Page 2 of Because I Liked A Boy (Because I Liked A Boy Trilogy #1)

Where No One Knows Me

One Month Later

The train exhales like it’s glad to be rid of me.

I step down onto the platform with one suitcase, a battered backpack, and a month of running heavy on my shoulders. The air here is warmer, sharp with dust and engine oil, nothing like London’s glass-and-smoke choke hold.

One month since the crash.

One month since Nathan’s hand slipped out of mine.

One month since my father decided I was nothing.

I didn’t leave straight after the funeral. I told myself I was staying for Penelope, that maybe I could protect her. But the night it broke proved I couldn’t even protect myself.

She came for dinner, nervous in her pale dress, fingers twisting in her lap. She looked so out of place at our table, where Nathan used to sit. Sofia sat beside her, stiff and silent, like she already knew she was about to be erased.

My father didn’t acknowledge Nathan’s absence. He didn’t toast to family. He didn’t even say his name. He just poured himself a drink and studied Penelope like she was property he’d just acquired.

“Polite posture,” he murmured, tilting his head at her. “Quiet. Teachable. She’s everything you’ll never be, Isabella.”

“She’s a child,” I snapped.

His gaze slid to me, slow and deliberate, like a blade being drawn. “So were you. And you grew into nothing but a liability.”

The slap came without warning. My cheek burned, vision blurring as the room went still.

“You should have died with Nathan,” he whispered, venomous, his mouth so close I could taste the scotch on his breath.

Something inside me cracked. I shoved my chair back so hard the legs screeched across the marble. “Maybe the board should know what kind of man you really are. Maybe the press would love to hear what you do behind closed doors.”

That was when his hand clamped around my wrist, twisting until pain shot up my arm.

“You think they’d listen to you?” he hissed. “You’re reckless. Weak. A disgrace. You’re nothing without my name, and soon you won’t even have that.”

He shoved me back. My chair toppled, slamming into the floor.

“Enough,” he barked. His mask had cracked, and it was worse than his calm. “Get her out of my sight. Let her pack, and then I never want her in this house again.”

The men in suits moved instantly, shadows turned executioners.

Upstairs, I stuffed my life into a single suitcase. My hands shook so badly I could barely zip it. My chest ached, my cheek throbbed, my father’s words carved into me like brands.

“Belle.”

Penelope’s voice cracked from the hallway. She crept in barefoot, notebook pressed to her chest like a shield. And then she broke, rushing forward, clutching my arm.

“Don’t go,” she begged, sobs spilling. “Please don’t leave me here with him. You promised we’d stick together. You promised you wouldn’t leave me.”

Her desperation gutted me. She clung so tightly I could feel her nails through my sleeve.

I wanted to stay. God, I wanted to stay. But there was nothing left in me but fear and survival.

I pried her fingers off one by one. My throat scraped with every word I didn’t say. I couldn’t promise her anything anymore.

Her cries followed me down the stairs, echoing off the marble as the men flanked me, making sure I kept moving.

The last thing I saw before the doors slammed shut was my father, calm again, pouring himself another drink.

Now here I am. Maplewood. A place too small for headlines, too quiet for whispers. A dot on the map. The end of the train line.

My suitcase rattles across the cracked platform as I head for the exit. My phone buzzes once in my pocket. Unknown Number. I don’t need to check to know who it could be. I hit decline without slowing.

The town waits just beyond the station doors. Neon signs hum above diners and pawn shops, streets stitched together by power lines and stubborn wildflowers forcing their way through the pavement. Everything feels sun-worn and watchful, like it’s testing whether I belong.

I’ve got enough cash to last a little while, scraped together from what Nathan left me, hidden before my father could get his claws into it. Enough for a motel, maybe rent if I’m careful. But Maplewood isn’t London. Without wheels, I’m trapped.

Public transport here is little more than a once-a-day bus and a train that dead-ends at the platform I just stepped off. If I’m going to stay hidden, I need freedom. A car. Something that runs, cheap enough to buy outright, forgettable enough that no one looks twice.

That’s how I end up following the cracked side walk two blocks over, heat pressing down until the smell of motor oil hits me.

The garage sits on the corner like it’s been here forever. Faded brick. Corrugated shutters rolled up to reveal rows of steel and shadow. Cars are scattered across the lot, some gleaming with fresh polish, others stripped down to rust and bone.

I grip the strap of my bag tighter. It’s just a transaction. Get a car. Keep moving. Keep breathing.

But even before I step inside, something in me knows this place isn’t just where I’ll buy freedom. It’s where I’ll meet the kind of trouble I won’t be able to outrun.

The air inside the garage is thick with gasoline and heat, the clatter of tools echoing off the walls. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, catching on chrome fenders lined up like soldiers.

I hover just inside the doorway, scanning rows of cars that look way out of my budget. Sleek sedans. A red Mustang gleaming under the lights. Engines stripped down to bare bones.

“You lost, Princess?”

The voice comes from behind me, low and teasing.

I turn, and there he is.

Tall. Broad in the shoulders, lean everywhere else.

Grease-smeared overalls rolled at the sleeves, tattoos curling down his forearms, disappearing under the collar.

Dark hair falls across his forehead in messy waves, damp with sweat.

There’s a streak of oil across one cheek, and those green eyes—sharp, alive with mischief, like they’ve already seen too much.

He wipes his hands on a rag and leans against the counter like he owns the place. No, like he owns the whole damn town. The smirk curving his mouth is practised, dangerous, the kind of grin that gets girls into trouble and makes them thank him for it.

“Don’t call me that,” I snap.

His smirk deepens. “Touchy.”

“I’m not lost. I’m here to buy a car. So if you don’t mind, can I speak to the manager?”

“You’re looking at him.”

I blink. “You?”

“Hunter Hayes,” he says, offering a hand I don’t take. “Owner. Mechanic. Best in town.” His grin sharpens. “And the guy who’s about to get you exactly what you need.”

“Arrogant much?”

“Confident,” he corrects. “There’s a difference.”

I fold my arms. “Fine. Prove it.”

He gestures toward the line of cars, swagger in every step. I trail after him, pulse betraying me.

He stops at the Mustang, paint so polished it could blind. “This one’s fast. Corners sharp. Not for the faint of heart.” His gaze lingers on me, deliberate. “And faint of heart isn’t your problem, is it?”

Something twists low in my stomach, but I force my voice flat. “And what exactly is my problem?”

His grin tilts wicked. He steps closer, close enough that the heat from him creeps into my space. “You like control. You want power, but you’d rather no one sees you holding it. Which means…” He nods toward a black sedan, understated and sleek. “This one. Solid. Quiet. Predictable.”

“Predictable?” I raise a brow, refusing to step back.

“Calculated,” he murmurs, bracing a palm flat against the hood, his body leaning into the space between us. The tattoos on his arms flex with the movement. “Careful. Always holding something back.” His eyes drag over me, sharp and knowing. “But you’d get bored of safe.”

For one charged second, neither of us moves. My chest tightens, my pulse jumping, and I hate that he can probably hear it.

I lift my chin, matching his stare. “Congratulations. You’re officially the most arrogant mechanic I’ve ever met.”

“Mechanic, owner,” he says with a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “But sure. I’ll take arrogant too.”

“Good. Because that’s all you’re getting.”

“Keep telling yourself that, Princess.” His voice dips lower, smooth and taunting. “We’ll see how long it lasts.”

The air between us hums, thick with something I refuse to name. I roll my eyes, breaking the moment first.

But when he circles back to the sedan, his expression shifts. Less smug. More curious.

“So,” he asks, leaning against the hood, “what brings you to Maplewood?”

“Cars.”

“Cute.” His gaze lingers too long, too sharp. “But I meant you. You don’t look like the type to blow into town with a suitcase and no plan.”

“I’m exactly that type.”

“No.” His voice is easy, confident. “Too polished. Too sharp around the edges. People don’t get edges like that unless they’ve been through something.”

The words land heavier than I want them to. My throat tightens. I look away, pretending to study the sedan. “I’ll take this one.”

His grin softens, almost genuine. “Thought so.”

He tosses me the keys, the weight solid in my palm. Then he jerks his chin toward the office. “We’ll need to sort paperwork. Deposit, insurance. The boring stuff.”

My chest tightens. “And if I don’t have time for paperwork right now?”

Hunter’s smirk returns, sharp and amused. He leans closer, voice low. “Then you’ll owe me a signature later. Consider it… incentive.”

“You’re just letting me drive off?”

“Sure am.” His eyes lock on mine, steady, unflinching. “Call it professional trust.” A beat. “Or maybe I just like the idea of you owing me.”

The keys bite into my palm. I hate that a flicker of heat curls through me at the way he says it.

That’s when—

“Hunter!”

The voice slices through the garage, sharp and bright.

Heels snap against concrete, and a blonde totters in like she owns the place. Skirt barely covering anything, hair curled within an inch of its life, lips glossy pink.

She spots me instantly, smirk curling at the edges of her mouth. Then her eyes slide to him, narrowing just slightly.

“Seriously? You didn’t call me back after last night.” Her gaze flicks down my suitcase, then back to him with a mock pout. “Guess I should’ve known you’d move on fast. You always do.”

Hunter’s smirk stays, but his jaw ticks once—the smallest crack in his armour. “Millie, now’s not really a good time.”

She ignores him, stepping closer, all perfume and sharp laughter. “Don’t tell me you promised this one a ride too? You never change, Hunter. Always collecting girls like trophies.”

The words hang heavy in the air. He doesn’t deny it. He doesn’t say anything at all.

And that’s enough.

I let out a bitter laugh. “Of course.”

His brows lift. “Of course what?”

“That I was right.” My chin tilts up, sharp as glass. “You’re just another fuckboy.”

The word hits. His smirk falters—barely, but I catch it.

“Princess—” he starts.

“Don’t.” I grip the suitcase handle, the keys heavy in my fist. “I’m not interested in being another one of your late-night forgettables.”

Millie laughs, syrupy sweet and cruel.

I don’t look back. Not at her. Not at him.

But as I step into the Maplewood heat, the smell of motor oil and the echo of his low chuckle cling to me like smoke.

Hunter Hayes. Trouble wrapped in a smirk. Attractive in a way I wish I hadn’t noticed.

And God help me—something tells me this isn’t the last time I’ll see him.