The Rebel of Raleigh High (Raleigh Rebels #1)(13)

Oh, shit.

He’s turned around. He’s coming back.

I sink back into my seat, sliding down the leather, but then I force myself to sit up straight as he arrives back at the window. “Why don’t you speak Italian?” he demands.

“I’m sorry? I didn’t realize it was mandatory now.”

“Your last name’s Parisi, right? That’s what Cline called you.”

“Yes?” I’m not sure what his point is, but his impossibly deep voice is rough with anger. Why the hell is he so agitated?

“Who? Who in your family is Italian?”

“Can I ask what this is about, please?”

“I’m trying to wrap my head around the fact that you have an Italian family member who didn’t teach a lick of the language.”

“Look, I’m not really interested in this…cultural shaming, or…whatever. I’m just… gonna… go…” I start to wind up the window. The Nova was manufactured in 1969, which means I have to do it by hand. I’m sure I’d look way cooler if I were just able to hit a button and block him out electronically, but I’m stuck with what I’ve got.

It's raining much heavier now. Large, fat droplets of water explode on the windshield, blocking out the looming grey shape of the single-story school building crouched on the other side of the lot. I can see the shape of Alessandro perfectly well as he walks around the front of the car, around the passenger side, opens the door, and…

…and gets in!

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“I don’t ride in the rain,” he rumbles, as though that’s answer enough.

“I can appreciate that. Motorcycles are dangerous at the best of times. What I meant to say was, what do you think you’re doing getting into my car?”

He points at the school. “Better than waiting out the weather inside the cell block.”

“Look, I know you’re new and all, but—”

He pivots, twisting his torso to face me. His damned t-shirt is drenched, a much darker grey across his shoulders and down his chest. There are rivulets of water running down his neck, soaking into the collar of the cotton. God, what does he smell like? A light, fresh scent has flooded the car, like clean laundry and soap. It’s a masculine smell, though, teasing the back of my nose, making me want to lean in…

“It was you, last Friday. In the hall. Watching me,” he states.

“I wasn’t watching you. I just heard voices.”

“And then you stood there, in the shadows, watching me. You heard what a bad boy I’ve been.”

“That you nearly got sent to jail? Yes.” I’m not thinking about my responses before I give them. I’m just saying the first thing that presents itself to me. If I start to analyze what I’m going to say or try and be clever, my words are going to get jammed up in my throat, and I’ll end up stumbling over every vowel and consonant, or worse, I won’t be able to make a sound at all.

Get out of the car. Get out of the car. God damn it, Alessandro Moretti, get out of my car right now.

He looks at me, stares into me, picking over my face as if he’s deciding which parts he likes, which he doesn’t, and how he could improve me. I wrestle myself into stillness. Hardly the quiet stillness of the content and at ease. No, I am a possum, playing dead, in the hopes that the creature stalking me will lose interest and move on.

Alessandro doesn’t go anywhere. He narrows his eyes at me. The rain drives harder against the glass, the downpour suddenly torrential, and the hammering roar of the water drums against the roof over our heads, almost deafening. Distracted by the sound, he looks away, head craned back, eyes unfocused as he listens, and the electric pressure that’s been building inside the car subsides. So fucking strange that such a weight is lifted from me as Alessandro’s attention slips for a second.

The sensation’s a lot like finally reaching the surface of dark, deep water and urgently sucking in a lungful of much-needed oxygen. Or a brilliant light, shining straight into your eyes, blinding you to anything but its brightness, going out, leaving you blinking as you try to adjust to the world around you again.

“This place is a fucking disaster. You can sense it sucking the life out of everyone dumb enough to venture too close to it,” he says absently.

“Welcome to Raleigh High, Alex Moretti,” I whisper back. “Glad to hear you’re settling in.” Since we’re here together, and it doesn’t seem like he’s going anywhere any time soon, I voice the burning question that’s been niggling at me since last Friday. “What did you do to land yourself here, Alex? What was so bad that almost got you sent to prison. Are any of the rumors people are saying about you true?”

He stops listening to the rain. The pressure returns, pressing in on all sides, though he doesn’t turn his head toward me. He faces the windscreen, eyes burning holes into the glass. “I did what had needed to be done. And I don’t know if any of the rumors are true. No one’s said any of them to my face.”

“Yeah. Well…” I shift uncomfortably, leaning my elbow against the car door, chewing on my thumbnail. “Consider yourself lucky.”

“That’s right. A fellow black sheep.” I hear the sharp-edged smile in his voice. “Are any of the rumors about you true, Silver?”