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I lift a shoulder. “Nope. Porsches aren’t really my style.”
“You’re a tough girl to please, aren’t you?” He tosses his hat aside and scrubs his hand across his scruffy jawline. “What about a 1969 GTO Judge?”
Weird. Rhyland has that exact car.
“Nah, not really my style either,” I lie, as chillaxed as can be.
“You sure about that?” A taunting challenge dances in his eyes.
What the hell is this dude up to?
“Yep, I’m positive.” I feign indifference, but inside, he’s frazzling me.
And I think that’s exactly what he’s trying to do
His relentless gaze is unwavering. “Huh, because—and correct me if I’m wrong—but I was under the impression that you were in love with Rhyland Porterson’s car.”
My stomach clenches. Who the fuck is this dude? And is he a damn mind reader?
“It’s nice, I guess,” I lie with a nonchalant shrug. “But too shiny for me.”
“Hmmm …” He smiles amusedly. “So you’re not into shiny things, then? Good to know.” He moves toward the stairs, rolling up the sleeves of his black button-down shirt. “I know you’re lying about the GTO. No one who drives a Chevelle and drag races wouldn’t want a GTO.”
“How did you …?” Every muscle in my body winds tight.
“How did I what?” He peers over his shoulder at me with a smug smile. “Know that you like to drag race? Or that you secretly wish you could have my son’s car?”
Son’s car?
Rhyland is his son?
Fuck, then that means that this dude is Mr. Porterson, one of the most corrupt men in Honeyton. And I’ve been riding around in a car with him for the last fifteen minutes completely unaware.
Shock whips through me, but I manage to give an indifferent shrug. “I guess both.”
He eyes me over curiously. “You’re very hard to read. I find it both interesting and unnerving.” He stares me down for a slam of a heartbeat before starting up the stairs. “Come with me. There’s some business I need to discuss with you.”
I lift my hand to flip him the middle finger then take off. But before I get very far, the front door swings open and two muscular dudes with arms bigger than my entire body and a bodybuilder type woman with more muscles than most guys stroll inside. They’re decked out in all black, a Porterson theme and the people that surround them apparently.
Instead of approaching Mr. Porterson, they linger in the entryway, blocking my path to the front door, my guess is on purpose.
“As soon as we have a chat, you can leave,” Mr. Porterson tells me firmly. “I’ll even let my driver take you home and call the school to excuse your absence from first period.”
“I can call the school myself.” I refuse to accept any favors from this guy. “I don’t need anyone’s help.”Especially yours.
His lips tug up into a smirk that reminds me an awful lot of Alex’s. “See, that’s where you’re wrong, Hadley Harlyton.”
I grind my teeth. “Stop using my full name like that.”
He grins. “Like what?”
My lip curls upward. “Like I’m some sort of cartoon character.”
“My apologies.” His smile is genuine, but that doesn’t mean I’m buying into his kind act. “What would you like me to call you?”
I want to say something snarky, like the Queen of Honeyton or the Most Awesome Girl in the World, but then I note the holster strapped to his shoulder and the gun tucked into it.
This is so bad.
