The Rebel of Raleigh High (Raleigh Rebels #1)(79)

He smirks, mouth open a little, the tip of his tongue pressing against his front teeth, and my traitorous knees nearly go out. “Get your ass in here before one of my neighbors steals you,” he says, placing a hand on my hip, pulling me up the last step into the trailer.

I formed a pretty clear picture of what his place was going to be like on the way over here, but, stepping into his home, I learn just how wrong I was. The place doesn't reek of dirty socks, for starters. It smells clean, just like him. The living room I've stepped into isn't a bomb site, cluttered with clothes, empty take out cartons, and dirty dishes. There are no posters of half-naked women draped over motorcycles on the walls, either. A large sectional couch fits along the wall and into the far corner of the room, and on my left, there's a shelf, stacked with row upon row of tatty, worn, well-read books.

The music I heard playing from outside is coming from a record player on a side table underneath the window, underneath which is a staggering amount of vinyl. The television isn't as big as I would have thought. A collection of photos, framed and mounted beside it, take up most of the real estate on the largest wall. I'd prepared myself for a ratty, sticky carpet, riddled with cigarette burns, but there are polished hardwood floorboards beneath my feet instead—and they look like they've been freshly swept and cleaned.

“No need to look so surprised,” Alex whispers into my ear. I didn't even notice that he'd crept up so quietly behind me.

“I’m not surprised. I just, well…okay. All right. I’m surprised. But can you blame me? A guy’s parents go away for the weekend and the place ends up destroyed. You live on your own permanently. I figured your place would be…”

“Disgusting?”

“Yeah. I did. I thought it was gonna be disgusting.” It’s a relief to laugh. It kills the tension that’s been climbing up my spine since I got out of the Nova. Alex spins me around, wrapping his arms around me.

“The kitchen can get turned upside down,” he admits. “But don’t worry. I cleaned out all the dead flies and rat shit in honor of your visit.”

“You are not serious.”

“No. I’m not.” Hesitantly, he leans down and places a gentle kiss against my mouth. “I’m just fucking with you,” he murmurs. “The park doesn’t have rats. And Oscar catches and eats all the flies.”

“Oscar?”

“The cat.”

“You have a cat?”

“No. He’s the cat, not my cat.”

“What’s the difference?”

Alex shrugs. “Sometimes he lives here, with me. Sometimes he lives at one of the other trailers. He's a cat slut, keeping his options open. Come on. I'll show you where everything is.”

The kitchen isn't quite spotless, but it's damn near close. The counters are clean, and there are no dishes in the sink. Small, spiny cactuses sit on the window sill over the sink, and my brain nearly melts. Even a cactus requires some level of attention, and I just can't wrap my head around Alex Moretti caring for something like that.

The bathroom's small, but the grout in the shower isn't black with mold, the mirror isn't streaked with watermarks and flecked with toothpaste, and the actual toilet bowl is glowing white.

Alex pauses, faltering in front of the last remaining unopened door in the trailer. “My room is…uhhh…” He rubs at the back of his neck—the very first sign that he might be suffering from a few nerves himself. “I don't sleep in here much. It's not exactly palatial.” He opens the door and enters, bracing himself like he's stepping into a room full of angry wasps. He hits the lights, and I follow after him.

The room's a decent size. Probably the same size as my room at home. The walls are bare. Dark grey curtains at the windows. A shelf on the wall displays a series of framed pictures, drawings actually, hand sketched in pencil. The same woman features in all of the drawings—dark hair, dark, soulful, wounded-looking eyes, pouting mouth. She looks heartbreakingly beautiful and heartbreakingly sad at the same time. Her resemblance to Alex leaps out of the drawings and grabs me by the shoulders, shaking me, leaving no doubt in my mind that she is his mother.

A large, king bed dominates the room. The duvet cover is plain white, as are the sheets and pillowcases beneath it. “Bought the covers this afternoon,” Alex says awkwardly. “I didn't know what color to get, so I said fuck it and got white. The woman in the store said it'd look clean. Maybe I should have gone with black. Or red.”

“White's good, Alex,” I whisper. Suddenly, the bed feels very big and very intimidating. I've already slept with him. I know what his body feels like against mine. I've had him inside me…but I suddenly find it very hard not to feel shy when confronted with such a large bed. My palms are sweating like crazy. I turn away from it, moving to stand in front of the drawings, studying each one of them closely, trying to calm my racing heart.

“My father drew them. Before I was born,” Alex says behind me.

“Where is he now?” After the harrowing story of his mother’s suicide, I’m almost afraid to ask.

Alex grunts. “Who knows. Prison, probably. He skipped out on us after Ben was born. I hardly remember him. He wasn’t around much in the first place.”

I brush my fingers against the closest drawing, a heavy sadness tugging at me. My dad's always been there, no matter what. I can't imagine what it would have been like to grow up without him. Without knowing that he always had my back. “Not many people can draw like this. He was very talented,” I say.