Page 66 of Faking It With the Small-Town Bad Boy

He perks up with that information. “Wow, really? I wouldn’t have

guessed that. I thought he got along well with your dad, so I figured it

was fine with your mom, too.”

“My dad didn’t really have anything bad to say about anyone. I mean,

there was this kid a few years back that stole his motorcycle and—”

“Alright, alright. I get it, Leah. I’m sorry about that motorcycle.”

I smile slightly, watching him relax even in the midst of my picking

on him. “It’s okay, I guess. I want you to get me a new one, though.”

“I’m living in the back of a bar, Leah. When I win the lottery and that

gold mine in Alaska finally strikes some decent pay dirt, then maybe

I’ll get you a whole hoard of motorcycles.”

I chuckle at first, but then the unsettling realization of his words

starts to come into my mind.

“Wait, you live back here?”

He nods slowly, his hand clammy in mine. “Yeah, I have for a few

years.”

Looking at the doorway, with the wind breaking through the shotty

structure of this little room, I garner the courage to stand. I pull

Percy with me as we head back out into the main area of the bar. He

follows, probably wanting to ask a million questions, but he doesn’t.

Instead, we duck through the congratulatory crowd and head onto

the sidewalk outside.

I lead him to my car, where his hand tenses and becomes clammy, as

though he slowly starts realizing that I’m taking him home. Like an

unwilling shelter dog, I can understand his hesitation about the

unknown help he’s receiving now, but the thought of him in that little

cage in the back of a bar has my stomach in knots.

He climbs into my beaten-up backup truck, nowhere near the

polished and wonderful truck my sister stole away with her to New

York. It needs a few cranks to start up, and the tires are in horrible

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