Filthy Foreign Exchange(33)

I’m knee deep in the conspiracy now, so I might as well own it. I hop out and meet him at the front of the truck.

“All right. First, what tools do you have?” he asks, fiddling with the padlock on the gate.

“Oh, you mean besides the lock-picking set I don’t have in my glove compartment? Hmm…nothing!” I throw my arms out to my sides. “We’re screwed.”

“How easily you give up. Must be residual from your arse-kicking tonight.” He grins, poking me in the belly. “Do you know how to remove a tire?”

I nod adamantly. “Yes. And I do have the tool for that.”

“I knew that’d be your answer.” He beams, with…pride? “Do it—fast. But try not to get dirty. I said I had you wait in the vehicle. I’ll be right back with a spare. I’ll say your tire rolled down a hill into the lake.”

“Kingston…” I squirm, gnawing on the inside of my cheek. “I don’t like lying to my parents.”

“I know, and you won’t.” His hand brushes across my cheek, his eyes latched onto mine. “I will.”

He runs off, and I yell at his back, “But how are you gonna get a—”

Oh my God. My jaw drops open, and I can feel my eyes widening.

“Oh my God, what the hell are you doing?” I watch in horror as he scales the fence like a cat burglar. “Kingston! Junkyards usually have dogs—mean, growly, bitey dogs!”

“Maybe we hold off on our screaming so as not to alert them, then, eh?” he whispers loudly as he drops to the ground. “Echo, move your beautiful arse and get the tire off. Please.”

~~~~~

Somehow, we manage it. Kingston actually steals a tire off a junkyard truck, slaps that bad boy on, and rolls mine down into a ditch to retrieve tomorrow.

And the light grease stains on his hands only help prove our case to my parents when we get home, my dad waiting on the porch. I don’t have to speak a word; Kingston does all the talking, just as he promised he would.

“Well, I’m just glad you were with her when it happened. Thank you, Kingston.” My father claps him on the shoulder. “I’ll see about getting her a new tire tomorrow.”

“No, Dad, please. My truck, my responsibility. I’ll pay for it.” There’s no way I’ll remain silent and let my father waste his money on our farce—especially since the perfectly fine tire is sitting in a ditch, waiting for us to pick up.

“Actually, John,” Kingston says, looking directly into my father’s eyes, “I let the tire roll down the hill—in a hurry, but still careless. I’ll buy Echo a new tire. I insist.”

My dad makes his thinking-it-over humming noise in the back of his throat, scratches his chin, then finally decides.

“That sounds about right. Way to take responsibility, Kingston. I’m proud of you. Now, you two head to bed. I’m glad you’re both all right.”

“Yes, sir,” I mumble, ashamed. “Night, Mom.”

I can’t even look at her, and the deeper concerns plaguing my stomach are undeniable. Kingston Hawthorne is a very bad influence, and the gravity of what that entails is smacking me dead in the face. If he can lie that easily to my parents, he could do it to anyone—including me.

I watch the floor the entire walk to my room, and quietly shut my door. I manage to change into pajamas without crying, guilt and heavy thoughts weighing down every movement.

I’m about to head in to brush my teeth when a knock sounds from the other side of the bathroom door.

“Echo,” he whispers, “can I come in?”

“Just step back and I’ll open it. I need in there anyway.”

I pause for him to move away, then enter. I don’t look at him, or in the mirror.

“Echo,” he says, low and solemn, before stepping close. I can feel his front, a breath from my back. “You didn’t lie—not one time. I did. So stop carrying any burden, which I know is what you’re doing right now. I don’t want you to think me a liar. But Echo, I did it for you. I simply couldn’t let our night end with you in trouble. I wouldn’t have it tarnished.”

I say nothing, mulling over his words as I give my teeth a thorough cleaning. I’m glad the concern eating at me seems to have crossed his mind, too, considering he’s telling me he doesn’t exactly feel blasé about lying.

After I rinse, I finally look at him…and I don’t see a liar. I see a beautiful man, inside and out, who showed me the best night I’ve ever had before promptly falling on his sword to spare me. I see a tried-and-true friend who has my back.

“Thank you.” I wrap my arms around his waist and hug him tightly, my cheek pressing against his bare chest. It’s warm to the touch, and smells deliciously of pure male and hard work. It’s hypnotizing, but I’m not surprised by that anymore. “I owe you one.”

“Actually,” he replies, rubbing my back and allowing his lips to rest upon my hair, “you owe me two.”

I lean back, craning my neck to see his face. “Two?”

“Dances,” he clarifies with a wink. “You owe me two. One for the bet you lost—”

“And one for covering for me,” I realize, finishing the sentence for him. “You’re right. I mean…it’s only fair. Two it is.”