Page 51 of Faking It with the Forward

“Oh,” I reach for the hem. “Do you want it back? I can chan—”

“Nope.” Something dark flickers in his eyes. “Keep it on.”

He leads us to the street that runs adjacent to Shotgun, and I see a dark blue, vintage Dodge Challenger parked by the curb. He walks up to it and opens the passenger side door for me.

“Is this yours?” I ask, after he gets in the driver’s seat.

“Since I learned to drive,” he replies, cranking the engine. It’s loud and the car vibrates in a way newer vehicles don’t, but the interior is immaculate. Clean, black leather seats, shiny chrome details. “It’s the first thing my dad bought with his signing bonus. It was his dream car.”

“And he gave it to you?” I run my hands over the dash. “Seems foolish to give a sixteen-year-old boy your prized possession.”

He grins over at me. “The caveat was that when I get my signing bonus, I buy him a new one.”

“I see now where you get your cocky confidence–from your dad.”

The car is as flashy as his persona, drawing eyes as we cut through campus.

“So, what’s your dad like?” I ask, noting he takes the turn off campus to a road I know leads away from town.

“As a dad or a coach?”

I think on it. “Both?”

“Before my parents got divorced, he acted more like a dad. She’d do all the mom stuff, take me to appointments, come to school conferences, while he worked with his team. But once they split and I decided to stay with him, he pretty much went full coach mode all the time.”

“Well, that kind of sucks.”

“I guess,” he shrugs. “We both had the same goal, so it kind of worked. I lived and breathed hockey, so it didn’t seem strange.”

“Do you get to see your mom a lot?”

“Not really. She was ready for warm weather and moved south. Got remarried to an accountant—like the most polar opposite kind of guy from my dad. We stayed where he could keep coaching and the hockey is more competitive. He wanted me to have the best chance of getting a scholarship on a nationally ranked team.”

“Makes sense.” As a southerner we have hockey leagues, but the culture isn’t the same. It’s not a way of life like it is up here.

“I go down to see her during the summer, and she’ll come up a few times a year to watch my games.” He shrugs. “It’s not a lot, but we’re good.”

I can’t imagine splitting time with my parents. Both were involved—overlyinvolved at times if you ask me. But they’d been high school sweethearts and operated like a cohesive unit. Even when they had disagreements there was never any question they were still in sync. Now there are times where the three of us just feel aimless, like we’re floating around without the thing that always tied us together.

We’ve lost our anchor.

“So,” I say, watching the landscape grow more rural, “feel like telling me where we’re going?”

He grins, but keeps his eyes on the road. “You’ll see soon enough.”

“Really? Because we haven’t passed anything but farmland for the last five miles.” I cut him a look. “You’re not driving me out here to kill me and dump my body, are you?

His hands grip the steering wheel. “What’s with everyone accusing me of being a serial killer lately?”

“Sorry, I watch too much true crime.” I grin, finding his horror amusing. “Although my mom, Ruby, and I all have trackers on our phones so we can search for the bodies if one of us goes missing.”

Reese looks over, eyebrow raised. “You’ve really thought this through.”

“I have,” I admit. “And I know it seems weird, but there are studies about the psychology behind our cultural obsession with dangerous things. I guess people like to feel like they have some understanding of what could happen, or like, that you can somehow be prepared in a situation so that you aren’t a victim.”

“Like keeping your phone tracker on.” He reaches across the center console, his big hand gripping my knee, and squeezes. “Sorry to disappoint you, but no, I’m not planning on tossing your body out here.” I haven’t been paying attention to the road or the fact he’s slowed down, taking a sharp turn into a gravel driveway. Up ahead is a farmhouse, with a large red barn set behind it. A sign says, “Second Chance Animal Shelter.”

“You brought me to an animal shelter? To ‘get flirty?’ With what? A dog?”

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