Insert awkwardness on my part. And to make matters even more uncomfortable, he seems to be getting his kicks and giggles off on getting me all squirrely, his grin magnifying every time I shift my weight.
“You know, you look familiar.” He studies me with his head tilted to the side. “Have we met before?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think so. Unless you’ve seen me around the neighborhood … Where did you say you lived again?”
He points over my shoulder. “I just moved into the house behind you.”
“Really? I didn’t know the Perrys moved. Or that their house was even for sale.”
He positions his sunglasses on top of his head. “It was kind of a last-minute decision. I was driving through town on vacation, fell in love with the town, saw the Perrys’ house, and thought, that’s where I want to live. So, I knocked on the door, made them a very generous offer, and now, a week later, here I am.” He spans his hands out to the side and grins, like ta-da.
I force a smile, but holy unicorns, this dude is weird. “That’s cool.” I swallow an anxious breath. Something isn’t right here. “Do you know where the Perrys moved to? Or if they’re coming back? I know my brother talked to them every so often, and I’m sure he’ll want to say goodbye.”
“I’m pretty sure they’re sailing to the Bahamas by now,” he tells me. “At least, that’s what I overheard them talking about when I was signing them a big, fat check.”
Unsure of what else to say, I stand there stupidly. “Oh.”
Like a wolf eyeing a rabbit, a grin carves across his face. “How old are you anyway?”
“Um … seventeen.”
He appears pleased by the answer. “Do you live here?”
“Yeah, with my brothers and sisters.” I press my lips together, wishing I’d lied.
Usually, when I tell someone that, it’s followed by questions of why I don’t live with my parents, which leads to questions about their deaths. And I hate talking about their deaths. Well, unless I’m really pissed off at hot, bad boys who won’t let me into their parties.
But instead of drilling me with questions, Charles bobs his head up and down, looking not the least bit surprised. “That’s nice. Are they here now?”
Holy stranger danger alert.
“Yeah, they are,” I say in a guarded tone. “My older brother is in the kitchen if you want to meet him.”
He raises his hands in front of him. “Sorry if I upset you. I was just curious, that’s all. That’s all.”
What is he, an echo? If I were braver, I’d ask him. But all I do is stand in the doorway, waiting for him to take a hint and leave.
He doesn’t catch on, though—either that, or he doesn’t care—and leans in closer to me. He smells strangely of burnt toast and cologne, not a very pleasant mixture. “So, I was wondering if I could talk to you about someone you might know. Maybe we could go out to dinner or something—”
An engine roars, cutting him off. Then the air goes quiet.
I whip my head up, and then my jaw practically drops.
Parked along the curb in front of my house is a 1968 Chevelle, bright red with black racing stripes. The only reason I know what kind of car it is, is because my dad used to take me to classic car shows. And I know who owns the car because it’s the only one of its kind in all of Honeyton.
Benton.
Sure enough, strolling across my front lawn, looking as casual as can be, is Benton dressed head to toe in black with a hood pulled over his head, in all his bad boy glory, But, wait a second. Why is he here? And how does he know where I live?
“Um … Hey.” I think that might be the tenth time I’ve said um in the last five minutes. But I can’t help it. I’ve entered Confusion Land where creepers and sexy bad boys roam free and apparently migrate to my house.
“Sorry I’m late,” he tells me as he hoists himself over the railing and lands on the porch next to Charles. “The coffee place had a huge line.”
I blink at him like a lost baby deer, but then he shoots me the same look he did in the parking lot when he was talking to Dee and Zen—you know, right before he pretended I was his girlfriend—and I wipe the huh look away.
Benton gives me a wink before turning to Charles. “Hey, man, I don’t think I’ve seen you before. Did you just move here or something?”
Charles’s smile broadens as he measures Benton up. “You’re Benton Benningford. Holy shit, I was right. You’re hiding out here in the middle of nowhere.”
Benton’s eyes widen while my brows dip.
Benton Benningford? Since when is his last name Benningford? And why does that name sound so familiar?
“Fuck,” Benton curses, then snags my hand and pulls me into the house.
Charles lets out a laugh. "You can't hide now. I know where you are, and I'm going to make an assload of money on this—"
Benton slams the door in his face then reclines back against the door and rakes his fingers through his hair. "Shit."
I stare at him, once again lost. “What did that guy mean by all that stuff he said? And why did he call you Benton Benningford?” Again, the name rings with familiarity.
Benton presses his lips together, assessing me. “I can explain, but not out here.” He glances at the stairway then around the foyer before stepping toward me. “Can we talk somewhere privately?”
I nod, but I’m a bit apprehensive. Why all the secrecy. “Yeah…” I trail off as my phone buzzes from inside my pocket with an incoming text from Taylor. “Just a second.” I dig out my phone, read the text about her wondering if I borrowed her jacket.
I sent a reply then put my phone away, turning back to Benton.
He’s observing the family photos hanging on the wall, and I cringe.
Why is he here, in my house, looking at probably the worst photo that was ever taken of me? And who the hell was that Charles guy and why did he act as if Benton was… Well, some sort of celebrity or something?
“I was sick that day,” I feel the need to say as Benton stares at the photo of me. “That’s why I look like a hot mess.”
“Nah, you look cute.” A ghost of a smile touches his lips as he gives me a sidelong glance.
I crinkle my nose. “Cute isn’t necessarily a good thing.”
He twists to face me, looking entirely amused. “Oh yeah? How do you figure?”
I shrug. “Cute’s what you call the nerdy girl who snorts when she laughs and does awkward things like stammer around guys. But she’s sweet and polite and makes people feel good, so they refer to her as cute, like she’s a bunny or something.”
His amusement nearly doubles. “I’m guessing you’ve been called cute a lot.”
“All the time. It’s basically my nickname.”
His smile breaks through. It’d be a good look for him if I didn’t feel like he was secretly laughing at me. “Did you ever consider that maybe people call you cute because you are?”
“But what is cute even?”
“You don’t know the definition?” he teases. “Come on, Zhara; I thought you were super smart.” When I frown, he tugs on a strand of my hair. “In my opinion, cute is another word for someone who’s pretty, like in a girl next-door sort of way.”
“And that’s a good thing?”
He wavers. “That all sort of depends.”
“On what?”
“On if I’m still talking to the Zhara I was talking to the other night, the one who wants to do adventurous things and change. Because I’m thinking that Zhara secretly wants to be called sexy.” When my cheeks flush, he chuckles. “It’s not a bad word.” Then he slips his tongue out to wet his lips. “Sexy, sexy, sexy, seeexxxy.”
My lip twitches in annoyance. “Why are you—”
“Zhara, who was at the door?”
Benton and I jump as Loki walks into the foyer with a cup of coffee in his hand and a perplexed look on his face. He takes one look at Benton, and then his gaze shifts to me, his eyes silently saying, okay, explain.
“Loki, this is Benton. I go—or, well, went—to school with him,” I explain, my nerves raveling in my stomach, more than likely because I’ve never had a guy over at our house. Seriously, how lame am I? “But he wasn’t who was at the door. Our new neighbor was.”
“New neighbor?” A furrow creases at Loki’s brow. “I didn’t realize anyone was selling their house.”
“Yeah, I know. I guess it was some sort of sporadic move or something,” I tell him. “He wanted to live here, so he stopped at the Perrys’ house, knocked on the door, and made them an offer.”
“Really? Out of all the houses in town?” Loki taps his finger against the side of the mug, deliberating something. Then he lifts the mug to his lips to take a sip, his attention zoning in on Benton. “So, you’re a friend of Zhara’s?” he asks after he takes a drink.
I’ll admit, I’m a little—okay, a lot—shocked when Benton nods easily.
“Yeah, we’ve known each other for a while,” he replies without missing a beat.
And that, people, is how you lie.
Well, I guess technically it's not a lie since Benton, and I have known each other for a while. We've just never spoken until a couple of days ago.
Loki discreetly eyes Benton over. I wonder what he thinks of his rough exterior. If he’s judging him.
Five years ago, Loki was a lot like Benton. Well, in the sense that he went to a lot of parties and smoked a lot of weed. That Loki would’ve been fine with me hanging out with Benton. But the buttoned-up, replacement father figure standing in front of me looks a bit apprehensive.
“This is my older brother, Loki,” I tell Benton, trying to break the silence.
Benton nods, an understanding look crossing his expression as he probably puts two and two together that Loki is—or, well, used to be—my guardian.
“It’s nice to meet you, man.” Benton sticks out his hand, shocking both Loki and myself.
Fortunately, Loki recovers from his shock quickly and shakes Benton’s hand. “Likewise.”
When they let go of each other’s hands, Loki looks at me. “You’re still taking Nik to practice, right?”
“Oh, yeah, of course … Benton was just … Um …” My mind blanks as I struggle to conjure up a lie.
“I just stopped by to pick up my jacket,” Benton chimes in like a pro liar. “She borrowed it the other night.”
“The other night?” Loki questions, glancing from Benton to me.
“He gave me a ride home from cheerleading camp,” I manage a decent lie and mentally give myself a pat on the back.
“But, why did you need a jacket at all?” Loki wonders suspiciously. “It’s been at least eighty degrees for the past couple of weeks.”
“I run hotter than most people and have to blast my air conditioner all the time,” Benton explains. “People as tiny as Zhara can’t handle it.” He throws me a grin.
I grin back, but inside, I’m like, holy crap, Benton can lie!
“Yeah, she needs to put some more meat on her bones,” Loki agrees, apparently buying Benton’s bull crap.
I feel sort of bad for lying to him, but not enough to tell him the truth. While I know I’ll be eighteen in just a handful of months, I’m not about to confess to Loki that instead of hanging out at Taylor’s place on Friday night, which is what I told him I was doing, I was locked in the bathroom with Benton and that I lost my shirt.
“Well, okay then.” Loki turns to me. “Make sure to leave by ten so you can stop at the store.”
I nod and give him a thumbs-up. “I’ll leave on the dot.”
He smiles. “Thanks. And make sure to set the alarm before you go.” He backs toward the kitchen. “It was nice meeting you, Benton.” He gives a nod then walks out of the room.
The breath that puffs from my lips is embarrassingly loud. “Oh, my gosh, I’m the worst liar ever.”
Benton wavers, musing over something. “I wouldn’t say the worst liar ever.” A grin breaks through. “You do get pretty squirrely, though. Seriously, I could feel you about to jump out of your skin.”
“I hate lying,” I admit. “I’m not very good at it.”
“You didn’t do too bad.”
“Maybe, but only because I was rolling off what you said.”
“Yeah? So? That could be a good thing.”
My brows dip. “You think it’s a good thing that we lie well together?”
He wavers again, his gaze skimming the room before landing back on me. “Can I talk to you for a second in your room?” I don’t know what sort of face I make, but he amusedly adds, “Or we can talk in the garage. I just need someplace private.” He takes a breath. “It’s so I can explain the whole weird thing that happened with Dee and Zen. And with that asshole that was on your porch.”
“Oh, okay.” I consider the best place to take him and then, even though it makes me nervous, I motion for him to follow me as I head upstairs to my room. “We can just go into my room.”
“Cool.” His boots softly thud against the stairs as he follows me.
My fingers tremble a little as I open the door and step back to let him go in first.
When he walks through the doorway, his eyes roam my pink walls, the frilly pillows on my bed, and the photos taped to my vanity. “You know, this is exactly how I pictured your room,” he muses as he sinks down on the bed.
My heart thunders in my chest. Benton is sitting on my bed, right beside Mr. Sparkles, the stuffed unicorn my dad gave me for my seventh birthday.
“Really?”
He nods, picking up Mr. Sparkles and fiddling with his horn. “Yeah, really.” He looks me over and sinks his teeth into his bottom lip. “You’ve always seemed like a pink and glittery kind of girl.”
I scrunch up my nose. “Sometimes I wish I wasn’t.”
Benton’s stare practically burns a hole through me, but I refuse to lock gazes with him. I feel so silly that he knew my room would be painted pink and splashed with glittery, girly things. It’s probably what everyone expects.
Expects. Expects. Expects.
His gaze strays to my guitar and his lips quirk. “Do you play?”
"A little. It's more of a thing I sometimes do when I'm bored or trying to work through some stuff."
He bobs his head up and down. “Music can be a pretty good outlet.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “Do you play anything?”
For some reason, he looks really amused by the question.
“What’s so amusing?” I wonder, scratching at my wrist.
“It’s nothing.” He stuffs his hands into his pockets. “I’m guessing by now you probably have a lot of questions?” he says, changing the subject.
“Yeah, I do.”
He momentarily chews on his lip, mulling something over, before pushing to his feet. Then he crosses the room toward me, taking slow but calculated steps. His gaze is fused to mine, and he’s still biting his lip.
He looks so sexy. Not cute. Sexy. Dangerously sexy.
Since when do I think dangerous is sexy? I used to disagree with Taylor when she said Benton was hot. When did that change? Or did it ever change? Maybe I was just lying to myself, trying to pretend to be someone I’m not.
He continues to reduce the space between us until only a sliver is left between our bodies.
I have no clue what he’s doing, but I stiffen.
“Relax, Zhara, I don’t bite,” he says with an amused grin.
I mentally roll my eyes at myself. God, I need to chill out. “I know that,” I say in a surprisingly steady voice. “I’m just about confused about what’s going on and why you’re here at my house?”
He blows out a breath, raking his fingers through his hair. “I know I said to meet up at my house tonight so we could talk about it, but I decided it’d be better if we had this conversation before we meet up with everyone else.”
I angle my head to the side in confusion. “Everyone else? Who else are we supposed to meet up with?”
�
��My friends,” he clarifies, then his lips quirk. “You know, the Bad Boy Rebels.”
“Oh.” I’m still a little lost, though. “Why are they going to be there? And prepare me for what? And are you going to tell me who Dee and Zen and Creepy Charles are? Because I’m so lost.”
“I know. And I'm sorry about that." He pauses, contemplating something. "The thing I have to ask you… It's a pretty big favor, and I don’t want you to feel pressured to say yes. And while I like my friends, they have a way of making people feel intimidated, sometimes without meaning to. But eventually, they’re going to have to be a part of this little lie because … well, they’re part of my other life.”
“Um… I’m so confused right now,” I admit.
"I know, and I'm honestly just trying to drag this out for as long as I can because once the truth is out there, I can't take it back." He tugs his hand through his hair again, making the strands go askew. He seems nervous, which helps alleviate my anxiety a tiny bit. But then his gaze welds to mine and, once again, I’m standing on that cliff ledge. “You remember Dee and Zen, right?” he asks cautiously.
I nod. “Yeah, but you never did explain who they are.”
He fiddles with the clasps on one of the leather bands on his wrists. “They sort of work for me.”
“Oh… How?”
He hesitates, studying me intensely. “Well, they’re my manager and publicist.”
My brows dip. “For what?”
He sighs, rubbing his free hand across his forehead. “I guess there’s no easy way to say this other than to just say it.” He looks me straight in the eye. "You remember when I moved here a few years ago? Well, it was because I needed to take a break from my chaotic life, and Honeyton seemed like the perfect place to do that because it's small enough that no one has heard of it. Plus, it's run down enough that no one would expect someone like me to move here."
"Someone like you?" I ask, and he nods, giving no more details. "Who are you? Or should I be asking who is Benton Benningford?”
He smiles at that. “Benton Benningford is my stage name. It’s what I go by when I’m living the performing part of my life.”
“Stage name?” I pause. “Are you an actor or something?”
Discovering Benton Page 7
