“Now. The only way I’m getting out of that house is if I’m able to drive.”
“You don’t have a car.”
“Brock said he’d get me one if I get a driver’s license, although now I think he’d be happy if I never get one. He seems to want to keep me prisoner in that house. The sooner I get my license the better.”
“Let me grab my keys.” He goes down to his room and returns with his keys and a motorcycle helmet.
“What’s that for?”
He smiles. “I don’t want any head injuries when you take the wheel. This is gonna be more dangerous than football.”
“Seriously?” I yank the helmet from him and set it on the table. “You’re supposed to be supportive, not make fun of me.”
“I’m just looking out for my safety,” he says, walking to the door. “And my performance on the field. Season hasn’t even started. I can’t go into the first game with a concussion.”
We go out to the Land Rover.
“Maybe we should use the Porsche,” he says. “It’s lower to the ground.”
“You have a Porsche?”
“And a Ducati.”
“What’s that?”
“Motorcycle. That’s why I have the helmet.” He gazes at the Land Rover. “Guess it could be fixed. I just hate to see it hurt.” He runs his hand along the side of it.
“It’s a car, not a person.”
“Says someone who’s never owned one.”
“Can we just go? Brock doesn’t know I’m here. He’ll freak if he finds out I snuck out again.”
“You snuck out?”
“Yeah. He thinks I’m in my room. He said he’ll see me at dinner, so we don’t have a lot of time.”
We get in the Land Rover.
“What time is dinner?” Jackson asks as he pulls out of the driveway.
“He didn’t say. I’m guessing it’ll be after seven. I’m sure he’ll make Trystan and Braden go, and they probably won’t be home until later.”
“Are they at the gym?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen them all day. Braden’s probably at football practice.” I turn to Jackson. “Why aren’t you at practice?”
“We practice in the morning and again at night. We do two a day the week before school starts.” He stops at a light and looks at me. “Per our agreement, anything I tell you stays between us. You don’t tell Braden, Trystan, or anyone else. And by anything, I meananythingwe talk about, but especially if it involves football.”
“Yeah, got it,” I say, feeling uneasy about this arrangement. I just met this guy. Why am I going along with this? Can I really trust him? Is he just using me to get info about the Twisted Pine football team?
“What’s wrong?” he asks, noticing my foot tapping. I do it when I’m nervous.
“Nothing.” I glance around. “Where are you taking me?”
“To a parking lot. It’s next to an office building that’s been vacant for months. Nobody will be there and it has some obstacles for you.”
“What kind of obstacles?”
