Chapter 2 #2
“I’m Greedy,” he says with a cocksure smile.
Greedy. Decker introduced him that way, but…
“That’s not your real name, is it?” I sidestep to inch closer and hold my hand out. “Greedy is an adjective.”
“I could ask you the same thing. Hunter is a common noun.”
He grasps my hand, and for an instant, my world is turned upside down.
I expected the sizzle from Levi.
I was absolutely unprepared for the high-voltage shock that rocks me to my core when I shake hands with Greedy.
I freeze, my cheeks warming as I study the man before me.
He’s lean and lanky, similar in size to Decker, but with a soft, youthful boyishness and a sweet smile.
His eyes are the color of moss-covered wetlands: an earthy tone that isn’t truly green or blue.
Angling in closer, he keeps my hand locked in his. “If you tell me yours, I’ll tell you mine. Hunter’s not your real name either, is it?”
I grin. Joke’s on him. Hunter Annalee Charlotte St. Clair is, in fact, my real name.
“What on earth do you think Hunter could be short for?”
Greedy releases my hand but steps so close I can feel the heat radiating from his body.
“I don’t know. Huntress? Artemis, Goddess of the Hunt?”
Even though we’re no longer touching, his presence is so overwhelming my core hums in response to him.
If Levi’s attention caused butterflies, then Greedy’s feels like the deafening vibration of a thousand cicadas screaming in unison.
“That’s not a bad guess,” I admit. My tone is pure flirtation. I can’t help it.
“Artemis it is,” he replies without missing a beat.
“Decker.”
The new voice breaks the revelry, and all four of us turn and find Kylian Walsh approaching. He’s not a football player, but he’s a mainstay at all the games. He’s also one of Decker’s best friends.
I don’t bother saying hello. Kylian is callous on his best days and rude on his worst.
“Hey, Hunter,” the taller boy trailing behind Kylian calls out. Nicholas Lockewood. His cheeks are red with exertion. His sweat-soaked shirt is draped around his neck, showing off the beginning stages of what looks like a neck tattoo.
His face flushes even deeper crimson when he catches me staring.
Kylian doesn’t spare a glance to anyone but Decker. “It’s time to go,” he says, his tone clipped.
Decker turns to me and lifts a brow. “You’re good?”
“I’m good,” I assure him with a small nod. “See you at the bonfire.”
He raps his knuckles on the roof of my car, then skirts around the bumper to follow his friends.
A charged silence blankets us as Decker walks away. I suddenly feel shy and a bit guarded standing next to my car with this pair of boys I just met.
Starving and in desperate need of a shower, I slip into the driver’s seat and turn the car on. “Uh, it was nice to meet you,” I tell Levi, then Greedy. I roll down the windows to help get the air circulating and buckle up. “See you around!”
Before either of them has a chance to say goodbye, I put the car in drive and navigate out of the parking lot.
I had no intention of stopping on the way home. But my car’s AC is out, and the humidity is relentless tonight.
Having it fixed shouldn’t be an issue. Either of my parents are more than willing to pay for it, if only to one-up each other in the arms race for my affection.
But being without a car—even for an afternoon—makes me twitchy. My dad has been in Europe since last fall. My mom takes off and stays gone for a few days at a time. If she leaves on a whim, I don’t want to be stranded.
With my signal on, I turn into the QuickieMart and pull in to one of the last available parking spots.
It’s a popular meetup place for Lake Chapel and South Chapel students.
They’re open twenty-four hours a day; the lighting is good, so it feels safe; and the owner Marty lets people leave cars in the expansive dirt lot behind the building overnight.
It works out well for him on the weekends especially, when people show up in droves to claim their cars as well as the donuts, breakfast burritos, and coffee he stocks each morning.
The station is teeming with people, as expected. Some I recognize, but a lot I don’t. I’m not really interested in hanging out or socializing tonight. All I want is a big strawberry slushy. And maybe a Mallo Cup. I could go for some chocolate. My period must be coming sooner than I expected.
I stick a pink Lake Chapel cheer cap on my head and grab my wristlet.
As soon as I rise out of the car, someone calls out to me.
“Hunter! Seriously? This has to be a good omen.”
My ponytail swishes as I spin and zero in on the guys standing at a gas pump.
Levi and Greedy.
What are the chances?
“Hey.” I approach the rusty white pickup they’re standing beside cautiously.
Greedy gives me a cocksure smile. “Did you follow us here?”
I pull a face. “Cute,” I deadpan. “I’m pretty sure I left the field before you guys.”
Not just pretty sure. I’m certain of it. I have no idea how they got here before me, unless they took the back roads and went about double the speed limit.
While Greedy is leaning over the hood of the truck with his phone in one hand like he’s scrolling, Levi’s standing next to the gas pump, muttering under his breath as he fiddles with the gas cap.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, tipping my head to one side. I take a couple of steps closer.
The easy-going and carefree vibe I got from both guys at the field is gone. Now, there’s a tension roiling through them. Greedy’s pinched expression screams annoyance. Levi’s rigid jaw makes him look downright agitated.
The truck is in even worse shape than I thought now that I’m inspecting it up close. It’s rusty and at least twenty years old, with worn tires and a dent in the back fender.
“Had a little mix-up,” Greedy offers with the wave of his hand.
Levi bristles and shoots a glare in his friend’s direction. “By ‘mix-up,’ he means he pumped diesel into the gas tank.”
Oh. Shit.
“I’m assuming your truck doesn’t take diesel?” I ask Levi with a grimace.
He releases a pained groan and rubs at the back of his neck. “It’s my dad’s truck.”
As I take a step closer, the worry rolls off him in waves. I want to hug him. Console him. Help him somehow.
“Bro, we’ll figure out how to fix it. He’ll never know. Maybe if we drive it to an auto shop—”
“You can’t start the engine!” I shout.
At the same time, Levi doubles down on his concerns. “I’m so fucking screwed. He’s going to kill me. Literally kill me.” His voice trembles with fear, his light blue eyes frantic when he meets my gaze.
“Hey,” I soothe, rounding the hood—and Greedy—to step closer to Levi.
Swallowing audibly, he regards me, his gorgeous face screwed up in a look of sheer panic.
I reach for his arm on instinct. I’m desperate to make this better. “Don’t stress,” I say. “I’ll help.”
He dips his chin and focuses on my hand where it rests on his forearm.
Then he lets out a heavy breath. “I can’t afford to take this truck into a shop.
” He looks to the vehicle, then back at me, squeezing his hand into a fist and then stretching it out again, causing the tendons in his forearm to flex beneath my touch.
“Leev.”
I startle at the sound of Greedy’s voice so close. He’s behind me, and I can feel the heat of him at my back.
When he speaks again, his breath tickles the little hairs on my neck. “I’m the one who goofed. I’ll pay for it.”
I prop my hands on my hips and tip my head, taking Levi in. Then I turn back to look at Greedy.
“Neither of you knows anything about cars, do you?”
Their blank expressions confirm my suspicions.
“You really are lucky I showed up. If you start the engine, the diesel will make its way into the fuel line and combustion chamber. We’ve got to drain the diesel, rinse the gas tank with regular gas, drain it again, then fill it back up.”
“Holy. Shit. How do you know that?” Greedy chuckles, his brows arched to his hairline like he’s impressed.
Lips pressed together, I consider how I want to respond.
Do I brush it off like it’s common knowledge for an eighteen-year-old cheerleader to know the ins and outs of car maintenance?
Or do I tell these virtual strangers the deeply personal reason I read car manuals and cookbooks and every brochure or flyer my dad came across for years?
One more glimpse of Levi’s still forlorn, desperate expression gives me my answer.
I can trust them. I like them. They need help, and I can be that person right now.
“When I was little, I had a speech impediment.” I hold my breath, waiting for one of them to interject or make a douchey comment.
Neither says a word, their focuses intently set on me.
I sigh, relieved they aren’t, in fact, asshats, and go on. “My mom hated it. She put me in pageants, tried to force me to answer questions and perform on stage, thinking that would help.”
I shudder at the memories. I still have nightmares about scented body glitter roll-ons and downing Pixy Stix for “extra sparkle” before being ushered onto a stage.
“That tracks. I could see you as one of those little pageant princesses,” Greedy quips, one elbow propped up on the hood of the truck and one leg crossed over the other.
I hit him with an unamused glare. “It didn’t work.”
I leave it at that. They don’t need to know that it had the opposite effect, and that I became so fearful of speaking in public I refused to talk at all for half of third grade. This wasn’t supposed to be a personal trauma dump. I have a point to make.
“So once my mom gave up that ridiculous notion and my life no longer revolved around rehearsal and pageants, I spent a lot more time with my dad. He traveled for work during the week, but the weekend was our time. He loved tinkering with old cars, so I’d help.
Or we’d make a complicated dessert from a Julia Child cookbook.
I would read the instructions from the manuals and the recipes aloud, and he’d do the work. ”
My dad was always so patient and encouraging; genuinely warm and empathetic. It’s mind-boggling that he and my mom ever got along at all. Those are some of my very best childhood memories, working on cars and cooking with my dad. And along the way, I picked up a slew of useful skills.
Levi nods, blowing out a long breath. “Okay. Good. This is good.” There’s a levity to him now that wasn’t there before. “You think you can fix this?”
“Think?” I ask with a smirk. “I know I can fix this.” I readjust my hat and pull my ponytail through the back, ready to get down to business. “Come on. We need supplies.”
I lead the boys over to my car, pop the trunk, and grab my cheer bag.
It takes us nearly an hour, but eventually, I manually siphon out the diesel with the resistance bands I use for stretching.
Then I do it again with the regular gasoline we pumped into the tank to rinse out the remaining diesel.
Greedy pays for all the fuel, as well as the containers we buy inside the station to siphon it all into.
As I get started, he offers to hold my phone and wristlet for me, then not so subtly asks if he can put his number in and text him mine. For future car emergencies, he claims.
He buys me an extra-large strawberry slushy when we’re all done, which I slurp down the second we pay at the register.
“Thirsty?” he teases.
I was thirsty when I pulled in an hour ago. Now I’m parched to the point of dry mouth. I’m also desperate to wash away the bad taste in my mouth. I didn’t suck down any fuel while siphoning—thank god—but I can practically taste the stench. I can’t wait to get home and shower.
“Ravenous.” I arch my brows at him playfully and take a long pull on the red plastic straw.
His attention drifts to my mouth, and his eyes darken. Then that playful grin flattens into a scowl. His focus is hard, set, and so heated it feels like a living, breathing energy between us.
Mesmerized, I slowly drag the straw out of my mouth and lick the tip as I release it.
Greedy’s eyes shoot up to meet mine, his mouth slack as he watches me work the straw. I lick my lips, the bright summertime sweetness of strawberries casting away the lingering scent of fuel.
In my periphery, a man enters the QuickieMart, headed straight for us. Greedy shifts closer and shelters my body between his and the rows of candy near the checkout. His body is so close, and yet he inches even closer and grasps my hip with one hand.
He doesn’t shift back after the man passes. Nor does he move his hand.
Why is that so hot?
I peer up at him through my lashes, fighting back a grin.
“Thirsty, Greedy?”
He groans. “You’re killing me here, Artemis.”
I snort. It’s the most unladylike sound imaginable. My mother would be appalled, but I’m so amused, I hardly have it in me to be embarrassed. “That’s a truly awful nickname. Please don’t call me that.”
Chin dipped, he edges a little closer. “What should I call you, then?”
I bite into my bottom lip and tip my head back. I can feel the warmth of his hand through my thin tank top. He holds me with just enough pressure to convey a fondness and obvious interest. “You can just call me Hunter,” I suggest.
One brow cocked, he scoffs. “No way. Levi calls you Hunter. Decker Crusade and his buddies call you Hunter. I’m sure all your friends call you Hunter.”
“And?” I press. We’ve known each other for all of two hours. It’s not like he’s asked me out or made any real effort to get to know me. For him to presume—
“We’re going to be a lot more than friends, you and I.”
He doesn’t give me a chance to refute that claim before he tips his head and takes a step back, headed for the door. “See ya around, Temi.”