All rights reserved.

This book may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.

This is a work of fiction.

Any resemblance of events to real life, or of characters to actual persons, is purely coincidental.

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction.

This book is dedicated to all of those who have gone through the utter heartbreak of watching a loved one suffer the disease of addiction.

It is the most helpless feeling in the world.

My heart goes out to you.

BOOKS BY R.K. LILLEY

IN FLIGHT (UP IN THE AIR #1)

MILE HIGH (UP IN THE AIR #2)

GROUNDED (UP IN THE AIR #3)

LANA (AN UP IN THE AIR NOVELLA)

BREATHING FIRE (HERETIC DAUGHTERS #1)

BAD THINGS (TRISTAN AND DANIKA #1)

Danika hasn’t had an easy life. Being insanely attracted to bad boys has never helped make it easier.

One look at Tristan, and every brain cell she possessed went up in smoke. This man was trouble with a capital T. It was a given.

She knew better. Bad boys were bad. Especially for her. Considering her history, it was crazy to think otherwise. So why did crazy have to feel so damn fine?

For as long as she could remember, Danika had been focused on the future with single-minded purpose. Tristan came along and taught her everything there was to know about letting go, and living in the present. She fell, hard, and deep. Of course, that only made her impact with the ground that much more devastating.

Bad Things is about Tristan and Danika, and their train wreck of a love story. This series can be read as a standalone, or with the Up in the Air trilogy

Bad Things is a full-length novel, at roughly 105,000 words.

This book is intended for ages 18 and up.

CHAPTER ONE

THE BEGINNING

DANIKA

I had the strangest shiver of premonition rock my body the first time I heard Tristan’s voice.

I heard it from a room away, as he said something offhanded to my boss, Jerry, and still I knew somehow that he would change my life.

I had an unruly armful of clean laundry and five dogs crowding my legs in my boss’s cramped laundry room, when I heard the front door open, and two men chatting as they entered the house.

I wasn’t alarmed.

It was a chaotic sort of house, with all sorts of people coming and going at all hours of the day,
and
I recognized the sound of Jerry’s voice instantly.

The other man that spoke was a stranger, but his voice was deep and it sort of rumbled through the house until it reached me.

I had an instant and positive reaction to it.

I had mixed feelings about men in general, having a rather sordid past with them as a whole,
and
having recently gone through a nasty breakup with a real piece of work.

My ex had been an out of work, pothead loser, and he hadn’t been the first loser that I’d wasted my time on.

Still, I knew right away that I adored the sound of that deep, masculine voice.

I dropped the pile of clothes into the clean laundry pile in the clean corner of the room.

My laundry skills were negligible, to put it nicely.

I worked for Jerry and his ex-wife Beverly, as a live in nanny/housekeeper/dogwalker/poolgirl/gardener/whatever they needed me to do.

It was well understood that I pretty much sucked at the housekeeper part of that arrangement, but it seemed to work for us all.

I’d been working for them for two years, and we were going strong.

Beverly and Jerry, dysfunctional exes, and awesome co-parents that they were, had become my closest friends and two of my favorite people on the planet.

I was dressed like a slob in too short black cheer shorts and a washed out gray UNLV sweatshirt, my straight black hair pulled into a rough ponytail, and not wearing a scrap of makeup, but I went to meet the newcomer anyway.

My five favorite animals on the planet dogged my steps as I padded down the hallway.

Jerry’s back was to me as I turned the corner from the hallway and into the black, stone-lined entryway, the stranger facing me.

I saw at a glance that the stranger was young, sexy as hell, and straight-up Trouble with a capital T.

I knew trouble when I saw it, it being a very old friend of mine.

Trouble for me was this nasty little self-destructive streak that I’d never quite been able to shake.

A theme song even played in my head when I felt the big T getting close.

Four Kicks
was that song, and it cranked up to full volume with my first glance at him.

He was tall, and built like a linebacker, both muscular and massive.

He wore a tight black T-shirt that showcased every starkly muscled inch of his chest.

His tattooed arms were folded across his chest in a casually attentive stance, but his presence commanded the room.

His face was handsome, with clean, even features that were dominated by pale golden eyes.

He had a straight slash of a nose, with a rounded tip that would have brought him from handsome to pretty boy if he wasn’t so damned big, and full lips on a wide mouth that popped killer dimples at me as it hitched up playfully.

Those dimples were pure big T.

His pitch-black hair was cropped short, with dark stubble lining his jaw.

His easy smile was playful, but still managed to be sinister.

It was a heady combination for someone who was on a first name basis with the big T.

Jerry turned to see what the other man was smiling about.

He was a middle-aged man, short and balding, with a slight build.

His
face was far from handsome, with close-set eyes and a big nose, but I thought he had one of the best smiles in the world.

“Danika,” Jerry said with that world-class smile.

“This is my buddy, Tristan.

He’s going to be crashing on the couch for a few days.

He’s…uh…between residences.”

I mentally groaned.

Bev was going to kill him.

One glance at Tristan and I knew he wasn’t just a buddy.

Jerry had a spotty history with helping out what he always thought was the latest rising star.

He had big dreams of managing the next big rock band, and he took those dreams to extremes.

He and Bev were both technically attorneys, but she was the only lawyer in the house that you could call employed.

Jerry was too busy collecting unsigned bands to practice law.

I gave Jerry a pointed look.

“Bev is going to string you up.

She said that if you brought home one more out-of-work musician, that she was going to kick you out, and then
I
would get upgraded to a bigger room.”

He grimaced.

“Now, now, don’t go jumping to conclusions.

Tristan has a job.

Look, he’s not even carrying a guitar.”

I eyed Tristan up.

“What’s the job?”

Jerry answered for him, which let me know that he was full of it.

“He’s a club promoter.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Is that the best you can do?

That’s Vegas code for
unemployed
, Jerry.

My pothead ex-boyfriend even calls himself a club promoter, and I don’t think he ever even leaves his house.

You need to think up something better before Bev gets home.”

Tristan laughed, not looking even slightly offended by our exchange.

“I
am
a club promoter, and I do also happen to be in a band,” he said in a low, sexy drawl.

Oh lord
, I thought,
Four Kicks
by Kings of Leon playing at full volume in my head as I heard his voice at close range.

And I tried to pretend that I hadn’t even heard that sexy as hell laugh.

I knew that we were going to be a dangerous combination.

Bad things were going to happen if we spent too much time around each other.

“Don’t let Bev hear you say that,” I warned him.

I was really just trying to help Jerry out.

I didn’t want him to get into trouble with Bev again, and he never seemed to have a clue just what would set her off, even though it was always very obvious to me.

I sighed, knowing that this wouldn’t be easy to fix.

I tensed as I heard the loud garage door opening across the house.

Bev’s house was a huge, rambling, ranch style house, but the garage door was so loud that it always announced her presence.

I gave Jerry a stern look, sometimes feeling like his mother, even though he was forty-five, and I was barely twenty-one.

I pointed at him.

“I know what we need to do, but you’re going to owe me.

I hate lying to Bev.”

It was true.

I was nowhere near nonchalant about the deception I was about to undergo, and I wanted him to know it.

Beverley was my hero.

No one had ever helped me as much, or been as supportive of me, as she had.

Plus, I just liked her.

She was my closest friend, and I’d developed a serious case of hero worship for the successful, forty-eight year old woman.

“Tristan is a friend of
mine
,” I told them.

“Do not mention the words club promoter, or band.

He is a plain old out of work student, and crashing for
one week
on the couch.

We met at UNLV last semester.

Got it?”

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