I Knew You Were Trouble (Troublemaker Series Book 1)

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Kids

  First Impressions

  Missing out on a good night’s sleep

  Naked Bodies

  Asking for Help

  Chaos

  Spiders

  The Color White

  Holey Jeans

  Making Friends

  Getting Messy

  Breaking the Rules

  Imperfections

  Motorcycles

  Feeling Alone

  Unfamiliar Places

  Kids

  Motorcycles

  Parties

  First Kisses

  Sex

  Falling

  Getting Fired

  First Second Kisses

  Sex

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  Acknowledgments

  About Cassie Mae

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  I Knew You Were Trouble

  Published by Cassie Mae

  Cassiemaeauthor.com

  Cover Design: Cover Me Darlings

  Editing: CookieLynn Publishing Services

  Formatting: CookieLynn Publishing Services

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Copyright © 2020 Cassie Mae

  All rights reserved.

  Dedicated to anyone who has felt like they needed to be someone else. You’re a total bad-a-word just being you!

  Candace

  There are three things I know I want in this world, and they’ve all come at me at separate times in my life. The first was when I was seven and three quarters, and Josh Spencer grabbed the blue paint from me in art class and said, “Blue is for boys.” Then he dumped the whole darn bottle on his canvas, leaving me with only purple and pink to work with for the whale I was painting.

  Right then and there I said to myself, Candace, anything can be any color you darn well please, and I vowed to never paint to a natural color scheme, and I was going to make a fortune doing so.

  The second was during a movie night with all my friends at fifteen and two months. Amber, my best friend, spilled every. Single. Detail of the sex she had the night before and traumatized the heck out of me. Lots of sweat. Lots of… mess. Lots of discomfort. Some blood. (Blood!) She said it wasn’t good, not even that fun, didn’t last long, and that given the chance to do it again, she wouldn’t until she was in love or with someone way more experienced. Or if he was really cute or something.

  And I said to myself, Candace, let’s not do the deed until you trust a person enough to handle that.

  Now the third… sigh. It happened thirty-one days ago, while I sat eagerly waiting for my art teacher to introduce the subject of our next assignment. I’ve been in and out of art classes since I was a wee wittle one, and I was so done with the bowl of fruit phase. I was ready to pick out my palate of off-beat colors and go wild.

  And in he walked, the door swinging open and angels singing a chorus as he entered the room. The black boots he wore hit the tile with a soft thud. His jeans were tight, but not too tight, and there were zero holes. Zero. Unheard of. His jacket did have a hole near the lower front pocket, and his thumb stuck out through it. A simple black tee peeked out between the open zipper of his jacket, and his neck was covered in ink, suggesting a work of art hidden underneath all those clothes.

  I squirmed in my seat, my heart beating uncontrollably in my throat as I met his eyes.

  They were blue—of course they were blue—framed by long eyelashes that many a girl would pay good money for. He wore eyeliner, which caused the smallest twitch of a smile to pop onto my face. I liked it, and honestly, I didn’t think I would.

  He grinned as Miss Barley introduced him as our new subject, and I internally squealed and knocked my brushes to the floor.

  Right then and there I knew that love at first sight was a total thing, and I was going to make it happen with him.

  A loud balloon pop reverberated around Troublemakers, the indoor amusement park I work at, knocking me clean from my fantasies. It’s been a long week since my last art class, so I didn’t think I would see Mr. Love-At-First-Sight till Monday, but my head went straight there when I caught a glimpse of him over by the Skeeball.

  It’s my day to run the arcade. Troublemakers has several “Trouble Zones,” and we rotate all over the place. Yesterday I was at the bowling alley—my least favorite—and last week I ran the 3D zombie killer ride for eight hours straight. The arcade isn’t too bad. Mostly just dealing with broken games and redeeming tickets. The worst part is—

  “Hon, you’ve only got ten tickets left. Just pick something.” The exasperated and tired mom of five kids points toward the top row of knick-knacks for her must-be-six-or-so daughter who had taken thirty minutes to pick out two toys.

  I rest my chin in my palm and lean against the counter, suppressing a deep impatient sigh. I do not envy this woman, but I do want kids someday… I mean, if I ever get past the sex thing.

  “What about this fun whistle?” I suggest, then get a stern shake of the head from Mom. Oh… probably not the wisest choice. “Or this very pretty bracelet,” I quickly say instead, pulling one out. “See, you slap it on your wrist like this.” I give my arm a good whack and the poop-emoji decorated bracelet snaps into place. I smile at the girl, but she frowns and her eyes well up.

  “I don’t want that!” she sobs, and I make an “oops” face and quickly put it back. Did I mention I’m not the best with kids? Funny, considering I work in a kid-populated job.

  A small bump hits my hip, and the tower of a guy I work with named Pete shuffles his way into my space. I give him a look, but he just smirks at me and nods at the girl.

  “How many tickets you got?”

  “Ten,” I tell him, unable to mask my annoyance at his interruption, and he tsks.

  “I was talking to her, Candace.” He pretends to whisper to the girl. “I think she needs a little break, huh?”

  The girl sniffs and nods, wild strands poking out from her braid. She’s obviously had a very fun, very long day.

  I don’t blame her either. We’ve just ticked over into Christmas season, with the entire place decked out in lights, fake snow, candy canes, and there’s a Santa around here somewhere. Poor Josh got roped into being the guy in red this year. Every time I see him prancing around in the costume, I give him a fist bump in solidarity.

  He’s currently dancing by the Skeeball, right next to my future husband.

  “So…” Pete leans back and puts a hand to his chin. I lean back as well, crossing my arms and giving him a smug look. If he thinks he can do this without making the girl cry, she’s all his. “No to the slap bracelet and no whistles either… Maybe Mom will let you have one of these.”

  He pulls out an army guy with a parachute attached to him. The girl narrows her eyes. “That’s… that’s fifteen tickets.”

  “It’ll be our secret,” he says, clearly not being secretive a
t all. I bite down on my tongue, waiting to lecture him until little ears aren’t present. We’re told not to give stuff away, no matter how cute the kid is.

  The girl slowly shakes her head. “That’s stealing.” Then she jams her finger so hard into the glass it thumps over the sound of all the arcade games. “I want the fuzzy ball. A pink one. For ten tickets.”

  I hip check Pete out of the way and gladly hand the thing over, much to my and her mother’s delight. They pack up and leave, the girl shaking her head disapprovingly at Pete over her shoulder.

  “Nice try.” I yank the army guy from his hand and toss it back in the bin to join the others. Pete lifts a shoulder, pushing up the sleeves on the black shirt he wears under the bright red polo we have to wear for the Game Zone. Each zone has a different colored shirt, but the Troublemakers logo is splayed across our chests in bright white. Pete has to wear the undershirt while he’s clocked in because of the tattoos covering his left arm, but he doesn’t care about getting in trouble by exposing them. I, however, like to follow the rules, so I tug on his left sleeve until it slides into place. If we were closer, I might tuck his shirt in for him, too.

  He pushes his lips together, but I still see that smirk of his. “You were that girl when you were young, weren’t you?” He nods toward the exit.

  “Meaning?”

  “Stickler for the rules.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Doesn’t seem like much fun.”

  “My life is full of fun.” Well, I suppose it depends on the definition, but to me, I’m perfectly happy with schedules and being cautious and expressing myself in healthy ways. Like art and… oh gosh, I can’t even think of anything else.

  Pete lets out his signature laugh, which is a mix between a newborn baby and a hyena—starts off cute, ends up being way too loud.

  I tilt my head. “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “People don’t laugh at nothing, Pete.”

  “Okay, it was just your face.”

  My mouth pops open. “What about it?” I say a little too loudly that I catch the attention of some guests as they make their way to the Wheel of Fortune game.

  “Looked like you were thinking too hard about what was fun about your life.”

  “Was not.”

  “Okay.”

  I let out a sigh, grateful that my next shift with him isn’t for another two days. Every day of Pete would be exhausting. He’s constantly challenging my patience, never wearing the required hat, and his shirt is always coming untucked. I know way more about his tattoos than someone who works with him should, especially since I’m not supposed to even see them.

  My eyes swivel around the arcade again, searching for another guy with some amazing ink on his skin. He’s moved from the Skeeball, and that sort of looks like the top of his head peeking out through one of the Fast and the Furious games.

  There are tootsie rolls in with the lollipops, so I pat Pete’s side to get him to move out of the way and start putting the candy in the right bin. When I’m done, he’s watching me, and I jerk back.

  “What? Is it my face again?”

  A small chuckle escapes him. “Wanted to ask you something.”

  “Then ask.” It’s never stopped him before.

  “Who’s that guy you keep staring at?”

  My cheeks burn with heat, and I wonder what color I’d paint them if I were to do a self-portrait right now. I usually substitute a warm color for a cold color, so that would make them… blue.

  I am blue with humiliation.

  “Uh… I’m not staring.”

  “Sure.”

  I grimace. “I’m not.” I wasn’t really. A couple glances here and there, but I think he left. Maybe went to another zone. Maybe bowling. Maybe the skate park. Maybe mini-golf. I don’t know because I wasn’t staring.

  A lot.

  I want to not-so-obviously search for my true love again, but with Pete eyeing me, I’m too chicken to risk it.

  “I thought I saw someone from my art class is all.”

  “Another artsy-fartsy, huh?” He tilts his head and nods over my shoulder. “Doesn’t really look the type.”

  I whip around, and the end of my ponytail smacks me in the nose. My heart does its little angel singing as Mister Art Model approaches the redemption counter. There is a mini, twelve-year-old version of himself standing next to him.

  “You guys use a counter or something?” he asks, sticking two arcade cards out to me. Oh my gosh, I’ve just heard the very first words he’s spoken directly to me. And I’m going to say something amazing back, I just know it.

  “Hummerflagen.”

  Well, shoot.

  Pete

  I can’t see Candace’s face, but I sure as hell can feel the heat from here. My chest aches from all the suppressed laughter I got down there, and I don’t want to interrupt her again—or miss the show—so I sit back and watch from my spot behind the counter.

  “Uh… what was that?” the guy asks, and Candace’s hand shoots up and rubs her forehead, as if that’ll get her to remember the English language. She hunches over, her breathing taking on a scary rhythm like she’s about to spew all over the counter. She shakes her head hard, her ponytail flying around by her shoulders. Damn, does she got it bad. Or she’s actually sick.

  “Yeswecountemhere,” she rambles, jutting her hand out to take the arcade cards. She fumbles, the things dropping to the floor as she turns around. I can’t help it; I’m chortling like an idiot, and her signature glare meets me from underneath her Troublemakers baseball cap we’re all supposed to wear. Mine is currently somewhere in the mess of the saddlebag I keep on my bike. It’s most likely jammed in there with my extra t-shirts and shorts that are probably a size too small.

  I quirk a grin at Candace as she moves next to me to scan the cards. She seems determined not to make eye contact, so I may as well take advantage and pull my sleeves up.

  Ah… much better. This place is a sauna in the arcade section. It’s much cooler at the skate place since most of the air gets pushed over there. I don’t even bother with the undershirt when I run the 3D ride. That room is so muggy that I come out looking like a melted popsicle on good days.

  Candace gives me the side-eye and bites her lips together, but she doesn’t say anything about me showing my tattoos. Whether that’s by choice or simply because she’s lost the ability to communicate is yet to be determined.

  “Nice ink,” the guy says with a nod to my arm. Maybe he is artsy-fartsy—or he wants to show off his own. His arms are a blank canvas, but there’s something just above the collar on his t-shirt that could be chest ink.

  “Thanks.”

  Candace is sure taking her sweet time there.

  “Where’d you get it done?”

  “Place in Fort Wayne.” She’s finally making her way back to him, her fingers shaking against the card. I’m not up for giving out too much info on where I grew up, so I’m glad she’s interrupting for the time being.

  “You have six hundred and five,” she says, her shoulders straight and her voice finally returning to somewhat normal. She’s a bit breathy still. It’s kinda cute.

  And hilarious.

  “Is that combined?” the guy asks. “I handed you two cards.”

  She blinks a few times then slowly turns to the forgotten card sitting by the scanner. “Oh, whoops!” she exclaims, and we all jump back from the sudden burst of volume. She hustles back to the scanner and is ten thousand times faster getting him the amount on it.

  “Sorry… that second card has four hundred and fifty-five.”

  “Dang it,” the kid says for the first time. “Three hundred short.”

  “You can have mine,” the guy says, resting his arm on the counter and eyeing the gadgets. His younger brother—I’m assuming—must want the footballs that light up when you spike them. I got about seven of them at home. Hey, when on break—and when you know the ins and outs of every game—it’s easy to
get tickets.

  “So, Fort Wayne, huh?” the guy asks, going back to my ink. Candace’s shoulders slump, and I’m wondering if she really hates me and my proverbial finger to the rules. “By the zoo?”

  “Around there.”

  He nods and tugs at his collar, showing off more of his tattoos. I’m kinda used to these conversations by now. If it’s not a tattoo brother it’s a bike brother trying to tell me they are just as badass as I am. Like I’m badass. I make minimum wage, live with my sister, and rarely do anything but work and sleep.

  “I passed through there once. Couldn’t find a place to do any ink, though.”

  “Hmm,” I grunt, trying not to dismiss the dude, but hell, I could throw a rock in Fort Wayne and find a tattoo parlor.

  “I’ve been to Fort Wayne, too,” Candace blurts. We both turn our attention to her and her beet red face and awkward as hell smile. She brushes her bangs from her face frantically, but her hat keeps them stuck to her forehead.

  “That so?” I say with a smirk. She doesn’t give me a second glance, keeping her eyes locked on the target of her affection. “Did you get ink, too?”

  She lets out a half laugh, half croak, then quickly shuts her mouth and clears her throat. There is a smile on my face I can’t get rid of and held back laughter that’s gonna crack one of my ribs.

  “No,” she says. “I… don’t have any tattoos. I did a henna one once though. My cousin was experimenting with it and she gave me a pokeball. Like from Pokemon. I imagine I caught charmander because he’s the cutest one. It was during all that Pokemon Go hoopla which was super fun, right? I mean everyone played that. Well, not me because I didn’t have a phone yet. My parents were like, ‘don’t you get a phone before you’re sixteen. It’ll rot your brain.’ They were probably right because Amber got a phone when she was twelve and she’s dumb as a rock. Her words, not mine. I wouldn’t say that about anyone, especially my best friend. She did the henna thing with me, too, but she got some fun pattern thing that went down her neck, and I really like your neck tattoo; I’ve seen it in art class. Well, obviously, since you pose shirtless for us. So did you get it in Fort Wayne? Oh no wait, you said you couldn’t find a place. I know how to listen, I swear.”