“Move!” he ordered, sending chills down my spine.
I did as he said. The man quickly hopped into the moving vehicle, did some magic trick moves with the keys, and brought the car to a halt.
“Oh my gosh,” I said, my breaths heavy. “What did you do?”
“Put the damn car in park and turned off the ignition. It’s not brain surgery,” he said with such distaste on his tongue. He opened the driver’s side door and stepped out. “I’ll push you to the curb.”
“But…” I started, uncertain of what to do. “Do you need help?”
“If I did, I would’ve mentioned it,” he grumbled, obviously annoyed.
Well then.
The car began to move, and I kept glancing back, watching him push the four-thousand-pound vehicle. He looked as dark and broody as one could with his black crew neck T-shirt, dark black jeans, and black Chucks. A baseball cap hid his hair, but the ends curled under the edges. His brows were knit tightly, and his face was so stone cold I was certain he didn’t have a clue what it meant to smile. His biceps sat on biceps as he pushed with all his might, taking me to the side of the road. The moment I made it there, I hopped out.
I knew who he was—the whole town did—though, we’d never really interacted. He was Jackson Emery, the bad seed of Chester. Rumor had it he’d started the fires in the park during summer of 2013, and he had been the cause of more than a handful of divorces. He was known to sleep with his fair share of Chester women; there was no secret about that.
Jackson Emery wore his trouble on his sleeve like it was his full-time job.
“Thank you for that. You didn’t have to help me,” I told him, giving him a smile.
He didn’t make eye contact at all, just grumbled. “Didn’t look like you were gonna help yourself. Maybe you shouldn’t drive a shit car. It’s obviously a death trap,” he replied dryly.
No smile.
No smirk.
No sarcastic, funny undertones.
“I beg your pardon?” I asked, somewhat shocked by his words.
His facial expression remained unwelcoming, and his top lip twitched. Removing his hat from his head, he held it against his black shirt while one hand raked through his hair. With a lingering sound of detestation in his voice, he said, “You could’ve killed someone, driving like an idiot like that.”
“I didn’t know it would break down,” I told him, feeling knots in my stomach.
When his cold stare finally met mine, chills ran down my spine. His eyes were so intense, so dark they almost seemed hollow. At first, his gaze appeared confused by my entire existence, and then he looked intrigued, as if he recognized me from a dream within a dream. I knew it wasn’t the time to be deciphering the facial expressions of Jackson Emery, but in all honesty, I couldn’t help it. I’d encountered with many individuals throughout my lifetime, but I’d never seen one so hauntingly dark. His confusing look bewildered me. His intriguing look gave me anxiety.
“You’re one of those Harris people?” he asked. It was weird being called a Harris after so many years of being a Braun.
By the way he said my last name as if I were covered in Ebola, he obviously wasn’t my family’s biggest fan, so I wasn’t certain how to reply.
“Yes.”
He grimaced. “Didn’t know I was dealing with one of Chester’s royalty. I guess I shouldn’t be shocked by your stupidity then.”
“That’s not very nice,” I said softly.
“Yeah, well, I’m not a very nice guy.”
“I know you, too,” I said, nodding his way. “You’re Mike Emery’s kid, Jackson.”
He had to be at least five years younger than I was, but with the wrinkles around his frown and his five-o’clock shadow, he appeared older.
“Trust me, sweetheart, just because you know my name doesn’t mean you know me.” He swiped his hand beneath his nose. “You don’t know anything about me.”
I’d never been called sweetheart in such a demeaning tone.
“You don’t know anything about me either, but it seems you have your own judgments on my family.”
“With good reason.”
“And what reason is that?”
He blinked, and once again, the cold, isolated stare returned. He placed his cap back on his head before he parted his lips again. “Your car’s a piece of shit. You could’ve really hurt someone today.”
“I didn’t know.”
“There’s no way a car in this bad of shape didn’t give you any signs.”
Well…he wasn’t wrong about that.
As he spoke, intense annoyance painted his words. “You knew it was pretty bad off. You made a choice, and it was stupid,” he replied. “Don’t worry, though, I’m sure your daddy will buy you a new one soon enough.”
The nerve of this guy. He sure did live up to the fables I’d heard about him.
“I bought this car on my own,” I said, somewhat annoyed. It had been the first grown-up purchase I’d ever made in my life, and she’d been through the good and bad days with me. My pink Rosie. It was one of the only things I could claim I’d done on my own, other than my teaching degree, though, even with that, my parents had helped pay. Jackson didn’t have a clue how much that car meant to me, how much doing something for myself meant, so screw him for judging me. “Just because my family has money doesn’t mean I do.”
“That’s the type of shit rich kids say to make themselves feel somewhat human.”
“Are you always such an asshole?” I asked, placing my hands on my hips.
“Oh, the Bible girl cusses. You better repent,” he barked, popping open the hood of the car.
“What are you doing?” I asked, but he ignored me as he began fumbling around.
“What does it look like I’m doing? Trying to fix the shit you let break.” Smoke seeped from the engine, and he pulled and pushed things around as I studied his every movement.
“Just be careful. I don’t want it worse off than—”
He tilted his head and cocked an eyebrow. “Trust me, you can’t get worse off than this. I found the problem.”
“What is it?”
“Your car’s a piece of shit.”
I blew out a hot breath. “Is that the technical term?”
“Something like that.” He stood straight and wiped his grease-covered fingers on his jeans. “If you want my opinion?”
“Is it a jerky opinion?”
“Yup, it is.”
“Go for it.”
“Never step foot in that car again. There’s a ninety-five percent chance it will blow up. I’ll have my tow guy pull it into the shop.” He took out his phone and began sending off a text message. When he looked up at me, his eyes grew even gloomier. “Jesus, I didn’t mean to…” He paused and brushed his fingers over his temple, leaving black oil marks. “Come on. For fuck’s sake, don’t do that,” he groaned, gesturing toward me.
“Do what?”
“Cry.”
“I’m not.”
He cocked an eyebrow and stared at me as if I were insane.
I lightly touched my cheeks and felt the wetness.
Crap.
I am crying.
I choked on my next breath and began sobbing, covering my mouth with my hand.
“Can you just…not do that right now? Can you not fall apart?” He asked it in a way that sounded more like a demand.
“I-I’m t-t-trying not to,” I mumbled, unable to control myself. I hated this. I hated not having control over my emotions, over my feelings. Lately, the smallest thing could send me into a whirlwind of sadness, and I hated it. Losing my car—losing the one thing that was mine and mine alone—was breaking my heart.
He sighed again. “You should really pull yourself together.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” I sobbed, annoyed by him being there and annoyed that I couldn’t stop crying.
“You look like a hot mess.”
“I’m not a hot mess!” I snapped. I just had hot-mess tendencies…
He grimaced, something I assumed he did often. “Well you sure look the part.”
“Can you just go away? Please?”
“Not till Alex gets here to tow the car. It’s on the house.”
“What?”
“That means you don’t have to pay for it.”
“I know what ‘on the house’ means.”