“So…” I try and think of a different topic. “Why don’t you live with your parents?”
“They’re annoying, that’s all.” Sharp. Blunt. He is not in the mood to discuss his life. As always.
I stiffen up, a bit taken aback.
He gives me his version of an apology. “It’s just… I don’t like talking about them.”
“Just like you don’t want to talk about this school. Got it,” I mutter more to myself than to him.
The truth catches up to me. There will never be a way for me to know him better. Haze Adams obviously isn’t the leader of the West Side and an unbeatable fighter for his honesty and social skills.
This is wrong. Me spending time with him, him taking me to his “secret” spot. This is all so wrong.
“You want to get to know me? Let’s play ten questions.”
I sigh. He’s trying in his own way, I guess.
“You first.”
He pauses, waiting for the right words to come to him. “Favorite color?”
“Red. Yours?”
“Black.”
I smother a chuckle. This is the most predictable answer he could’ve possibly given. He is almost always wearing black.
“Biggest fear?” he asks.
“Serious life-changing one or dumb one?”
“Both.” He raises his eyebrows. “Start with the dumb one.”
“That’s easy. Clowns.”
I am not surprised when he howls with laughter.
“Shut up, it’s not funny.”
“It’s a little funny considering that you’re hanging out with criminals and the only thing that crosses your mind is your fear of clowns.”
He’s not wrong.
“It sounds way worse when you put it like that.”
His smile only grows wider. “And the serious one?”
“It’s a very deep and complicated road you’re taking, Mr. Adams.”
He doesn’t speak at first, looking deeply into my eyes.
“Maybe I like complicated.”
His eyes drop to my lips for a little too long, and my heart decides now is the perfect time to pretend it’s a drum in my rib cage. I flush and break the eye contact, repressing the many conflicted emotions running in my veins. What was that?
“I think I’m afraid of regrets,” I mumble.
He doesn’t say a word, waiting for a backstory of some sort, until he finally blurts. “Oh come on, no explanation?”
I sigh, the shadow of a smile tugging at my lips.
“I’m talking about the ‘down the road’ regrets. You know, the ‘I failed at life’ regrets,” I confide. “I’m scared of that moment when you wake up in bed with your boring husband that you haven’t had sex with in months and curse because you have to go to that job you hate that you only got to pay your bills. I’m afraid of the moment you look around and realize you fucked up. The moment you realize that you settled for something you knew wouldn’t make you happy because it seemed like the right thing to do. Or maybe you settled for this guy you knew wasn’t the love of your life, but he was here, emotionally available, and he was stable. So you stayed. I’m afraid of not trying everything I want and choosing a routine over an adventure. I’m afraid, no—I’m terrified of surviving instead of living and doing all the right things for the wrong reasons.”
I finish my speech and narrow my eyes, realizing that I basically just told Haze her story—my mother’s. My biggest fear is to end up like her. Angry, unsatisfied, bitter, knocked up at sixteen by the neighborhood’s trashy boy and kicked out to the curb by her own parents. She was a single mother for years before she found a “great guy” to marry. Deep down, I know she’ll never look at my step-father the way she looked at my biological one. Harry was convenient, stable, and he loved her. She said yes, but her heart screamed no. That’s probably why she’s always been so cold to me. To everyone.
Because she did all the right things for the wrong reasons.
Haze presses his lips together, the silence surrounding us as thick as it could ever be.
“That was deep.”
“I warned you.” I crack a smile. “What about you—what’s your biggest fear?”
“That’s going to be a tough speech to follow.” He lowers his head, getting a clear shot of his feet hanging above the emptiness. “It’s probably to end up alone.”
“Do tell.” I rest my chin in the palm of my hand, giving him my undivided attention.
“There’s not much to say really. My family is the living proof that it’s not worth having material things if you don’t have what matters. Nobody’s standing up at your funeral to say that you had a big house and an expensive car.”
To say his words don’t resonate deep within my core would be a lie. He’s right. Having things will not make your life complete. Friends and family will. Under all the attitude, cocky comments, and jaw-dropping smiles, there’s a guy with decent values and fears like everybody else.
Something tells me it’s been a while since he had a chance to show it.
“And the other one?”
“I don’t have another one.”
“Come on. I don’t care if it’s silly.”
He sighs, a small smile covering his face.
“Fine, but you have to promise not to laugh.”
“I won’t, I promise.” I put my hands up.
He takes a breath. “I’m afraid of spiders.”
All of my good intentions vanish as quickly as they appeared when the words escape his lips, and I break into uncontrollable laughter. I cover my mouth with my hand.
“You can’t be serious?” I say, laughing so hard I can’t breathe.
“Shut up. I wouldn’t say afraid—it’s more of a hate thing. I swear I can kill it, but if somebody else can do it, I’m not going anywhere near that thing even if you pay me.”
“So you’re not afraid of illegal street fights that put your life in immediate danger, but you have a problem with a tiny innocent spider?”
“You’re no better with your fear of clowns, Kingston.” He says, a hint of a smile on his lips.
A silence that’s oddly reassuring follows. We don’t speak for a good minute, but it doesn’t feel uncomfortable. My mind isn’t racing, and I’m not desperately looking for something to say. It’s like we know that we don’t have to. That we don’t need to.
“What happened here?” I look down the building that’s obviously been the victim of time. “Doesn’t make sense. Why would you spend that much money on rebuilding a school that you’re going to close anyway?”
“That’s the thing. They never intended to close it.”
I frown.
“They thought they could carry on until multiple lawsuits from the parents who’d lost their kids were dropped on them. Something about the school not supervising their students enough and letting the kid light the cigarette that accidentally killed his classmates. Not to mention the lost lives didn’t exactly owe them the best enrollment record. They closed it, blocked every entrance, and it’s just been rotting there ever since.”
“How old were you when it closed?”
“Sixteen.” He shrugs. “Then I got into Riverside High.”
I nod, understanding that this is as many questions as he’ll accept to answer on this topic. I’m relieved when the conversation drifts to lighter subjects. We discuss so many things, such as favorite animal or favorite meal, slowly learning more about each other.
I can’t lie. Haze Adams is far from an open book. It’s hard to know him. Or at least, on a deeper level. It’s like he’s terrified of letting someone, anyone, close to him.
I can’t imagine how lonely that must be.
It almost makes you wonder if anyone even knows him at all.
When I realize that night has set upon the city, I glance down at my phone and gasp.
We’ve been talking for three hours.
“Oh my God,�
� I say. “It’s 8:30 already? We have to go.”
“Why? You have a date or something?” he teases.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
The truth is Kass is coming home at nine. If she sees I’m not home then, she’ll know I was out, and if she finds out who I was out with, she’ll never let me hear the end of it.
We get up and head back down the creepy ladder. When my feet hit the ground, I let out a breath of relief and look up, thanking the Lord. Haze makes fun of me for being a chicken, and I don’t hesitate to bring up his fear slash hate of spiders.
I glance at the wooden ladder one last time, surprised that it hasn’t collapsed yet.
I look back at him, and my smile fades when I notice the frown plastered on his face. He seems to be on the lookout, staring straight ahead of him at something in the distance.
The cemetery on the other side of the street.
That’s when I see them.
The silhouettes.
There’s four of them. They’re tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in black from head to toe. Every nerve in my body is telling me that something might be wrong. When they start walking toward us, I don’t just think something is wrong—I know it. Haze’s actions confirm my thoughts when he turns around abruptly, and I find myself locked in his penetrating gaze.
“Keep your head down, and don’t say a word. If I tell you to run, you run and you don’t look back. Do you understand me?” His eyes are dark. Severe.
Fear consumes me as I glance up at him.
“Winter, do you understand? I need you to say it.”
I nod. “I understand.”
He steps in front of me, blocking the view I have of them. His tall and broad physique operates as a human shield between the four strangers and me. He’s suddenly a completely different person from who he was barely a couple of minutes ago. He clenches his jaw and his fists, ready to fight.
When they stop a couple of steps away from us, I keep my head down, ignoring the weight of their hostile gazes on my shoulders. Darkness has set upon the neighborhood, which makes it hard for me to see their faces clearly.
“Haze.” The taller one speaks. He seems to be around twenty-five and the leader of the four, somehow radiating power and violence.
“Ian,” Haze says.
I frown. I think I’ve heard that name before. But where?
“What are you doing around here?” he asks, trying to look over Haze’s shoulder.
“Remembering.”
“I see you’re with a friend.” Ian smiles.
And when I say smile, I mean a “I want no trouble with you, but I would kill you in a heartbeat if I had to” smile.
“Congratulations, you have eyes.”
“Isn’t that the East Side girl?” Ian glares at me.
“That’s really none of your business, is it?” Cold is the word to describe his tone.
“Considering our…” Ian pauses, searching for the right words to say. “Situation, I think it is.” The tension keeps on growing by the second.
Haze takes a menacing step forward. “I’m sorry. Am I crazy, or did you just question me?”
Ian seems to forget how to properly speak English, his gaze meeting the ground. “No, of course not. I would never. Just making sure we’re on the same page, that’s all.”
Haze tilts his head to the side. “Are you sure? Because that’s not what it sounded like.”
“Let’s forget that this happened,” Ian mumbles.
“Yeah, let’s do that,” Haze spits.
He’s scared of him. No, he’s terrified. How can a twenty-five-year-old be terrified of an eighteen-year-old boy? Kendrick wasn’t kidding when he said Haze is the best fighter of them all.
Realization crashes against me. Kendrick. That’s where I heard Ian’s name. Ian is the leader of the North Side. They’re Haze’s allies. But that means…
Haze risked ruining his alliance for me.
But why?
The four guys give us one last killer look and turn away, gradually disappearing into the night. There are so many ways that this could have gone wrong. So many ways I could’ve gotten hurt. If Haze hadn’t protected me, who knows where I’d be right now? I curse, fighting the urge to slap myself. Why’d you even let yourself get into this situation at all, Winter? Why did you follow him?
“Are you okay?” he looks down at me.
“Why did you bring me here?” The words fall out in a more hateful manner than I intended.
Haze doesn’t budge, apparently unaffected.
“Because I wanted to.”
“Is it to get my trust? To upset Kendrick? Because it’s already done. You got what you wanted.”
He breathes out a sigh. “Why are you being like this?”
“Why are you being like this?” I say right back. “They’re right. You’re my cousin’s enemy. You can’t hate him and spend time with me, Haze. You can’t have both. That’s not how it works.”
His wandering gaze carefully avoids mine. He doesn’t speak. He knows I’m right.
“This bonding thing we have going on, it has to stop. Just drive me home, please.”
The silence that follows makes it clear the conversation is over.
He walks toward his parked motorcycle, an unreadable expression covering his face. I follow not so far behind. One second, he’s this funny, kind, and charming guy, and the next he looks ready to rip someone’s head off with his teeth.
I can’t figure him out, and I hate myself for wanting to unravel him. For wanting to understand the secrets hidden behind his blue eyes.
The ride home is painfully long. He doesn’t speak or make flirty jokes that trap me in a fluster like he usually does. I make it a point to remind myself that this is wrong. That I can’t be friends with him or trust him. Kendrick said it so many times. It’s probably an act, all of it. If it is, if Haze really is playing me, the boy deserves a goddamn Oscar.
When I get off the killing machine he uses as his main way of transportation, I mentally curse in anticipation of the most awkward goodbye in the history of goodbyes. I reach for the helmet and try my best to remove it, already picturing the dramatic scene that’s coming.
But there’s just one slight problem— the helmet refuses to come off, vowing to love me until death do us part.
“Come on,” I mutter under my breath, using all of my strength to get rid of the unwelcomed guest now living on my head.
Haze doesn’t say a word, watching me struggle for a couple of minutes.
Please, not now.
On failed attempt number three, Haze finally reacts—but not the way I want him to.
He starts laughing.
“Seriously?” He kills the ignition and gets off his bike. “Stop moving. You’ll rip your head off.”
Feeling my cheeks heat up from the sudden burst of embarrassment, I do as I’m told. He steps closer in an attempt to set me free. He tries once. Then once becomes twice. Still, the helmet doesn’t budge.
He presses his lips together, hardly suppressing the mocking smirk remolding his lips.
“Haze, just get it off.”
“I’m trying, I swear. When did you grow such a big head, Kingston?”
I roll my eyes, ignoring his comment. When the helmet wins round number five, Haze has no choice but to admit defeat.
“We need soap. Or water. Anything to make it slippery.”
I squirm. “What? Tell me you’re kidding.”
“Would you rather go to the hospital?” I can hear the amusement in his voice.
Horrifying images of me walking into the emergency room with a helmet stuck on my head wash over me. I don’t think my ego can take that today. Or ever.
I’m assuming that the sight of me with a helmet stuck on my head is enough to destroy any trace of attraction Haze might’ve ever felt toward me, if it ever existed at all.
I glance at the empty driveway and
hesitate.
“I don’t exactly have a choice, do I?”
Haze and I walk side by the side, making our way toward the entrance.
He snickers. “Looks like the Universe doesn’t want the bonding to be over just yet.”
In that moment, I look up to the sky and all I can think is, Really, life, really?
“STOP MOVING FOR GOD’S SAKE,” HAZE complains for the billionth time.
“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one with this thing stuck on your head,” I say. “Which, by the way, isn’t exactly weightless.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, princess. I shouldn’t have given you a helmet. It’s not like it can save your life or anything.”
It’s been like this for the past fifteen minutes. The bonding session quickly turned into a sarcasm battle. He’s been doing everything he possibly can to remove the helmet from my head, rubbing soap and water all over my neck. I’d probably be affected by the physical contact if this heavy-ass helmet wasn’t weighing down on me and giving me a headache.
“We might have to go to the hospital,” he says. “I mean, you can’t exactly keep it on your head forever, can you?”
I find myself laughing at that. Yes, laughing. At this point, I’d much rather laugh about it than cry. This whole situation is the definition of ridiculous, and although right now it sucks, I’m sure I’ll laugh about it one day.
“They could make a documentary about me.”
He clears his throat. “Helmet girl. When Winter was eighteen years old, her head got stuck in a motorcycle helmet. People were never able to get it off. She’s been living without makeup and hasn’t brushed her teeth ever since.”
I laugh harder at his narrator voice.
“Winter?”
My heart crawls up my throat when a familiar voice interrupts us. I turn around and see Kassidy through the tinted glass of the helmet. Standing in the doorway to the bathroom, she is looking at us with an expression that’s worth a million dollars. I completely forgot that she was coming home at nine.
“This isn’t what it looks like,” I say instinctively.
Haze smothers a laugh. “Tell me, what exactly does this look like?”
I look up at the broad-shouldered guy next to me. His hands are covered in soap, while I’m wearing a motorcycle helmet. I have no idea what scenario popped up in her mind, but I’m pretty sure that whatever she thinks she saw, she’s wrong.
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