The Rebel of Raleigh High (Raleigh Rebels #1)(78)

“Silver, if you are trying to make your request sound any less crazy, then you are heading in the wroooong direction.”

“Just laying all the cards on the table, Dad. Giving you all the information, no matter how damaging, seems like the smartest option. It’s a radical approach, I’m aware. I’m just hoping you’ll appreciate the honesty and trust that I know what I’m doing.”

He gives me a troubled, torn look, bordering on annoyance. “Fuck, Sil. Can’t you just lie to me like any normal teenager? Ignorance is bliss sometimes.”

This hits me like a ten-ton weight. Ignorance is bliss sometimes. Would he still say that if he knew what Mom's been up to? I have no idea. Am I so candid with him now because I've forced Mom to lie to him and I'm feeling guilty as fuck, though? Absolutely, one hundred percent, yes.

“Seemed like I owed you an honest explanation,” I murmur.

“And if I say no? Are you gonna be plotting some great escape and clambering down the trellis at three in the morning? ’Cause I don’t wanna have to worry about setting up some makeshift perimeter alarm this late in the evening.”

“No, Dad. Jeez. I'm not that limber, and you know it.”

He huffs, giving me a scowl. “This is some kind of karmic kick in the ass because of all the shit me and your mom got up to when we were in high school, isn’t it?”

“I bet you weren’t asking Nona and Gramps for their permission.”

He laughs. “No, I was not, and neither was your mom. We were ninjas, Silver. Ninjas. They never suspected a thing.”

“At least you’ll know exactly where I am,” I say, shrugging weakly. He wants to say no. He really wants to be the strict, firm dad, who wraps his daughter in cotton wool and triple bolts his front door at night, trying to keep the Big Bad World out for as long as he possibly can. Poor guy; he looks like he’s aged ten years in the last ten minutes. I’m honestly surprised when he sighs and throws up his hands.

“All right. All right, you can go.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes! But…Jesus, Silver. You know as well as I do, the picture you just painted of the guy doesn’t look good. If he starts getting handsy, if he starts acting pushy, if he so much as looks at you the wrong way or scares you, you call me immediately and I’ll be down at that trailer park in a heartbeat with a goddamn sledgehammer in my hand.”

He's so serious, he means every word. His eyes have grown distant—I can tell that he’s imagining how that would play out, the drive over to Salton Ash, the weight of the weapon in his hands, how it would feel to swing it up over his head and break the knees of the boy who made me cry.

Little does he know, he’s already nine months too late for any of that.

It was a boy with a clean record, a winning smile and a glorious halo who broke me. Ironically, it’s the boy with the rap sheet, a body full of ink and the dangerous glint in his eye who’s putting me back together.





27





SILVER





I’ve driven by Salton Ash plenty of times, but I’ve never actually taken the exit and entered the trailer park’s grounds before. In seventeen years, this is the first time I’ve ever known anyone to live here, and I’m surprised by how well kept and pretty the grounds are. My nerves feel like they’re going to get the better of me as I drive slowly down the wide, paved road, scanning the numbers on the trailers, searching for the trailer that belongs to Alex. Eventually, I see his motorcycle and know I’ve found the right place.

Unlike some of the other trailers, there are no potted flowers, plastic windmills or little gnomes sitting on the front steps in front of his trailer. The small grass patch to the right of the front door looks like it’s actually been mown, though, and the exterior looks clean and well-maintained, even in the dark.

There are lights on inside. I get out of the Nova, slamming the door behind me before I can heed the anxious voice in the back of my head that’s telling me this is a dumb idea and I should go home. I can barely stand still as I wait at the top of the steps, trying to gather the confidence required to knock on the door. The music inside dips suddenly, though, and I hear movement on the other side of the door.

Alex’s voice—a little muffled, though perfectly audible—is a little teasing when he speaks. “Come on, Argento. You’ve made it this far.”

“You’re seriously going to make me knock?”

“Only polite.”

“Jerk,” I groan. “Open the door.”

The door swings inward, revealing Alex in a pair of black jeans and a plain black t-shirt. His dark hair is swept straight back, highlighting the shaved sides of his head. God, the longer, usually wavy strands are wet. He looks so, so unbelievably sexy. A fresh, clean smell hits me, stronger than ever, and I realize that he must have just gotten out of the shower.

I’m woefully unprepared to deal with this kind of shit. Next level ‘Alex-Moretti-is the-finest-fucking-thing-to-walk-the-face-of-the-earth’ shit. I’ve never been one to succumb to hormones or lose my head over a handsome guy, but with him standing in front of me now, the side of his face bathed in the warm glow coming from inside the trailer, I discover what it means to be rendered speechless by the mere sight of someone.