him in front of all of us—that’s how embarrassing this feels.

I want to say something to let him off the hook, but my words are stuck in my throat. And, honestly, I’m afraid of Mr. King in this moment. I’m afraid of drawing his wrath, afraid of saying the wrong thing and being forced to put on some self-debasing performance in the same way. After all, who am I? Just a stranger on his boat. Jason is his son—by the look of it, his favorite son—and even he doesn’t get an inch of mercy from the man.

The tension is ugly, and, for once, I’m grateful for Four’s lack of tact, because he’s the only one who doesn’t seem to get how awkward this is. “What’s that, boy?” he jokes. “You’ll have to say that into my good ear.” Then he laughs. “I’m only fooling! These ears, though, not what they used to be.”

Pearl forces a laugh, “Terry, you’re incorrigible.” The Kings offer obligatory chuckles of their own.

Jason, however, doesn’t move. I can see his arms still braced beside me, locked in position, unwavering. I don’t know if he’s even breathing at this point.

Finally, Mr. King releases him with a, “Apology accepted.”

Jason drops his arms and returns to his seat. He goes back to his food, but he doesn’t say another word at dinner after that. His hand is stuck a fist, and it doesn’t unclench.

Conversation returns. Every now and then, someone will direct a sentence Jason’s way, and he’ll offer a smile. But I’ve seen Jason King smile. His smiles come with a healthy dose of arrogance and mischief, dimples in his cheeks, a twinkle of danger in his eyes.

This smile has none of that. His face is a mannequin, empty. His body is here, but his soul has left the dinner table for the night.

Conversation moves listlessly from one topic to the next, like a paper boat bopping in the water. I lapse in and out of focus, but I’m finding it hard to concentrate. Jason King took the rap for me. And he took it hard. But why?

When we finish up dinner, Jason finally speaks. “Is everyone finished? Can I clear the table?”

“Yes,” Pearl says with a sweep of her hand, “That’s very kind of you, thank you.”

I don’t think it has anything to do with him being kind, though—I get the feeling he just wants to exit as quickly as possible, and I can’t blame him for that.

He stands and picks up his plate. He touches mine. “Can I take your plate?”

I grip it. “I’ll help.”

Together, we clear the table. Jason and I go downstairs, into the belly of The Healing Touch. We dump the dishes in the sink.

“I’ll wash, you dry?” Jason offers.

“Works for me.”

We find a rhythm—he suds and scrubs, and I dry everything off with a towel before putting it on the dish rack.

“So,” I start. “You didn’t tell your dad that I cast off your boat?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Dad’s version of grounded is making me do laps in the pool and play table tennis. I think I’ll live.”

“He seems a little stricter than that,” I offer.

He shrugs. “I guess.”

He doesn’t want to talk about it, and I can’t blame him. So I counter with: “Besides, I didn’t think self-sacrifice was really your style.”

“Isn’t it?” He casts me a curious side-eye. “What’s my style?”

“Spoiled rich boy who sneaks by on his good looks and daddy’s money.”

“So you think I’m good looking?”

I feel my face go hot. I hand a dish back. “You missed a spot.”

He chuckles as he re-washes a perfectly clean plate.

“What’s your deal?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“Like…what do you want to do with your life?”

“I’m going to become a doctor.”

“Like father, like son?”

“Something like that.”

“Do you want to work at the hospital?”

His jaw tightens. He doesn’t move his eyes from his plate. “You’re going to laugh at me.”

“Maybe. But I’ll wait until you’re out of ear shot.”

He casts me a sidelong look. Finally, he says: “I want to join the Peace Corps.”

He’s right. That catches me completely off guard.

Jason King is full of surprises tonight.

“Why?” I ask.

He glances at me. “Isn’t it obvious? You tell a girl you spent a year in the Peace Corps—instant panty-dropper.”

I roll my eyes. That’s a little more his style…but I can tell he doesn’t mean it.

“Okay…besides pantie-dropping. Why else?” I ask.

“And…I don’t know.” He shrugs. He turns his focus back on the plates, works on soaping and scrubbing. “I’ve had a good life. I guess I just…want to give something back. Make a difference.”

The way he says it…it’s like it’s something shameful. Like his heart of gold is something that is meant to be hidden away underneath his bed, behind his porn collection.

“So why don’t you?”

“My dad says if I want to do something good, I should do what he does. Make millions and donate to a good cause.”

I shrug. “That’s one way to do it, sure. But is that what you want?”

His jaw tightens. “I don’t know.”

I scoff. “I don’t buy it.”

He narrows his eyes at me. “What?”

“If you want to join…just do it. Screw your dad. You’re Jason King. You get everything you want.”

He doesn’t take his eyes away from me. “Not everything.”

I let out a light laugh. My turn to examine my plate. “Wow. Are you really hitting on me over the sink?”

“Well, you are already wet…”

He closes his fist and opens it fast, flicking water at me. I yelp and put my hand on his chest, giving him a shove. “Dick!”

He’s so solid, has so much muscle mass, that my shove barely makes him sway.

It suddenly occurs to me that my hand is still on his chest—hard, and full of muscles—and like this, we’re close. I don’t move away. Neither does he.

“I like you,” he confesses suddenly. It sounds simple the way he says it, yet I feel like the floor has been yanked from under me, and I’m floundering in the water below.

“Why?”

“You’re different.”

“Different? Fat? Nerdy? You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“You don’t let anyone tell you what to do. You’re the only one who calls me on my shit.”

“Someone has to.”

We’re close, now. Close enough to kiss.

I imagine the warmth of his lips. Would they taste like saltwater?

I think about Donovan. And a stone rolls over my heart.

I can’t. He’s my only friend here…and he’d kill me if he knew I was making out with the enemy.

A clattering of laughter from the deck jerks me back to reality. I step back, putting some space between us. Like that, the moment shatters.

“We should…go back up,” I say. My heart is pounding in my chest.

“You go,” he says. “I’ll finish up.”

I want to argue, but I’m afraid if I spend any more time down here with him, I won’t be able to stop myself from letting Jason King pin me to the sink and soak me.

I climb above deck. It’s cooler out here. The fresh air feels good on my hot cheeks. Anchored out in the middle of the lake…I finally start to understand this living on the water thing.

I haven’t seen so many stars in my entire life. They dot the sky like glitter. The light from the moon echoes across the still, black water. A satellite blinks across the sky. I can see it as clearly as if I had a telescope.

There’s a lantern on deck that illuminates the guests. Pearl, Four, and Mrs. King are chatting. The ember from Ian’s cigarette glows on and off again from the bow.

Mr. King hangs off the back of the boat. He’s taken the mesh from the grill and he’s scrapping it clean over the side.

I walk over to him and sit down on the bench beside him.

“Can I help?” I ask.

He glances up at me. They both have it—that arrogant, boyish smirk. Mr. King, I’m sure, was attractive in his time. He’s good looking now, even, if you’re into the silver fox thing.

Jason King will grow up attractive, which bodes well for my fantasies of growing old with him, 2.5 kids that look just like us running around our feet…

Snap out of it!

Mr. King points to a soap bottle. “Hand me that?”

I do. He squirts the soap over the grill. “Is this your first time?”

“Sorry?”

“On the ocean.”

“Oh. I guess.”

“I wouldn’t trade it for anything. You won’t find peace like this anywhere else.” He looks over at me. “What is it you want to do with your life, Kenzi?”

An intense question, but. Sure. “I’d like to do something with music.”

“Make it?”

“Produce it.”

A smile crawl over his mouth. “Good girl. I know there was an ambitious woman in there somewhere.”

“Thanks.”

“Jason seems fond of you.”

He does? “I guess.”

“Enjoy it. Summer fun. I had it in my hay-day too.” His hand meets my shoulder than and he squeezes. “Just don’t forget what it is. Fun. Don’t let anything come between you and your dreams.”

Geez, this isn’t the conversation I was expecting. I don’t know what I expected. But I certainly didn’t think Jason’s dad was going to lecture me on the pitfalls of falling in love.

I’ve got Pearl for that. What is it about getting old that makes people so jaded?

“Mr. King?” I squeak out.

“Yes?”

“I was the one who set your boat loose. It floated off the dock and hit the shore. It was a dumb prank. It wasn’t Jason.”

There’s a change in his eyes. A flicker. I can’t tell if he’s pissed…or impressed. Maybe both? He nods once, and his hand drops from my shoulder. “I see.”

That’s all he says. Then there’s silence. It’s scary, his silence. I feel my stomach flatten. Did I do the right thing? Jason might no longer be grounded…but what if I got Pearl and Four in trouble instead?

I imagine them standing at the end of the dock with a megaphone, confessing to the marina: I apologize for having a terrible daughter. It was wrong of me.

“I’ll do whatever you want,” I quickly blurt out. “I’ll clean your boat or do chores or…”

“Do you think I’m harsh, Kenzi?” he asks, which catches me off guard, so I say nothing. “You went quiet at dinner,” he continues. “I imagine you thought I was being cruel and unusual to Jason. Do you have any brothers?”

“No,” I say.

“Boys,” he says, “are different to raise from girls. Girls, you have to encourage them. Build their spine. Boys have to be taught respect. Disciplined. Trouble has to be broken. Otherwise, they’ll run wild.”

What the hell am I supposed to say to that? “I don’t know about that,” I say.

He arches an eyebrow and smiles, as though pleased at the challenge. “No?”

“Girls can be wild too.”

He laughs—it’s startling, a low chuckle from his belly. “Yes,” he says. “I suppose they can be. You’re not pregnant, are you?”

“Um…no.”

“Good girl.” He smiles now, but somehow it’s not a comforting smile. He gives my shoulder a strong squeeze. “Let me know if that changes. We can work something out.”

I want to die on the spot. Is this how rich people talk? Self-debasement and abortions before dessert? What planet are they from?”

My mother materializes, as if she can sense my discomfort. I feel like I need her right now; I’m a child with my hand in the lion’s mouth.

She plays with a strand of my hair. “How’re you doing, ducky?”

“Tired,” I say, feeling very small.

“I know,” she murmurs, her long nails brushing my forehead. “We’ll head home soon.”

“Your daughter has guts, Mrs. Stratton.” He winks at me, like we share some scandalous secret, and I retreat tighter against my mother. “Make sure she doesn’t lose them.”