Page 151 of Faking It With the Small-Town Bad Boy

already. Hurrying outside, I run on the gravel without shoes,

ignoring the impossibility to do so without pain sending shockwaves

through my body. I make it to the garage door, out of breath and

afraid of the sight, but I still look inside curiously.

“Percy?”

“Darling,” he says, his voice smooth and normal.

He’s sitting on a stool by the workbench, an ornate glass bottle with a

black label sitting on the countertop near him. I can make out the cap

on the table next to him as well, my heart diving into the depths of

my gut, never to resurface again.

My eyes are welled with tears as I come forward, his brow pinched as

he reads the flustered response that crosses my face. Wiping my

cheeks, I’m hot and jittery all over. Percy takes that as his cue to

stand and embrace me, but I step back in refusal.

“No,” I pant, shaking my head. “How could you do this, Percy? Why

would you let that bitch wound you to the point of breaking sobriety,

and why—”

“Hey,” he says, sterner this time. “I didn’t drink, Leah.”

I freeze, my tears the only thing still moving as they coldly drip down

my cheeks and off my jaw. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah, check if you’d like.”

I point to the open bottle. “The cap is off.”

“Yeah, I wanted to take a smell.”

Shaking my head, I try not to become too perplexed in my

assessment of this situation. I fail miserably. I move past him and

grab the bottle, lifting it up to my eye where I can see the liquor still

floating at the top of the neck. While I’m not sure if he stuck a finger

in here and tasted it, I can’t be certain that he didn’t try any, either.

It’s still relatively full, and that’s why I’m confused.

What kind of alcoholic opens the whiskey bottle that taunts them in

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