Page 17 of Faking It With the Small-Town Bad Boy

“What the fuck did you just call her?” I ask.

“A cicada,” he explains dutifully. “They only come up every fifteen

years or so. They’re always hiding.”

“She’s been MIA for four months, not fifteen years,” I correct. “Why

didn’t you think of a groundhog or something?”

Reggie shakes his head in awe that this is now his family. I feel bad

for them both, knowing that being in close proximity for extended

periods of time can lead to some rich fights and tensile

disagreements. It’s fun to watch, though. All the same, I try to steer

clear of an argument right now.

Her dainty gray eyes are still imprisoned in my mind with a figure

that suits this bar well. I’ve never seen her come out to a show, even

when she was showing her face in town. But having her perched on a

barstool really amplified her taut and toned legs, her perfect

porcelain skin, and the stature of a woman who has been beaten

down more times than any of us could count.

If I were her, I wouldn’t have shown my face in town, either.

But being me, I’m glad she did. It was good to see her—sarcastic

banter or not.

“We need to practice,” I mutter at last, ready to pull focus off that

curious car chick once and for all. “Where the hell is Julius?”

“Right here,” he says, coming into the bar last with a sheet of white

paper in hand. “You might want to check this out, bud.”

“What is it?” I ask.

Julius adjusts his trucker hat and stuffs his pack of cigarettes into his

back pocket before coming closer with the questionable sheet. When

I reach for it, he takes it back slightly, keeping it just out of reach

while he uses his free hand to comb through his long, curly beard.

“I watched the copy place throw out a bunch of stuff in the

dumpsters in the alley. I thought we could use the blank paper to

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