The Sun

The cliche in love stories is that the good little rich girl falls for the poor bad boy with tattoos. The glamorous prom queen gets knocked-up by the swoon-worthy tattooed god who smells of leather and exhaust from his motorcycle.

That is not how this story goes.

Elias Black may have had a sleeve of tattoos and grown up on the wrong side of the tracks, but he didn’t have a true bad bone in his body.

Until he fell for me. Then he was terribly bad.