Forgotten Rules (Rules 4)

“Is that what this is? Why you wanted to hang out all night? You’re trying to fix me?”

“So what if I am?”

I toss a fry at him. “From what? Control? I’m not a prisoner.”

He picks up the fry that just landed on his jeans and lobs it into his mouth. Five-second rule? More like “I’ll eat anything if the floor’s clean enough” rule. Famished, I bite into my taco, nearly dropping sauce on my leggings in the process.

Will made a pit stop at a gas station so we could throw our clothes back on before raiding Taco Bell. I can’t seem to forget the cashier’s face when we walked in—Will shirtless, flaunting his six-pack, me pantless, rocking a knee-length T-shirt—and asked for the bathroom keys. What kind of fuckery is this, she was clearly thinking. And I couldn’t agree more. This night couldn’t be further from what I thought it would be.

“For the record, I’m getting that Yoda thing engraved on your tombstone,” he deadpans.

“Hey, you’re the one who wanted to hang out with me all night. I’m not responsible for any of the weird shit I say in the next few hours, thank you very much.” I watch as Will aims for an exit I don’t recognize. “Where are you taking me?”

Stealing a fry, he grins. “Somewhere even higher than you are.”

“A walk in the woods? Seriously? It’s four in the morning and you want me to exercise?” I whine, following Will down a hiking trail and wondering why high Kass lacks basic brain functions.

This is the definition of dumb, not to mention so unlike me. I would never, in a million years, advise someone to follow a guy into a forest alone at night, yet here I am, agreeing to my brother’s best friend whack plan without blinking.

“Relax. It’s a five-minute walk tops,” he assures me.

I refrain from arguing, shadowing him down the narrow path. Will’s “secret spot” turned out to be a lot farther from home than I expected. It took us almost two hours to get here. Crazy part is, I didn’t mind the drive, too

busy bickering with him about who finished the fries.

We can hear cars whooshing in the distance. This jogging trail is situated near the highway, separating the road from an obviously wealthy neighborhood. I’ve never been to this area before, but Will seems to know it like the back of his hand.

Yes, Will is dragging me into a random forest at four in the morning, but at least, it’s a nice forest. The path is paved and bordered by white lights. I bet a bunch of vegan girls jog here in the morning and post about it on their Instagram stories.

“Somewhere higher than I am.” I recall his words. “Are we climbing a tree?”

He slows the pace, thinking his answer through.

“That’s exactly what we’re doing.”

What the fuck?

“Just a bit further.” He motions, stepping off the trail and venturing into the woods.

This is it.

He’s going to kill me.

“Okay, you’ve just reached a whole new level of creepy, Martins,” I mumble under my breath.

He smiles at that but doesn’t grace me with a response, focused on finding his way. His way to where, you ask? The best spot to bury me, probably.

Five minutes later, he stops.

“Thank fuck,” he rejoices.

That’s when I see it.

A tree house.

“I was starting to think someone tore it down,” he adds.

I assess the wood structure and its hanging ladder for a few seconds. It’s far from the path, well hidden, probably hard to find unless you know where it is. It’s the kind of house Kendrick and I desperately wanted as kids but never got because our parents can’t build shit. Dad always said he would do it only to bail whenever we reminded him.