Falling for Hadley: A Novel (Chasing the Harlyton Sisters 2)

Great, another problem to deal with.

They’re really starting to pile up.

This is why I didn’t want to get involved with Hadley’s mess. But, for reasons I’m not sure if I fully understand yet, I can’t just leave her to fend for herself.

“We really need to get you to pass that driving test,” I tease as we hike across the parking lot toward my SUV.

“I’ve tried to, like, five times already.” He stares at the road. “I don’t think driving is in the cards for me.”

“Nah, you just need more practice.” The truth is I don’t think Jaxon wants to drive and keeps failing his test on purpose.

I think that might have something to do with how our mom died.

It was in a car accident. Jaxon was with her but survived with only a few minor bumps and scrapes. They had been out of town when the accident occurred, while Mom was overseeing some stupid project my dad’s men were on. Why he sent her remains a mystery, since he never involved her in his work. And why she agreed to go when she never helped him with his work before is something that still bothers me.

But the reality is that she went, and she never returned. Somehow, she took a wrong turn and ended up driving straight into an illegal drag race going on in some Podunk town and crashed into one of the racer’s cars. That’s about all I know of the incident, and I only have those details because I overheard what the police told my father that night of her death. To this day, my father refuses to talk about it.

Still, I often wonder what happened to the person she crashed into. Did they survive? Do they feel bad for causing the accident? I’ll probably never find out, but that doesn’t mean I’ll stop wondering.

My mom may not have been perfect, but when it came to parents, she was the best one any of us Porterson brothers have ever had.

Hadley

If photos were included in dictionaries, a photo of Austin would be located right underneath douchebag. It’d be a selfie he took because, let’s face it, he’s cocky enough that I’m sure he believes only his own photos would be good enough. He’d probably have one of those stupid duck faces going on but would be totally oblivious to the fact. And his shirt would be off because, “ya know, gotta show off the eye candy.”

How do I know he’d say that? Because the second we step into Austin’s spacious condo, he peels off his shirt, grins at me, and says exactly that.

I shield my eyes with my hands. “Please put your shirt back on. My eyes are allergic to curly man hair, and with how much you have, I’m worried I might go into anaphylactic shock.”

“Don’t pretend like you don’t like the view.”

“I can assure you that I don’t.”

“Well, I’m not putting my shirt back on, so either you can stand there stiffly with your hand over your eyes until my dad shows up or sit your ass down for a few minutes and try to relax. If I were you, I’d try to relax, because the moment my dad gets here, shit’s going to get crazy.” Feet scuff against the hardwood floor. “I don’t want to freak you out, but my dad’s kind of insane.”

“Must run in the family,” I mumble, lowering my hand from my eyes.

The idiot is still shirtless, his hairy chest on full display, and he’s standing closer to me than he was when I covered my eyes.

I crinkle my nose. “Can’t you wax or something? I mean, I’m sure you can afford it.” I peer around the wide space of his living room decorated with floor-to-floor windows, a fireplace, and leather furniture.

“This is what real men look like.” He cocks his head to the side. “My bet is you haven’t seen a real man, though.” He steps toward me, appearing way too intrigued. “I bet you haven’t even seen a man.”

“If you’re asking that in the literal sense, then you’re as stupid as you look.” On the outside, I’m the freakin’ calm before the storm. But on the inside, the storm has already ripped through and torn a path of destruction. I’m freaking out and having a really complicated time trying to keep that concealed.

“You’re feisty.” He reaches out to graze his thumb along my cheekbone. “I kind of like it, which is odd. Usually, I like my woman cooperative and quiet.”

“As in passed out, I bet.”

He narrows his eyes and pinches my side with his free hand. “I don’t have to drug anyone to get laid.”

It takes a lot of effort not to wince.

“And I don’t have to have a weapon to injure a guy who’s getting too handsy with me.”

“Go ahead.” He pinches my side harder, watching my face intently. “Just know that, whatever you do to me, I’ll return the favor.”

I actually consider it, kicking him between the legs, since I don’t have a set of balls he can smash his foot into. But Bailey and I got into a fight once and the little brat vagina-punched me. It hurt like a bitch, enough to bring tears to my eyes.

“That’s what I thought.” He withdraws his hand from my side then wanders into the kitchen adjacent to the living room. “Do you want something to drink?” he asks as he takes out a bottle of vodka from the fridge. It’s a brand I’ve never seen before, more than likely too expensive for my dad to afford.

I cross my arms and sit down on the back of the sofa. “No thanks. I’d rather not be doped up right now.”

“It’s just one drink,” he says, twisting the cap off.

“One drink with a side of roofie probably.”

“I already said I don’t drug women,” he snaps as he fills up a glass a quarter of the way full.

“And I have blonde hair,” I quip. “See? Look how easy it is to lie.”

He narrows his eyes, but a smug smile plays at his lips. “Just so you know, I can keep going all night long with this little bit, baby.”

“Good for you. Your dad must be so proud that he has a son so talented that he can spend a couple hours arguing with a girl.”

I must’ve hit a sore spot because he strangles the vodka bottle so hard I think the glass actually might crack. “You better shut your mouth.”

“Or what?”

“Or you’re going to find out exactly what I’m talented at.”

Fear lashes through me, but my expression remains neutral.

“Look at you, so tough—”

The front door swings open and relief washes through me. I may have appeared as calm as a mother effing boss, but I was getting really worried. Then again, the moment I lay eyes on the person who waltzes through the door, I wonder if maybe I was better off dealing with crazy Austin.

Extremely tall, with dark hair, broad shoulders, and a thick neck, this guy gives a whole new light to the term steroid freak. It doesn’t help that he’s carrying a knife in his hand. Seriously, who does that?

People who murder people, Hadley.

I swallow hard, wishing I hadn’t let Austin bully me into leaving my bag and phone in his car.

“Haven’t you ever heard of the term knocking, Liam?” Austin says coldly to the giant of a man—Liam, I’m presuming.

Liam only grunts in response, like he’s part grizzly bear or something.

Awesome.

This is so bad.

Austin picks up the glass of vodka and downs it in three gulps, looking as tense as I feel. Great, even Hairy Chest Douchebag McGee is uncomfortable around the beast of a man looming in his entryway.

“Where’s my father?” Austin asks, setting the glass down on the countertop. “He said he’d be coming, not one of his minions.”

Liam responds with yet another grunt. Then his gaze skates to me and a tiny trace of a smile forms on his lips.

What the actual fuck?

“Hello, lovely brother of mine.” The girl who was at my house earlier this morning—I think Blaise said her name is Amelia—strolls into the house, swaying her hips and blowing a kiss to her brother.

Austin’s brows knit. “What’re you doing here?” Shaking his head, he sets the glass in the sink. “You should probably leave. Dad’s going to be here soon.”

>   She dismisses him with a flick of her wrist, tossing her handbag onto the countertop. “I’m fine seeing Dad. In fact, I have a pressing matter to discuss with him.”

“Really?” His brow skeptically curves upward.

“Yep.” She plops down on a barstool and crosses her legs. “Now please pour your favorite sister a drink. I’ve had the roughest of days.”

“I bet you did.” Accusation rings in Austin’s tone, but he grabs the bottle of vodka and a clean glass to pour her a drink.

“Aw, now, don’t be jealous, brother of mine.” She grins. “It’s unbecoming on you.”

He slides the drink across the counter toward her. “And red lipstick looks whorish on you. You should really stop wearing it.”

She flashes him a grin. “Why would I do that? Whorish is what I’m going for.”

“You’re such a little brat.” He smiles at her, and she returns the smile wholeheartedly.

I can’t get a vibe on these two, whether they’re joking around or utterly despise each other. Maybe a bit of both. Or maybe, like Blaise said, they’re just a bundle of straight-up crazy.

Amelia sips vodka. “So, where’s your guest?”

When Austin’s gaze lands on me, Amelia spins around on the barstool. She gives me a once-over, tilting her head to the side.

“She’s prettier than I thought she’d be,” she muses, eyeing me over again, more slowly this time.

“Isn’t she?” Austin agrees, biting his lip as he stares at me.

I hold up my hands. “Okay, whatever this weird, creepy twin thing is that you two have going on, I want no part of it. Got it?”

Amelia thrums her manicured nails against the countertop, assessing me. “She’s got claws, too? I think I might really like.”

“Oh, that’s mild in comparison to some of the shit she’s been saying,” Austin tells her.

“Do tell.” Her gaze bores into me and, for a strange instant, I feel the oddest sense of familiarity.