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“Nah, you just need more practice.” The truth is I don’t think Jaxon wants to drive and keeps failing his test on purpose.
I think that might have something to do with how our mom died.
It was in a car accident. Jaxon was with her but survived with only a few minor bumps and scrapes. They had been out of town when the accident occurred, while Mom was overseeing some stupid project my dad’s men were on. Why he sent her remains a mystery, since he never involved her in his work. And why she agreed to go when she never helped him with his work before is something that still bothers me.
But the reality is that she went, and she never returned. Somehow, she took a wrong turn and ended up driving straight into an illegal drag race going on in some Podunk town and crashed into one of the racer’s cars. That’s about all I know of the incident, and I only have those details because I overheard what the police told my father the night of her death. To this day, my father refuses to talk about it.
Still, I often wonder what happened to the person she crashed into. Did they survive? Do they feel bad for causing the accident? I’ll probably never find out, but that doesn’t mean I’ll stop wondering.
My mom may not have been perfect, but when it came to parents, she was the best one any of us Porterson brothers ever had.
36
HADLEY
If photos were includedin dictionaries, a photo of Austin would be located right underneathdouchebag. It’d be a selfie he took because, let’s face it, he’s cocky enough that I’m sure he believes only his own photos would be good enough. He’d probably have one of those stupid duck faces going on but would be totally oblivious to the fact. And his shirt would be off because, “ya know, gotta show off the eye candy.”
How do I know he’d say that? Because the second we step into Austin’s spacious condo, he peels off his shirt, grins at me, and says exactly that.
I shield my eyes with my hands. “Please put your shirt back on. My eyes are allergic to curly man hair, and with how much you have, I’m worried I might go into anaphylactic shock.”
“Don’t pretend like you don’t like the view.”
“I can assure you that I don’t.”
“Well, I’m not putting my shirt back on, so either you can stand there stiffly with your hand over your eyes until my dad shows up or sit your ass down for a few minutes and try to relax. If I were you, I’d try to relax, because the moment my dad gets here, shit’s going to get crazy.” I hear feet scuff against the hardwood floor. “I don’t want to freak you out, but my dad’s kind of insane.”
“Must run in the family,” I mumble, lowering my hand from my eyes.
The idiot is still shirtless, his hairy chest on full display, and he’s standing closer to me than he was when I covered my eyes.
I crinkle my nose. “Can’t you wax or something? I mean, I’m sure you can afford it.” I peer around the wide space of his living room decorated with floor-to-floor windows, a fireplace, and leather furniture.
“This is what real men look like.” He cocks his head to the side. “My bet is you haven’t seen a real man, though.” He steps toward me, appearing way too intrigued. “I bet you haven’t even seen a man.”
“If you’re asking that in the literal sense, then you’re as stupid as you look.” On the outside, I’m the freakin’ calm before the storm. But on the inside, the storm has already ripped through and torn a path of destruction. I’m freaking out and having a really complicated time trying to keep that concealed.
“You’re feisty.” He reaches out to graze his thumb along my cheekbone. “I kind of like it, which is odd. Usually, I like my woman cooperative and quiet.”
“As in passed out, I bet.”
He narrows his eyes and pinches my side with his free hand. “I don’t have to drug anyone to get laid.”
It takes a lot of effort not to wince.
“And I don’t have to have a weapon to injure a guy who’s getting too handsy with me.”
“Go ahead.” He pinches my side harder, watching my face intently. “Just know that, whatever you do to me, I’ll return the favor.”
I actually consider it, kicking him between the legs, since I don’t have a set of balls he can smash his foot into. But Bailey and I got into a fight once and the little brat vagina-punched me. It hurt like a bitch, enough to bring tears to my eyes.
“That’s what I thought.” He withdraws his hand from my side then wanders into the kitchen adjacent to the living room. “Do you want something to drink?” he asks as he takes out a bottle of vodka from the fridge. It’s a brand I’ve never seen before, more than likely too expensive for my dad to afford.
I cross my arms and sit down on the back of the sofa. “No thanks. I’d rather not be doped up right now.”
“It’s just one drink,” he says, twisting the cap off.
“One drink with a side of roofie probably.”
