Bad Boy Rebels 1-3 (Bad Boy Rebels 1)

“Ummm…” What do I tell him? Not the truth, obviously. But since he pretty much declared I’m the worst liar ever, how am I supposed to lie to him now?

Gah!

The doorbell rings and I latch onto the opportunity to make a beeline out of the kitchen. “I’ll get it.”

Loki’s laughter hits my back. “Saved by the bell.”

I shake my head as I rush for the door. Why, oh why do I have to be terrible at every bad thing? Parties. Lying. Failing a test, which yes I tried once just to see if I could do it. But I couldn’t bring myself to turn in the sheet with all my randomly picked answers, so I ended up telling the teacher I spilled my drink on my exam and asked for another one, which I filled out correctly and got one-hundred percent.

Seriously, I have issues, in the sense that I don’t have issues.

Maybe my mom was right. Maybe I’m supposed to be a good, smart, follow the rules girl.

I grimace as I open the door.

Standing on the front porch is a man, probably in his late twenties, tall and lean, with sandy blonde hair cut short. He’s decked out in all black clothes, but in a sophisticated way—a black button down shirt topped off with a vest and tie, black slacks, and a pair of black dress shoes. The only thing that gives away his crisp, clean look is the tattoos peeking out of the cuffs on his shirt. He’s also sporting a pair of sunglasses so I can’t see his eyes, but I swear it feels like he’s observing me as much as I am him.

I fidget, tugging at the hem of my pajama shorts. “Um… Can I help you?”

His lips pull to a flawless, almost rehearsed smile, then he removes his sunglasses. “Hi, my name is Charles Dotsing.” He offers me his hand to shake. “I just moved into the neighborhood and thought I’d come introduce myself.”

I politely shake his hand, noting how rough his skin feels, as if his palms are covered in scars. His grip is firm and he holds onto my hand a little too long, but I don’t know how to ask him to let me go without coming off as rude. So instead, I stand there awkwardly.

“I didn’t catch your name,” he says, finally releasing his weirdo grip from my hand.

I lower my arm to my side and open and flex my hand. While he didn’t hurt me or anything, the tension wound up my muscles like a clock. “Um… I’m Zhara.”

“Zhara.” He muses, rubbing his freshly shaven jawline. “A pretty name for a pretty girl.”

I laugh nervously, tugging at the bottom of my hoodie. “Thanks.”

He winks at me. “Anytime, sweetheart.”

Insert awkwardness on my part. And to make matters even more uncomfortable, he seems to be getting his kicks and giggles off getting me all squirrely, his grin magnifying every time I shift my weight.

“You know, you look familiar.” He studies me with his head tilted to the side. “Have we met before?”

I shake my head. “I don’t think so. Unless you’ve seen me around the neighborhood… Where did you say you lived again?”

He points over my shoulder. “I just moved into the house behind you.”

I struggle to keep a straight face. The house behind me! The Marellies! The place where I saw all the flashing lights!

Just stay cool, Zhara. It may not mean anything. Maybe he was having a party and you saw the reflection of strobe lights. People use strobe lights sometimes at parties, right?

But then why didn’t I hear any music or yelling or other party noises?

I inhale and exhale to steady my voice. “Really? I didn’t know the Marellies moved. Or that their house was even for sale.”

He positions his sunglasses on top of his head. “It was kind of a last minute decision. I was driving through town on vacation, fell in love with the town, saw the Marellies’ house, and thought that’s where I want to live. So I knocked on the door, made them a very generous offer, and now a week later, here I am.” He spans his hands out to the side and grins, like ta da.

I force a smile, but holy unicorns, this dude is weird. “That’s cool.” I swallow an anxious breath. Something isn’t right here. “Do you know where the Marellies moved to? Or if they’re coming back? I know my brother talked to them every so often, and I’m sure he’ll want to say goodbye.”

“I’m pretty sure they’re sailing to the Bahamas by now,” he tells me. “At least that’s what I overheard them talking about when I was signing them a big, fat check.”

Unsure what else to say, I stand there stupidly. “Oh.”

Like a wolf eyeing a rabbit, a grin carves across his face. “How old are you anyway?”

“Um… Eighteen.”

He appears pleased by the answer. “Do you live here?”

“Yeah, with my brothers and sisters.” I press my lips together, wishing I’d lied.

Usually, when I tell someone that, it’s followed by questions of why I don’t live with my parents, which leads to questions about their deaths. And I hate talking about their deaths. Well, unless I’m really pissed off at hot, bad boys who won’t let me into their parties.

But instead of drilling me with questions, Charles bobs his head up and down, looking not the least bit surprised. “That’s nice. Are they here right now?”

Holy stranger danger alert.

“Yeah, they are,” I say in a guarded tone. “And my older brother is in the kitchen if you want to meet him.”

He raises his hands in front of him. “Sorry, if I upset you. I was just curious. That’s all. That’s all.”

What is he, an echo? If I was braver, I’d ask him. But all I do is stand in the doorway, waiting for him to take a hint and leave.

He doesn’t catch on, though—either that, or he doesn’t care—and leans in closer to me. He smells strangely of burnt toast and cologne, not a very pleasant mixture. “So, I’m having this party this weekend and I was wondering—”

An engine roars, cutting him off. Then the air goes quiet.

My head whips up and then my jaw practically drops. Parked along the curb in front of my house is a 1968 Chevelle, bright red with black racing stripes. The only reason I know what kind of car it is is because my dad used to take me to classic car shows. And the only reason I know who owns the car is because it’s the only one of its kind in all of Honeyton.

Benton.

Sure enough, strolling across my front lawn, looking as casual as can be, is Benton in all his bad boy form. But wait a second, why is he here? And how does he know where I live?

“Um… Hey.” I think that might be the tenth time I’ve said um in the last five minutes.

But I can’t help it. I’ve entered Confusion Land where creepers and sexy bad boys roam free and apparently migrate to my house.

Benton looks extra bad boy-ish today, decked out in black jeans and a T-shirt and boots to match. A chain dangles from his belt loop, piercings glint on his face, and he’s wearing a series of leather bands on his wrists.

“Sorry, I’m late,” he tells me as he hoists himself over the railing and lands on the porch next to Charles. “The coffee place had a huge line.”

I blink at him like a lost baby deer, but when he shoots me the same look he did in the parking lot when he was standing with Ralpho and T

ank—you know, right before he pretended I was his girlfriend—I wipe the huuuhh look away.

Benton gives me a wink before turning to Charles. “Hey, man, I don’t think I’ve seen you before? Did you just move here or something?”

Charles’ smile goes poof as his gaze locks on Benton. “Yeah, I did. In the house behind Zhara’s.” He measures Benton up. “But how did you know that?”

“Like I said, I haven’t seen you around town, so I just assumed.” Benton’s face remains friendly, but his tone carries an underlying warning. Whatever the warning is, though, goes way over my head.

“Seems like a strange thing to assume.” Charles’ tone is equally as cold. “It’s not like you know everyone in town.”

“Actually, I pretty much do,” Benton replies, shoving his hands into his back pockets. “Honeyton’s a pretty small fucking town and everyone is always in everyone else’s business. Something you’ll soon learn.” He turns, his gaze fastening with mine. “You should hurry up and get ready. That thing we’re supposed to go to starts in like an hour.”

I have no clue what thing he’s referring to, since we weren’t supposed to meet up until later tonight, but I take the hint and nod. Besides, I’m desperate to get away from Creeper Charles.

“Let me change first,” I tell Benton then throw Charles a wave as I turn to walk back in the house. “It was nice meeting you, Charles.”

“The pleasure’s all mine, Zhara,” Charles says as I hold the door open for Benton. He backs up toward the stairs, a grin forming on his lips. “And I’m sure will be seeing each other very, very soon.” He winks at me before turning around and hiking across the grass toward the sidewalk.

I close the front door and lock the deadbolt, which might be a little silly, but seriously, Creeper Charles is freaking me out.

“That guy was really weird,” I mumble, slumping against the door and letting out a relieved breath. But when my gaze lands on Benton, standing in the foyer, observing the family photos hanging on the wall, my relief is short lived.