where Natalie works.
8:45 text to Natalie: we can go to my house
8:52 text to Natalie: I can hang with you
She finally texts back as I walk out the door.
8:58 Natalie text to me: no you stay I’m fine
8:59 text to Natalie: u r killing me I don’t wanna stay
When I get to my car, Colby is leaning against his Mustang, which is now next to mine. “Need a ride?”
I consider kicking him in the nads but he’s too strong and he hasn’t done anything to warrant the attack. Colby’s the poster child for why football players shouldn’t take steroids. He’s the Hulk without morals. Colby swears he doesn’t use, but high schools don’t test for muscle enhancers. College will wake him from his supervillain world. The first time he tests, he’s done. Without the roids he’s useless.
I dig into my purse. Shit, I can’t find my keys.
“We should go out sometime.” His hazel eyes hide beneath his bent-out-of-shape baseball cap. His blond curls shoot out the sides.
“Just get in your car and go home.” I keep digging in my purse. I look down but I keep an eye on the pig beside me. It’s not good enough to hear him squeal, I need to know his every move.
“You know you want me,” he says.
The rattle of keys behind me makes me turn. Mr. Linebacker with the nametag Jack stands behind me. He’s glaring at Colby but talking to me. “Missing something?” Jack dangles the keys in the air.
“I’d stay away from her, dude. She’s a tease,” Colby says.
Jack stiffens and his hands close into fists. “I suggest you shut your mouth before I slap the fire out of you.”
“You can have her.” Colby slithers into his Mustang. He roars the engine before burning rubber on the way out of the parking lot.
Jack towers over me. My keys seem tiny in his hands. I feel a little stupid. I could have been jacked, no pun intended. I always know my surroundings. I always have my keys before I leave a building, and I never text in dark parking lots. My mom has drilled this into me a hundred million times.
“Thanks again,” I say.
Mr. Linebacker with the nametag Jack doesn’t respond. Instead, he hits the button on the remote and my car unlocks. He opens my door and waves his hand for me to climb in. Once I’m in and my seat belt’s fastened, he hands me my keys.
“Don’t get into any more pissing matches with skunks, ya hear?” he adds before he shuts the door to my car.
Great! Gorgeous. Smart (I’m almost sure of it). Strong, confident, and—maybe nice.
He still could be a crazy football player. He did punch that SUV.
He stands, waiting for me to leave. Now I look like a helpless moron. I shove the key in the ignition, start my Camaro, and put it in gear.
CHAPTER SEVEN
When I turned sixteen, my dad bought me my dream car. I didn’t deserve it. The battle for my love with my mother had begun. Only my mom didn’t play. She didn’t feel the need. She still doesn’t.
My father’s girlfriend ended up walking out on him. He tried to come home but my mom wouldn’t take him back. That’s when he started trying to outdo my mom. Mom wanted to buy me a used Corolla—it would serve its purpose and the insurance was cheap. Instead, Dad showed up with a 2010 yellow Camaro with black racing stripes. I named her Edna after my great, great grandmother. (I would never name a child Edna, but a car, that’s a different story.)
Now that my father no longer pays attention to me, my mom feels the need to play referee. I don’t want the gifts, I never did. I want him to give a crap. At least my mom listens, but now, instead of taking my side on things when my father is in the wrong, which he usually is, my mom’s always trying to fix it. Like today.
“Your dad wants you to call him,” my mom informs me as I walk into the kitchen to snatch a quick snack before heading off to school.
I grab a yogurt for breakfast. I look at the label. “Did you buy the sugar-free again? It has that nasty aftertaste.” I
8:45 text to Natalie: we can go to my house
8:52 text to Natalie: I can hang with you
She finally texts back as I walk out the door.
8:58 Natalie text to me: no you stay I’m fine
8:59 text to Natalie: u r killing me I don’t wanna stay
When I get to my car, Colby is leaning against his Mustang, which is now next to mine. “Need a ride?”
I consider kicking him in the nads but he’s too strong and he hasn’t done anything to warrant the attack. Colby’s the poster child for why football players shouldn’t take steroids. He’s the Hulk without morals. Colby swears he doesn’t use, but high schools don’t test for muscle enhancers. College will wake him from his supervillain world. The first time he tests, he’s done. Without the roids he’s useless.
I dig into my purse. Shit, I can’t find my keys.
“We should go out sometime.” His hazel eyes hide beneath his bent-out-of-shape baseball cap. His blond curls shoot out the sides.
“Just get in your car and go home.” I keep digging in my purse. I look down but I keep an eye on the pig beside me. It’s not good enough to hear him squeal, I need to know his every move.
“You know you want me,” he says.
The rattle of keys behind me makes me turn. Mr. Linebacker with the nametag Jack stands behind me. He’s glaring at Colby but talking to me. “Missing something?” Jack dangles the keys in the air.
“I’d stay away from her, dude. She’s a tease,” Colby says.
Jack stiffens and his hands close into fists. “I suggest you shut your mouth before I slap the fire out of you.”
“You can have her.” Colby slithers into his Mustang. He roars the engine before burning rubber on the way out of the parking lot.
Jack towers over me. My keys seem tiny in his hands. I feel a little stupid. I could have been jacked, no pun intended. I always know my surroundings. I always have my keys before I leave a building, and I never text in dark parking lots. My mom has drilled this into me a hundred million times.
“Thanks again,” I say.
Mr. Linebacker with the nametag Jack doesn’t respond. Instead, he hits the button on the remote and my car unlocks. He opens my door and waves his hand for me to climb in. Once I’m in and my seat belt’s fastened, he hands me my keys.
“Don’t get into any more pissing matches with skunks, ya hear?” he adds before he shuts the door to my car.
Great! Gorgeous. Smart (I’m almost sure of it). Strong, confident, and—maybe nice.
He still could be a crazy football player. He did punch that SUV.
He stands, waiting for me to leave. Now I look like a helpless moron. I shove the key in the ignition, start my Camaro, and put it in gear.
CHAPTER SEVEN
When I turned sixteen, my dad bought me my dream car. I didn’t deserve it. The battle for my love with my mother had begun. Only my mom didn’t play. She didn’t feel the need. She still doesn’t.
My father’s girlfriend ended up walking out on him. He tried to come home but my mom wouldn’t take him back. That’s when he started trying to outdo my mom. Mom wanted to buy me a used Corolla—it would serve its purpose and the insurance was cheap. Instead, Dad showed up with a 2010 yellow Camaro with black racing stripes. I named her Edna after my great, great grandmother. (I would never name a child Edna, but a car, that’s a different story.)
Now that my father no longer pays attention to me, my mom feels the need to play referee. I don’t want the gifts, I never did. I want him to give a crap. At least my mom listens, but now, instead of taking my side on things when my father is in the wrong, which he usually is, my mom’s always trying to fix it. Like today.
“Your dad wants you to call him,” my mom informs me as I walk into the kitchen to snatch a quick snack before heading off to school.
I grab a yogurt for breakfast. I look at the label. “Did you buy the sugar-free again? It has that nasty aftertaste.” I
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