Page 5 of Faking It With the Small-Town Bad Boy

By the looks of it, I’ll be in that shop day in and day out for the next

gazillion years, and that’s if the bank doesn’t wipe out everything and

take the property from me.

I try to tell myself it could be worse—but it can’t.

I didn’t even know he had the fucking lien in the first place, let alone

that we were in such deep money troubles. The heart attack didn’t

wait for him to get things in line, though. I remind myself to pick up

a bottle of wine so I can delve deeper into those letters from hell. But

I have to make this transfer to Ainsley’s account soon—otherwise, I

might be tempted to change my mind.

My father started his classic car business when mom was still alive.

He took pride in such classic, beautiful cars with high kicks in the

engine and sleek, flawless bodies, but his personal mode of

transportation was a little different. A chunky, cherry-red truck from

the early fifties with black tires constantly wiped down in a sheen of

reflective oil.

It’s a beautiful truck, but it will draw attention.

I haven’t been in town in months, not since Dad’s funeral. While I’ve

managed to stay home for the business that needed to be done

around the shop and in terms of his passing, it is about time I poke

my head up from the rolling hills on the outskirts of Rally. I hate it

when people look at me, but I have no other choice. My favorite

hoodie is in the front seat, and I slip it on over my head, keeping my

lawless blonde hair in the hidden cave of my jacket.

My muddy boots are in the truck nearby, mostly so I don’t have to

worry about tracking dirt through the house like my mother used to

scold my father for. I look a little unkempt, but who cares? I’m

wearing some simple cotton shorts that nearly cover my ass, and my

hoodie is long enough to hide the fact that the tank top I wore to bed

is a bit too tight to be worn without a bra.

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