Page 55 of Unwritten Rules (Rules 1)

Haze takes a menacing step forward. “I’m sorry. Am I crazy, or did you just question me?”

Ian seems to forget how to properly speak English, his gaze meeting the ground. “No, of course not. I would never. Just making sure we’re on the same page, that’s all.”

Haze tilts his head to the side. “Are you sure? Because that’s not what it sounded like.”

“Let’s forget that this happened,” Ian mumbles.

“Yeah, let’s do that,” Haze spits.

He’s scared of him. No, he’s terrified. How can a twenty-five-year-old be terrified of an eighteen-year-old boy? Kendrick wasn’t kidding when he said Haze is the best fighter of them all.

Realization crashes against me. Kendrick. That’s where I heard Ian’s name. Ian is the leader of the North Side. They’re Haze’s allies. But that means…

Haze risked ruining his alliance for me.

But why?

The four guys give us one last killer look and turn away, gradually disappearing into the night. There are so many ways that this could have gone wrong. So many ways I could’ve gotten hurt. If Haze hadn’t protected me, who knows where I’d be right now? I curse, fighting the urge to slap myself. Why’d you even let yourself get into this situation at all, Winter? Why did you follow him?

“Are you okay?” he looks down at me.

“Why did you bring me here?” The words fall out in a more hateful manner than I intended.

Haze doesn’t budge, apparently unaffected.

“Because I wanted to.”

“Is it to get my trust? To upset Kendrick? Because it’s already done. You got what you wanted.”

He breathes out a sigh. “Why are you being like this?”

“Why are you being like this?” I say right back. “They’re right. You’re my cousin’s enemy. You can’t hate him and spend time with me, Haze. You can’t have both. That’s not how it works.”

His wandering gaze carefully avoids mine. He doesn’t speak. He knows I’m right.

“This bonding thing we have going on, it has to stop. Just drive me home, please.”

The silence that follows makes it clear the conversation is over.

He walks toward his parked motorcycle, an unreadable expression covering his face. I follow not so far behind. One second, he’s this funny, kind, and charming guy, and the next he looks ready to rip someone’s head off with his teeth.

I can’t figure him out, and I hate myself for wanting to unravel him. For wanting to understand the secrets hidden behind his blue eyes.

The ride home is painfully long. He doesn’t speak or make flirty jokes that trap me in a fluster like he usually does. I make it a point to remind myself that this is wrong. That I can’t be friends with him or trust him. Kendrick said it so many times. It’s probably an act, all of it. If it is, if Haze really is playing me, the boy deserves a goddamn Oscar.

When I get off the killing machine he uses as his main way of transportation, I mentally curse in anticipation of the most awkward goodbye in the history of goodbyes. I reach for the helmet and try my best to remove it, already picturing the dramatic scene that’s coming.

But there’s just one slight problem— the helmet refuses to come off, vowing to love me until death do us part.

“Come on,” I mutter under my breath, using all of my strength to get rid of the unwelcomed guest now living on my head.

Haze doesn’t say a word, watching me struggle for a couple of minutes.

Please, not now.

On failed attempt number three, Haze finally reacts—but not the way I want him to.

He starts laughing.