I exhale. “Here. Go buy whatever you need.”
Harper’s eyes grow wide when she looks at my hand. “Are you serious? That’s like…” She flicks through the notes. “Nine hundred dollars?”
“Yeah. And they don’t bite. Take them.”
She lifts her head. “In exchange for what?”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Oh.” She gulps hard. “I didn’t mean…” Harper glances at my crotch, then smacks herself in the forehead. “This is why I don’t have many friends. Nothing comes out of my mouth the way I mean it to.”
“You’re being too hard on yourself,” I tell her, dropping the money in her lap. “Now get out of the car and give my ears a rest for two minutes. Pay me back when you’re rich and famous.”
“Thank you.” Harper unbuckles her seat belt just as three young men are walking into the store. “I’ll just be a few?-“
“You’re not going out there dressed like that.”
She looks down and her cheeks turn the same color as her bra. “Oh.”
“Yeah…
Oh.”
I’m still staring at her chest when she lifts her head. “You could have said something.”
“I just did,” I reply to her bra.
“Stop looking, creep! Give me your jacket or something.”
I shake my head like a wet dog and reach behind me. Then I realize I have stuff in my suit jacket that will lead to another fifty questions.
“Take this. It’s almost dry.”
I unbutton my shirt and wriggle my arms out before handing it to Harper.
But she’s just sitting there with her mouth open.
Staring.
Her blue eyes are locked on my upper arm, and I can’t resist flexing my bicep.
“Still think I’m an old man?”
“Hmm?” she mutters.
“If you’re done checking me out, I think the store closes in two minutes.”
A flustered Harper snatches my shirt and forces her arms into it. “Wasn’t checking you out.”
“Okay,” I whisper. “When did they release you from the asylum?”
“What?” She follows my gaze down to the front of my shirt and smirks when she realizes she put it on backward.
“New trend. This is how everyone is wearing them now. You wouldn’t know because you’re old.” She awkwardly pulls at the door handle. “Let me out.”
“Can’t,” I say. “Child lock.”
“Fine.” Before I can answer, Harper lunges at me and all I see is a blur of legs and arms as she crawls across my lap.
Great.
Her matching pink panties are visible above the waistline of her jeans. I lift my hands into the air as she grabs the handle and pushes open the door.
A second later, she’s standing in the street beside me, blowing her messy blonde hair away from her lips. She’s still wearing my shirt backward, but I expect nothing less.
She’s stubborn like her mother.
“You want anything?” I ask.
“Yeah,” I say. “Just grab me some smokes.”
I’m trying so hard not to watch her as she walks away, but my eyes fall to her cute ass.
“Fucking control yourself,” I mumble when she disappears inside. “She’s your best friend’s daughter.”
As I reach for the stereo to distract my mind, I hear something buzz, and I turn to find Harper’s phone on her seat.
Her hot pink case is the same color as her bra. And her panties…
Seriously. Get a grip.
I pick up her phone just as another message comes through:
Ticktock, Harper. I’m coming for
?
–
“Who the fuck is Bryan
Dickface Stanfield?” I hiss.
The screen locks out before I can read the full message.
“Bryan Stanfield, huh?”
Resting a hand on my gun, I pull out my phone.
SEVEN
Harper
We’ve been driving in silence for the last five minutes.
I can’t stop thinking about the way Chris Collins looked when he gave me his shirt. Guys in their early forties are supposed to have dad bods, but the guy literally has zero body fat.
He was wearing a skintight tank top, and I was hypnotized by the jet-black scorpion tattoo rolling over his permanently flexed bicep. He had three or four jagged scars too, and I found myself wondering how he got them.
The dog tags swinging off his rearview mirror have his name inscribed, so I know he was a soldier.
But seeing how much he relished putting a gun to the trucker’s head makes me think he could have gotten those injuries after leaving the army.
Seeing him like that was too distracting, so I gave him his shirt back and now I have his damp suit jacket hanging over my shoulders. Three of me could fit inside this thing. It smells nice too. Kind of like sandalwood.
“Probably paid a fortune for expensive cologne,” I mumble.
“Huh?” Chris says, breaking my thoughts.
“Nothing.”
It’s amazing how fast things can change. Less than an hour ago, I was terrified.
All I could think about when that pervert trucker grabbed my wrist was my house. I just wanted to be safe at home. And now, as we pull into my college neighborhood, I just want to keep on driving.
“That’s me there,” I say. “Number eighty.”
“I know,” Chris replies. I look away when he turns to me. “What? Your dad told me.”
“What else has he told you?”
He pulls up at the edge of my driveway and asks, “Who’s Bryan Stanfield?”
Where the hell did that come from?
“Who?”
“Bryan Stanfield,” he repeats. “Who is he?”
I glance at my front door. Not that I’d ever admit it out loud, but sometimes I get so lonely in that house. That’s why I arranged the party and invited people who probably won’t even show up.
“Why are you asking? Did my dad mention him?”
“Who is he?” he repeats.
“Just some guy I used to date. Listen, thanks for the ride and everything you did tonight.” I reach into my jeans and pull out the remaining hundred-dollar bills. “Can’t believe you let me spend four hundred dollars on alcohol.”
Chris shrugs. “Keep it. Just don’t tell your dad.”
“Seriously?” I gasp.
“Yeah. I don’t know many ‘starving art students’ with their own swimming pool, but I’m sure you can use it. Maybe buy yourself some back-to-front shirts for this new trend you randomly invented.”
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.