Misfits Like Us (Like Us #11)(106)

Still, I’m confused why I’m just now hearing about this. “No one told me—”

“Because I wanted you to come here,” Lo cuts me off. “I wanted to talk, too.” His voice cuts like a knife, and I feel him on the offensive. “You said you can run, Paul. What size shoe are you?”

Turns out, we’re the same size. He also lets me borrow a pair of his running shorts. Fits me better than some of the clothes I own.

It’s been a warm fall season, and the morning isn’t cold enough to see breath, but I’m wondering if he’s hoping I’ll freeze my balls off. I’m honestly wondering a lot of things.

Like where we’re going.

I’m in the passenger seat of Lo’s red Bugatti. He’s driving.

He called off his bodyguard and said, “I have security with me.” He meant me. I keep my radio and gun on me, since I’m unofficially his bodyguard at the current moment. Paparazzi isn’t following us too badly. Lo maneuvers well enough, and four red lights separate us from the tail.

It’s not a relaxing car ride. He’s on edge. I’m tensed.

It’d probably be more comfortable to kiss a mouse trap—which, yes, I’ve done on a dare. Would not recommend.

I’m thinking he’s taking us to a gym. Or maybe a nearby college. Where we’ll run around a track.

He drives further out of Philly and then some minutes later, he slows into a parking lot and turns off the car. We’re at Neshaminy State Park. That’s what the sign says.

I’ve never been here, though.

When Lo stretches his quads near the Bugatti, I loosely swing my arms and assess the situation. No one seems to be out this early. We’re the only car parked. I can’t tell if the area is densely wooded, but if he came here to murder me, why would he give me his shorts and shoes that fit.

I’d think he’d miss his clothes.

“You want to race or what?” I ask him.

He straightens up, the clenching of his jaw noticeable. “Just run with me, Paul.”

I really should talk to him about my cousin, but some instinct in me says, wait. Patience. And so when Lo begins jogging on the paved trail, I follow. He has good form since he’s been running since his early twenties. My running stride isn’t too bad either.

Lo seems surprised I’m not flip-flopping out here like some eel. More surprised, even, when I overtake him.

He catches up pretty easily and keeps my pace—which is whatever you call between a jog and a sprint. Blood pumps through my heart and veins, and the ground changes between firm cement and softer dirt. The weaving, tree-lined path grows denser and more wooded, and some dark green leaves are changing into reds and oranges.

We’ve been running side-by-side, but midway down this dirt path, Lo slows with his hands threaded against the back of his neck. He’s breathing harder, but I’m not sure it’s from the run or his churning thoughts.

I rest my hands on my sides, my chest rising and falling. We’re alone on a park trail, and the only thing I hear is his breath, my breath, and rustling of squirrels in the trees.

“You know that saying,” Lo says slowly, still intaking breath, “I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“Yeah,” I nod with an imprisoned breath. “I’ve heard that one.”

“Well, I wasn’t born yesterday,” Lo says, heat in his eyes and something else I can’t detect. His hands drop to his sides. “I’m not some na?ve parent who thinks my kids aren’t trying drugs or drinking alcohol or screwing whoever they want to screw, so I’m going to ask you a very important question, Paul. And don’t lie to me.” He stares me down again. “Did you hook up with my daughter in the attic last night?”

My stomach knots. He didn’t get much of a word in at the party, so I can’t be that surprised he’s asking this. I start shaking my head, and with a shallow breath, I say, “No.”

He glares, his face twisting in more confusion and more hot frustration. “Why are you lying?”

My pulse is racing faster than when we were running. “It’s not a lie—”

“It’s not the goddamn truth,” Lo sneers.

This rubs me wrong. “If you think you know the truth, man, then why even ask me?”

“To see if you’d lie to me!” Lo shouts, his frustration grating against mine. “Do you know how hard it is to trust you? Do you?” He steps forward. “I literally am trying here. I’m giving you a perfect opportunity not to be a lying bastard—and you’re not taking it.”

“We didn’t hook up in the attic!” I shout, scaring the birds. I eye them as they flap out of the treetops. Sorry, birds. “And I don’t know what you know, but whoever told you we did that—they’re lying to you.”

“No one told me,” Lo studies me for half a beat, like maybe he does believe me. Maybe he is trying. “You said that my problem has been me. Fine. Spoken. Could be somewhat true. I get in my head. I’m paranoid. I can be my biggest nightmare. But all I want is to make sure that my kids are safe and happy, and maybe I’m not the father I’d hoped I’d be some days. Maybe other days, I’m still trying to be better. Because they deserve that. But do you know what your problem is?”

I breathe harder.