Haze continues. “So yeah, you’re right. I didn’t think it would be that easy.”
He glances at me. I know that look.
“Which is why I have to do this.”
I let out a gasp when Haze sends Kendrick flying with one strong and precise punch. My cousin drops unconscious, collapsing on the couch right behind him. It’s like he calculated it all. Like he knew Kendrick wouldn’t hit the ground.
That’s kind of nice of him.
Winter, stop finding a bright side to every shitty thing this guy does.
As senseless as this may sound, at first, I wonder why he doesn’t do this trick on all his opponents during the fights, but then I come to the simple conclusion that this probably would suck the fun right out of the street fighter experience. You’d assume the whole point is to win the old-fashioned way.
“Why the hell did you do that?” Panic consumes me as I kneel down next to my cousin.
“Oh, relax. He’ll wake up in a little while and still be a self-righteous imbecile.” His eyes wander around the room. “Where are your things? We need to get going.”
It doesn’t take him long to find what he’s looking for. Kendrick brought my luggage in when he was planning a realistic out-the-window escape.
“Wow. You’ve got some nerves. You can’t just casually ask me that after you knocked out my cous—”
He takes a step forward. “Hold that thought.”
Next thing I know, he’s out the front door, but this time, he’s walking out with something he didn’t have walking in: me. He threw me over his shoulder so quickly I couldn’t even put up a fight. With one hand carrying my stuff and the other supporting me, he walks around like I’m weightless. And I know I’m not. I’m pregnant with Chinese food. The boys spent the last month making sure of that.
He enters the elevator leading to the underground parking where I’m sure his car is waiting for us. I can’t help but wonder what he’ll say to the other residents of the building if they use the elevator at the same time and see him carrying me out.
“Don’t worry, you’ll thank me later.” I can picture him grinning as I wiggle around for freedom. I quickly give up. It’s no use. He’s stronger than me, and I only have one leg available.
Then, as the doors slowly close, he hits me with a sentence that brings back a thousand memories.
“I told you I wasn’t done annoying you yet, Kingston.”
5
Friends?
I wake up with a start, the honking of a car pulling me out of a dreamless sleep, and open my eyes halfway as the smell of leather and car freshener fills up my nostrils. I blink repeatedly and wait for my eyes to adjust to a light I did not anticipate. The first thing I see is a blue blanket covering me. We’re on the highway, and the sun is rising in the distance.
That’s when it comes back to me.
Haze showed up at the penthouse yesterday.
And knocked Kendrick out.
And sort of kidnapped me.
And I’m sort of pissed at him for all of the above.
I turn my head and see him driving. He’s been behind the wheel all night. This can only mean one thing: he’s taking me a lot farther away from Florida than I thought.
I refused to say a word to him from the moment he put me into the passenger seat of his ridiculously expensive car. He tried. He really did. But I have nothing to say to his player ass.
After keeping quiet for several hours, I ended up falling asleep. I have no idea where the blanket came from. Haze must’ve had it in his trunk and put it on me.
There he goes again doing the nicest thing ever to confuse me about the not so nice things he did before that.
“Good morning, sunshine,” he says, the sunrays illuminating the left side of his face giving him a freaking halo. Because he doesn’t already look like an angel enough as it is.
I ignore him and rub my eyes.
“Still not talking to me?”
I look out the window, resting my chin in the palm of my hand.
“Can I at least know why?”
I turn the volume to the radio up until the music is loud enough to cover up the awkward “I’m mad at you because you slept with Bianca” silence. Haze turns it down right away.
“You’re welcome for the blanket, by the way.”
No reply.
“You’ve got a little drool right there.” He points to the corner of his mouth.
My eyes widen and I quickly wipe away the drool from my mouth only to find out that it doesn’t exist.
“I do not!”
“I know, but you talked to me.” He grins.
“Idiot.” I mutter to myself.
“Seriously, what’s wrong? I thought you’d be happy to see me.”
“And why would you think that?” I huff.
“Man, I don’t know. Maybe because of what you said to Kendrick yesterday. You said and I quote, ‘You can’t stop me from seeing him.’ Now, I may not be an expert on female emotions and all, but that doesn’t sound like hate, does it?” he mocks.
“No, you know what? You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to make jokes after you just basically kidnapped me and punched my cousin in the face. Leave me alone.”
“So that’s what this is about.”
“Yes, it is,” I half lie. “Why did you do that?”
“Must I constantly repeat myself? I had two choices. A, take you away; B, respect the deal and leave you to die with your moronic cousin. I’d rather see you alive, thank you very much.”
A bit ironic that it took him a month to start worrying about my safety. I smell excuses.
“You don’t know that I was in any danger with the East side.”
“Yes, I do. They just lost a member to another gang. Word spreads. Everybody knows there was a traitor. They’re considered weak at the moment. Plus, like I said, it took me fifteen minutes to find you. You weren’t safe there.”
“What? And I’ll be safe with you?” I give him a challenging look.
“Of course, we’ll always be safe.” He smirks.
Why do I feel like he’s talking about something else?
I ignore his innuendo and go back to watching the passing trees through the window.
“Fine. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have hit him. Is that better?”
I sigh.
“Oh, come on, what do you want from me, woman? I had no choice. I did it for your protection.”
I scoff. “Ha, for my protection. Speaking of, I sure hope you used some with Bianca last month.”
His jaw drops.
Crap. Did I say that out loud?
The last thing I expected is what he does next. He takes the upcoming exit, gets us off the highway, and pulls over on the side of the road next to a gas station that’s beyond sketchy. He turns to me and stares until I have no choice but to face him. I can’t believe I said that. It just slipped.
“Who the hell told you that?” He asks.
“You mean, who told me the truth?”
He scratches his neck. “Winter, I…”
“Look, Haze. Don’t waste your breath. It’s okay. I get it. You really don’t owe me an explanation. You’re free to do what you want. It’s not like we’re together.”
I see a hint of annoyance glimmer in his stare, and panic stirs up in my chest. Why’d I have to say that we’re not together? I’m not saying that I don’t want us to be. I want us to be. But the question is, does he want us to be? Because sleeping with Bianca right after I leave town doesn’t exactly give me clear “let’s be a couple” vibes.
What do I say? What do I say? What do I say?
“I mean, we’re just friends.” I stumble on the words.
“Right…” He pauses, his jaw clenched. “Just friends.”
And just like that… I regret ever learning to speak.
He clears his throat, making it his life purpose to ignore my eyes locked on him, and stares into the emptiness.
“Good. At least, we
’re clear on that.”
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
Did I just say the F word?
Yep. I definitely did.
I just said the F word. I, Winter Kingston, just friend-zoned the guy I want to make out with until I can’t breathe. Is there some kind of award for most likely to die alone? Or for the world’s best at sending hot guys the wrong signals?
Why are you so worried? You shouldn’t even want him. He slept with Bianca right after you left town, remember?
Like he’s reading my mind, he speaks again.
“And, for the record, I didn’t sleep with her. Hell, I couldn’t even kiss her for two seconds.”
“So… you did kiss her?” I ask even though I fear the answer.
He doesn’t reply right away, easing himself deeper into the driver’s seat like he’s trying to disappear. “Yeah.”
My heart aches. I try to cover my wince. At least he’s honest.
“Well, was it any good?” I feign carelessness.
Please, don’t answer that.
He glances at me in silence. Then, his gaze travels downward to my lips for an everlasting moment that sends shivers down my spine.
“I’ve had better.”
Is he talking about what I think he’s talking about?
Without a word, he leaves my thoughts to spiral out of control and fires up the car to get us back on the highway. I spend the next fifteen minutes reprimanding myself for letting the word friend out of my mouth. We can’t be just friends. Not after everything that happened. Not after he almost stripped me down in that motel room the day before the fight. He seemed to agree with my word vomit. He didn’t fight it. Does he actually want to be buddies? Did I ruin my chances?
We ride in heavy silence for about half an hour until he says, “We’re almost there.”
“Almost where?” I watch the approaching exit.
When he takes it, I dare believe that maybe, just maybe, wherever we’re going… it’s somewhere where we won’t be “just friends.”
He turns to look at me and smiles. “Home.”
6
The Lake House
“No way. This is your place?” I shamelessly gawk at the wood-built house that overlooks the most breathtaking lake I’ve ever seen.
“Kind of. It belongs to my parents, but they haven’t used it in years,” Haze says, taking a slow turn and pulling up to the long asphalt driveway.
I admire the tall trees circling the impressive property and the sunrays peeking through the waving leaves. Haze parks the car and the engine dies down in a rumble.
“Don’t worry, it’s prettier inside.”
I fight the urge to punch him on behalf of all middle-class people everywhere. If he thinks this is ugly, he needs to see the one-bedroom dumpster I used to live in with my mom.
I can tell from the way he bites back a grin that he doesn’t mean it and he’s just trying to get a reaction out of me. I know Haze is rich. Allow me to revise: I know his parents are rich. But this is on a whole other level.
“Hold on,” he says, getting out of the car.
I watch him walk around the vehicle and open the trunk. He gets our luggage and my crutches out, drops them onto the porch, and comes back to open my door.
In a week, I’ll be able to walk on my own again. Until then, this guy who’s just a “friend” is going to have to give me a hand. He’s the one who showed up and claimed he wanted to protect me. Well, now he’s going to have to play nurse whether he likes it or not.
When he helps me out of the car, tightly wraps one arm around my waist so that I can find my balance, and pulls me closer, I swear the eighteen years I spent breathing properly vanish and I have to learn all over again.
Standing on one foot, I have no choice but to press my body to his. I instinctively look up and regret it when our eyes connect. Again, I think I see his gaze drop to my lips for one fleeting second, but I’m way too focused on trying not to kiss him myself to be sure. I’m brought back to reality when he clears his throat and looks away.
Note to self: Haze Adams and close proximity means dysfunctional brain.
“Is that all you brought?” I say, eager to break the silence and tension between us, and point to the tiny black bag he left on the porch.
“Yes. I used to come here all the time. I’m sure I left some clothes in my old bedroom.”
“And how long ago was that?”
“Like two years.” He shrugs, helping me to the front door where my crutches are waiting. “Let’s hope they still fit.”
“And if they don’t?”
He grins. “Well, I guess you’ll have to tolerate me walking around naked.”
Cue the scarlet cheeks.
I’m thankful that he doesn’t notice the flushed expression on my face when he unlocks the door with a number combination and pushes it open.
A loud creak indicates how long it’s been since the last time someone was here. I step inside and a cold breeze scampers down my spine, every hair on my body standing up.
The inside is just as beautiful as I expected, although the ceiling-high windows covered by thick curtains dim the sun and soak us in darkness. Two large gray couches are symmetrically placed in the center of the living room, and a large TV hangs above a marble fireplace. I glimpse to the kitchen on my right. The wooden decor is a recurring theme all throughout the first floor. This house would probably feel cozy if it wasn’t freezing and gloomy.
Shivering, I run a hand up and down my arm.
“Yeah, sorry, it’s cold. No one’s been here in a while,” he says, noticing my slow but very real transformation into a Popsicle.
He proceeds to draw all the curtains and let the sun invade the main areas of the house. The direct view of the calm water through the uncovered windows knocks the breath out of me. Many luxurious houses surround the lake. The sign I saw earlier read “Colton Gate. Population: 9,564.” This is basically a small town for rich people.
I didn’t ask Haze about it, but I’m pretty sure this place means something to him. Could it be his hometown?
“I have to go turn the heater on. I’ll give you a tour when I get back. Make yourself comfortable,” he says and disappears down the hall.
With the help of my crutches, aka my new best friends, I begin making my way to the couch but stop in my tracks when I notice three framed pictures above the fireplace.
I hop toward them. The first one is empty, and I’m immediately under the impression that someone took out whatever picture was in there in a hurry without bothering to replace it or put the frame away. I wouldn’t expect such carelessness in a house like this.
Maybe Haze’s parents did it the last time they were here. I wonder if they knew they wouldn’t be coming back when they walked through the door that day.
The second picture is a family portrait. I know something’s off the second I capture it in my hands to get a closer look.
On the picture is Haze, Tanner, a man with hard features, and a brown-haired woman showing off what looks like expensive jewelry. That would be Mrs. And Mr. Adams. Sad to think this is probably the closest thing I’ll ever have to meeting Haze’s parents.
At first sight, everything about this picture screams “typical family.” But when you look carefully, the photograph looks like it’s been cut off on the side. It’s barely visible, but the slightly uneven paper gives it away.
Something tells me whoever was in the empty frame is the same person who was removed from this portrait.
Haze looks so young, innocent… carefree. I’d put him at twelve years old tops. Obviously, he looked just as adorable then as he does now. Not that I’m surprised. Of course he would be the “you’re going to be hot when you grow up” kid.
As for me, I was some other type of kid. I was the “don’t worry, there’s hope for everybody” kid.
What rubs me the wrong way is the third and last picture. It’s a portrait of Haze. Al
one. He looks older. I’d say around fourteen or fifteen years old.
He’s still so young, but something in his eyes is different, darker. No sign of that boyish smile from the first picture. As sad as it is, the only word that comes to my mind when I analyze his perfect features is “broken.”
He’s broken.
Now that I think about it, I still see this exact same look in his eyes to this day. Something happened between these two pictures, no doubt. But what?
I hear distant footsteps and jump. My instinct tells me to get away from the pictures, which I do as best as I can, before he turns the corner.
By the time he walks back into the room, I’m sitting on the couch and pretending that my crappy phone is somewhat interesting. He starts to say something but quickly cuts himself off when his gaze lands on the pictures I was looking at barely ten seconds ago. His face twitches in irritation. He just noticed them. If he’d known about them sooner, they wouldn’t have been there for me to see, I’m sure of it. He’ll probably just snatch them and put them away when I’m not looking.
“Ready for that tour?” He turns to me.
“Seventy-five rooms later,” I say in a ridiculous narrator voice that draws a small laugh from him.
“You think this is big? You should see the one we have in Arizona.”
“Brag much?”
He smiles and holds out his hand to get me up from the couch. “Always, Kingston. Always.”
The tour goes by a lot quicker than I anticipated. When we reach the second floor, I’m astonished by the numerous closed doors surrounding me. Haze said that the house has nine bathrooms. Nine.
What the hell did the Adamses do with nine bathrooms?
“Where’s my room?” I ask.
He opens the door on his right. A bedroom. My eyes scan over the large room that’s obviously a boy’s. Probably his.
“You mean our room.”
My lips part.
“Oh, come on. You didn’t really think I’d let you sleep alone, did you? I mean… my house, my rules.”
The look on my face must be priceless because he starts laughing seconds later.
Unspoken Rules Page 4
