Page 33

Izzy

"This is a mistake," I whisper to Wednesday in the passenger seat as I roll the window down to type in the code Keelan sent me.

The little black poodle mix stays snoring, curled up in a ball and ignoring me, just like she has the majority of this cross-country trek.

It's been two full days of driving with an overnight rest stop in a questionable town on the border of Texas and New Mexico.

I could've taken Keelan up on his offer to fly first class and have my things picked up. But my brother has helped me enough. And I am a grown-ass woman, dammit. I can figure things out on my own, thank you very much.

Well, everything except my current living situation, apparently.

Great. Now this stupid keypad isn't working.

"You'd think this uppity HOA would at least come with a working keypad."

Just as I'm trying for the third time, a sleek, orange space-shuttle-of-a-vehicle swerves off the main road and stops abruptly behind me. I can feel the idling engine deep in my chest.

The driver must have the patience of an ant because he almost instantly revs the engine when he sees I'm not going anywhere. It sends adrenaline coursing through my veins in a near panic.

"Hold your horses," I yell back and whisper under my breath, "Jackass."

I try the code again with no luck.

The driver behind me grows more impatient and blasts his horn.

I shove my head out the window to get a good look at him. It's a man, of course.

His face is covered by aviators too big for his face, and he's drumming his fingers against the steering wheel in front of him as if I'm wasting his precious time. The indie rock blasting from his speakers sounds just as obnoxious as he looks.

I sign for him to wait and dial Keelan.

"You here?" he asks.

"Yeah, but the stupid code isn't working."

Baby Driver behind me blasts his horn again.

Good lord. Could this guy be any more of a dick?

"Freakin' Houstonites," I mutter. Wednesday finally grows restless and joins me in staring down the guy from her spot on the center console.

"We're called Houstonians," Keelan corrects me.

Is he serious right now?

“Just get me through, Kee."

He laughs through the phone, "Hold on, I'll get someone to help."

"Can't you just buzz me i—" He doesn't let me finish my sentence before hanging up.

I look at my phone, wondering how the hell I'm going to make it through the next few weeks living with my older brother and his rowdy teammates when I can't even get through the front gate of his neighborhood.

I peer at Mr. Douchebag through the rearview mirror.

By the looks of him, his daddy must be some old money oil tycoon, and he's never known a day of hard work in his life.

He rolls his head and revs his engine again.

This causes Wednesday to unleash her " I don't like you" stance, fur standing at it's ends, and she lets out a growl in his direction.

If I'm a whimsical pink fairy, Wednesday is my dark alter ego. And she's about to let him know exactly what she thinks of him.

"Hold on, girl. Keelan's coming for us. I just gotta let this asshole pass."

I call Keelan again, and it goes to voicemail. "Where the hell is he?" I mumble as I look around for any signs of help on the way.

Baby Driver's music behind me is replaced by the sound of somebody on his Bluetooth speaker.

Then suddenly, the gates open, and I feel like Moses when the Red Sea was parted.

Well, maybe that's a bit dramatic.

But I've been driving for two days straight, my dog has to pee, and I'm pretty sure my car was about to call it quits just outside of Austin three hours ago. My brain sure did, anyway.

"Finally," I breathe, taking the car out of park and inching through the opening gate as soon as I can squeeze between the two sides.

According to the GPS, I'm still five minutes from Keelan's house, which means he must live deep in the heart of this Stepford-doppelganger neighborhood.

The street leading into the neighborhood is lined with trees that look like they each have a personal groomer on staff. The houses are on over an acre of land each.

"Wednesday... we're not in Cali anymore."

She huffs in agreement and turns to look out her window at a woman wearing her hair in a high pony, pushing a stroller. The woman is chatting with her friend, who's power-walking beside her. It’s the big husky at her side that Wednesday is focused on.

Poor husky has got to be melting. Though even he's too posh to show it with his nose held up high.

It's late September, and it feels like fall has decided to be fashionably late around here. Even so, everything and everyone is so polished.

Well, everyone but the asshole with the expensive car who is still behind me.

Please turn. Please turn.

He's right on my tail. Ever the obnoxious jerk his car screams that he is, by the third turn, I'm convinced of it.

Why on Earth is he following me?

I decide at this point that he's just an asshole that needs to be taught a lesson. Plus, I don't particularly care if he rear-ends my shitty car. Her best days are behind her. Daddy wouldn’t mind from heaven.

I look over at Wednesday, who can clearly read my mind because she squints and gives a terse nod as if willing me to do it. Okay, I might've just imagined it because what dog actually reads minds, much less responds to thoughts?

But hell, I'm tired. And possibly delirious. So, I slam on the brakes. And either he has the quickest reflexes of any human I've ever met, or his spaceship has braking sensors that stop him right before our cars connect.

He's staring at me through my rearview mirror, completely paralyzed for a moment as if deciding what to do next.

Wednesday and I flip him the bird before we start moving again. Correction, I flip him the bird. Wednesday definitely would if she could. Probably.

God, I need sleep.

Before I can start rolling again, my new friend decides to pull to my left side and races off in front of me, kicking up rocks that end up giving my windshield a nice makeover.

That'll cost some money. Money that I don't have right now.

His dumb music vanishes along with him.

"See? This is exactly why we should've just stayed in Los Angeles," I tell Wednesday for the hundredth time since we left on this road trip. "I thought Texans were supposed to be friendly."

Wednesday settles back into the passenger seat like she's over the drama. But not me. No, now I'm livid. I shake my head and cuss out the cowboy until we pull up to Keelan's white stucco mansion.

The fountain in the middle of the roundabout driveway prominently displays the symbol of my brother’s one true love—a giant hockey puck, and it looks to be on fire.

How my brother was able to get a fountain with both water and a fire feature is beyond me, but I guess there's not much that money can't buy.

I pull into the driveway, and lo and behold, who of all people do I find parked behind Keelan's yellow, state-of-the-art Bronco Raptor?

I grip the steering wheel a little tighter. Of course, my welcome committee is the jerk from the gate who now owes me a new windshield.

Just great. He must be one of Keelan's guys.

I quickly dab on some gloss, fluff up my hair, and push my shoulders back before getting out of the car to confront him. Just as I exit my car, he pushes the door open to his.