How did I forget about that?
The other reason why people call him the Wild Mustang is because he owns one. A Mustang, the car. Obviously in white, and rumor has it that he loves it.
It’s his most precious possession.
Which is why one time, Ledger and guys from the Thorn camp slashed his tires before an important game, just to mess with Reed, and I have to admit that I didn’t like that.
I felt bad for Reed.
But then I found out that Ledger did it in retaliation against Reed sleeping with a girl he liked, again before a big game, to mess with Ledger’s head.
So yeah, that killed my sympathy.
“Your Mustang,” I repeat in a flat voice.
“Yeah. It goes from zero to sixty faster than a girl can strip. What’s not to love?”
I’m… disappointed.
I don’t know why.
I mean, it’s not something that I didn’t expect.
For years, Ledger has been telling me the same thing. He’s been telling me that Reed doesn’t care about the team. That Reed is selfish. He only looks out for himself.
Conrad has been saying it too.
That’s why he picked Ledger as the captain instead of Reed. Even though they’re both excellent. Even though Reed’s even better on some occasions.
So I’ve got no clue why I’m disappointed at hearing this from his own mouth when I already knew what his answer was going to be.
Reed Roman Jackson is exactly what they told me he’d be.
A villain.
Sighing, I duck my head. “I’m leaving.”
I don’t even manage to take a step before he says, “Not so fast.”
My head snaps up. “What?”
As if that wasn’t jarring enough, him stopping me, he decides to make me hyperventilate by starting to approach me.
So far we’ve been standing at a respectable, comfortable distance. Like twelve feet or so. But now he’s closing that distance, one step at a time.
Each swing of his legs is almost a foot long and makes the powerful muscles in his thighs bulge. Makes his boots crush the leaves noisily.
I press myself to the tree as I watch him approach me. As I watch him watch me.
He knows I’m afraid.
I can see it on his features.
His beautifully relaxed mouth, the lines of satisfaction around his eyes.
“What are you doing?” I ask, my fingers digging into the bark of the tree.
He stops probably one arm away, so solid and towering, as he muses, “I’m assuming your brothers don’t know that you’re here.”
