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“No,” she cuts in. “I don’t have money for a car… which is where you come in.”
Eyes narrowed, I mumble, “I’m so fucking lost.” And I wish she’d get to the point because the longer we stand here, the more anxious I get. And the more anxious I get, the more frustrated I am, because I don’t get anxious.
Unless I’m around her.
Harlow huffs out a breath, her jaw set tight, right before she states, “Fake fuck me.”
I almost choke on my response. “What?”
“Fake fuck me,” she repeats, as if I didn’t hear her the first time.
I heard her just fine. Still, my response remains the same. “What?”
“You don’t have to do anything. Just tell them we had sex in the back of your creepy van?—”
“My van is not creepy.”
“—and give me the money. You get bragging rights, and I get a new car.”
I sigh. “I’m a year away from playing college ball with a D1 school. Two years away from playing packed arenas as a pro.” I’m not being cocky. Just stating facts. “I don’tneedbragging rights.”
“Fine,” she says, and I can tell she’s getting heated. “I’ll split it with you. 80/20.”
“I get 80?”
She scoffs. “I’m the one getting railed in the back of your van. I think I deserve the majority. 70/30?”
I shake my head, done with her games. “I have a job, therefore, I have money. And all that aside, what part of you thinks I’d be down to cheat?”
“Cheat?” she repeats. “Oh, how morally noble of you.” She rolls her eyes, and I like her.
I admit it.
But I hate that I like her.
Eighteen years I’ve lived in this town, ten of them practically alone, and I’ve liked it that way. I like knowing there’s nothing to look back on and no one to look back to. The second that diploma’s in my hand, I’m out, and I’m never looking back.
“Okay,” she says, hands up between us. Her eyes shift, as if moving from one thought to the next. Then, suddenly, her gaze snaps to mine, her vision clear as day. “I got it,” she says, and I crack the faintest of smiles. Nothing she says will convince me to agree to her shenanigans. “I’ll let you use my half-court.” Unless it’s that. Before I can even open my mouth to retort, she continues, “My mom—she works nights at the moment. She leaves at around five-thirty every night, four nights a week. Sometimes more. Whenever she’s not home, you can come and use it. I won’t bother you. I swear. Just as long as you leave nothing behind, because my mom…” She shakes her head, clearing that thought. “And my dad, he’s gone so much he won’t even?—”
“Does that mean you’ll give me my ball back?” I interrupt.
Her face flushes red in an instant, and she looks away, caught in a lie. “I told you, I don’t have your ball.”
I should call her out on it, but what would I say?
I saw you the night you moved in, sneaking out of your house to look for the ball. It didn’t take you long to find it. You held it under your arm and walked back into the house and straight to your new bedroom—my old one. You went to the closet, if my childhood memories serve me correctly. It was lucky you left when you did. Had you been two minutes later, you would’ve seen your mom making out with your uncle, right before they went into his RV for the night.
I heave out a sigh, try to look her in the eyes, and, once again, I fail. “Can I think about it?”
8
Harlow
Jonah is an idiot. But the funny, goofy kind of idiot who makes for the perfect distraction. I’ve worked four shifts over the span of a week, and every one of those shifts has been with Jace and Jonah.
Jonah’s my age, with a stocky build, short blond hair, and eyes that hide nothing. In other words—he’s the complete opposite of Jace. He works in the kitchen while I’m on the floor/parking lot serving food and cleaning up, and Jace…
Jace remains behind the counter, continuing to ignore my presence while simultaneously glaring at me whenever Jonah makes me laugh. Which is often. Jace treats me at work the same way he treats me at school, and it’s almost comical—because as stoic as Jace is almost twenty-four-seven, it seems to be the simple sound of my laughter that brings any form of emotion out of him.