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“Because,” he says, looping his fingers through his belt loop.
Getting a bad-cop-I’m-about-to-do-something-really-sketchy-and-abuse-my-authority vibe, I peer around the area to see how many witnesses are around. A couple of people are wandering around the parking lot just to my right and enough people are driving down the road that if he took me somewhere, he’d definitely be seen. The real question, though, is how many people in Honeyton would do something about it? From everything Blaise has told me, my bet is not a whole hell of a lot.
“Relax, I’m not going to hurt you,” he says. “I’m an officer of the law here in Honeyton.”
“Like that makes me feel any better,” I grumble as I shove open the door and climb out.
He signals for me to follow him as he hikes back to his vehicle. I begrudgingly obey, trying to remain positive and focus on the fact that he didn’t cuff me. But when we near the back end of his vehicle and a sleek, black car with tinted windows pulls up, my fear spikes.
Is that the car that was parked in my driveway this morning?
I slam to a halt, my boots scuffing in the gravel, and start to turn to run.
“Relax,” officer Mklinney says, sticking his arm out in front of me. “Mr. Porterson would just like a word with you.”
Mr. Porterson, as in Blaise’s father?
I eyeball the car. “About what?”
“Just about some stuff,” Officer Mklinney replies vaguely, putting on his sunglasses. “Look, you really don’t have a choice. Either you can get in the car or I can haul you down to the station and you can talk to him there.”
“Just talk, my ass,” I mutter as the back door to the car is opened.
No one steps out, which is both creepy and ominous. Maybe I should try to run. But my father attempted to do that once when he was being arrested and his ass got tased.
Opening and flexing my hands, I summon up every ounce of my courage and march up to the vehicle like I’m a badass girl who doesn’t take shit from anyone. Because it’s either that or act like the scared little girl I feel like inside. The one who wishes she’d broke down at the house and blacked out for a couple of hours because it’s got to be the better alternative than what’s about to happen to me.
31
HADLEY
If I could go backin time, there’s a lot of things that I’d change. The biggest being, of course, telling my mom not to race that day. Another would be to deal with my father a hell of a lot sooner before things got so out of hand that I’m forced to sit in the backseat of a car with very tinted windows and suspicious smells like rusty nails and salt. The really creepy part is no one is in here but the driver, an older dude with dark hair wearing a chauffeur hat, with a scruffy jawline, and sporting a suit. He hasn’t uttered a damn word to me. And honestly, I’m a really freaked out, not just about the situation but because who the hell opened the back door of the car right before I climbed in?
“Tell me where you’re taking me,” I demand for the fifteenth time as he drives me farther away from my car and toward who the hell knows where.
When he remains silent, my temper boils. I scoot to the edge of the seat and extend my hand for the door handle, fully planning on jumping out of a moving vehicle. But the door is locked. I try to unlock it manually but to no avail.
I glare at the driver. “Dude, did you put the child safety lock on?”
His lips quirk, as if he’s on the verge of laughing at me. “Just relax. We’re almost there.”
“Oh, so you can speak.” I slump back in the leather seat and cross my arms. “For a minute there, I thought maybe you were mute or didn’t speak English. Well, either that or you were stupid and didn’t know how to speak.”
His lips twitch again.
Well, at least the mobster’s driver thinks I’m amusing.
But is Blaise’s dad even a mobster? Sure, he’s corrupt, but the termmobsterhasn’t been thrown out from anyone and wasn’t mentioned in any of the dirt I dug up on him. Calling him one seems a bit over the top. I mean, a mobster of Honeyton, population next to nothing.
Then again, with everything I’ve seen and read…
My thoughts trail off as the driver turns onto a winding, paved driveway that stretches up a shallow hill and toward a three-story mansion with columns and a six-car garage.
“Holy shit! Who the hell lives here?” I mutter, my eyes wide as I take in probably one of the biggest houses I’ve ever laid eyes on.
“This is Mr. Porterson’s house,” the driver replies with a small smile.
“This is Blaise’s dad’s house?” I question with skepticism.
