Page 15 of Faking It With the Small-Town Bad Boy

what? Run off the town pariah?”

I snort, leaning back in the ripped leather seat of this worn barstool.

“Pariah,” I gust, almost laughing through my words. “We’re in a

grunge rock band in the middle of the fucking Ozarks, in a town that

has more fiddles than drum sets—and you think she’s the outcast?”

He waves me off while Reggie sits down beside me, his ebony skin

and inky eyes matching the attire that all of us have seemed to adopt

these last few years: black jeans, black cotton shirts, and many vices.

Far, far too many vices indeed.

Reggie dresses like Storm, and they refer to one another as brothers

because of their parents marrying later in life and creating a step-

sibling bond that’s too funny to watch.

Storm is tiny and pale with red hair and freckles all over. Reggie is

massive with muscle, dark as night, with a voice like an arena

announcer. Watching them bicker is typically a worthwhile feat, but

not today. Not this week. I don’t need to hear another reason to push

off band practice.

It’s the only thing distracting me lately.

“What was that about? Why was she in here in the first place?”

Reggie asks.

I shrug, eyeing the sidewalk that’s littered with a few people here and

there. I thought I spotted Ryan Jones a while ago, meandering up

and down the walkway to make his presence known. Sometimes I

dream of watching him trip over the curb in front of the bar and

twisting his ankle. Maybe he’d call for help. I’d play my music louder

to drown it out.

“She was upset,” I breathe, shrugging off my fantasy of a situation

that might offer me the slightest twinge of revenge. “I can imagine

she is, anyway.”

“She’s the one who was dating the dude who Farrah had…” Storm

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