Page 16 of Faking It With the Small-Town Bad Boy

starts, nudging his brother in the side to catch him up on town

gossip. He and his father moved here two years ago, and while that

might seem like a blessing to have missed all the juicy drama, it’s hell

having to recap it for him. At least Storm assumes that position for

me. “Ryan Jones is a prick. He was the school jock, and he was

ruthless.”

“So, the ruthless bully dated that tiny little thing that walked in here?

Are you kidding?” Reggie says, tauntingly so. “She’s so cute and

rugged.”

“Rugged is an understatement,” Storm points out. “She runs her

father’s classic car shop outside of town, in the Dingy hills.”

“Don’t call it that,” I sigh, shaking my head.

“Call it what?” Reggie asks. “The Dingy hills? Where is that again?”

“It’s just past the main road, down ninety-nine,” Storm replies

dutifully.

“Why is it called that?”

Shaking my head, I picture leaning over the bar top and snagging a

bottle just to hold, just to consider. But it’s out of reach, and the

stupid token of a poker chip weighs heavy in my pocket. “The Dingy

hills are where the town addicts go for a fix. It’s just part of that road,

the middle ground of ninety-nine, and people wind up dead there a

lot. She lives further down from that spot, though. That’s not her

thing, I’m sure.”

“So, she’s a good girl?” Reggie asks poignantly. “She’s cute, she has a

kick-ass job, and you didn’t think to get her number? Or, do you

already have it?”

“No can do,” Storm says, cutting me short from a reply to that

outlandish remark his brother has made. “She’s like a cicada.”

Reggie and I exchange an odd glance before glaring at the smallest

member of the band.

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