Good Lord.
“It’s not like that,” I sputter, my brain scrambling. “He’s…Phoenix is gay.”
My dad blinks. “Oh.”
I take the opportunity to sprint toward the front door. “Love you. Buh-bye. See you at one.”
“Twelve thirty,” he yells as I’m closing the front door behind me. “Not a moment later.”
Ugh. It’s not much, but at least it’s better than what Cinderella got.
I can’t wait until I stop chickening out about taking my driver’s test. Although I’m sure the newfound freedom will only make my dad even more nuts.
I open the passenger side door of Phoenix’s car and get in.
“Down with the Sickness” by Disturbed blasts through my ears and I can’t help but grin before mouthing the words.
People my age tend to listen to the latest pop or hip-hop crap on the radio. Not rock or alternative rock music…which is my personal favorite.
I wish an amazing rock band would come along and save my peers from all the bullshit they’re filling their ears with.
Every generation before me was lucky enough to get more than one.
God knows it’s time for us.
The fact Phoenix knows what good music is only makes him that much more irresistible.
I can feel him studying me as he backs out of the driveway.
“You like this song?” he questions, or at least I think he does because the volume is turned up so loud.
“Rock music is my favorite,” I shout over the music. “And Disturbed is awesome. Although, technically speaking, they lean more toward the heavy metal spectrum of rock.”
Regardless, they’re a timeless classic. Practically a prerequisite for those claiming to be a true fan of rock music.
I watch the tendons in his hand and wrist flex as he clutches the steering wheel and speeds out of my neighborhood, breaking a handful of traffic laws.
When the song ends, Phoenix presses the pause button on the stereo. “What time is your curfew?”
“What makes you think I have a curfew?”
And how the hell does he know?
His lips curve into a smirk. “You seem like the type.”
I want to ask what that’s supposed to mean, but then he tosses me his phone, which is feeding music through the stereo.
“Come on, Groupie. Play me something good.”
The insulting name has me narrowing my eyes. “Fuck you. I’m not a groupie.”
I’m a fan. Big freaking difference.
Annoyed, I scroll through the playlist on his phone. We have similar tastes. He even listens to a few of the same bands that aren’t super well known. He gets props for that.
However, I’m still irritated by his groupie remark, so I choose a song to reflect that.
I give him a smirk of my own as “I Hate Everything About You,” by Three Days Grace comes through the speakers.
His lips twitch before curling into a sexy smile that makes my heart stop.
I’m thankful we spend the rest of the ride listening to music.
I’m confused when he pulls to a stop on the street in front of a small house. “Where are we?”
I figured he was going to take me to his place so we could study.
“Relax,” he says as he gets out of the car. “It’s not a crack house.”
I don’t know how to take that remark. Is he assuring me…or making fun of me?
I seriously hope it’s not the latter because I’m not like that at all.
I climb out after him. “Excuse me for wanting to know where a guy I’ve barely even spoken to is taking m—”
I stop talking when he advances on me…slowly backing me up until my spine meets the window of his car.
“What’s the matter?” A menacing glint darkens his eyes as he sweeps his gaze up and down my body in a way that makes me feel naked and exposed. “Scared I’m gonna have my wicked way with you? Do all the dirty little things you think about when you’re alone in your bed at night…touching yourself?”
God, I wish.
A buzz goes through me when he leans in, his lips ghosting over my ear. “Or is that what you’re hoping will happen tonight?”
My mouth goes dry. I try to form words, but none come out.
“You can feign innocence all you want, but I know you like to stalk me, Groupie.” He edges away. “But I’m gonna need you to keep your little crush in check so I can graduate. Think you can manage that? Or do I need to ask Mrs. Herman to find someone else?”
It feels like he just poured a tub of ice water over my head.
“I don’t…” I fight the wave of embarrassment coursing through me. “You know what? Screw you. I didn’t ask to tutor you. Therefore, I don’t need to spend my free time doing it.”
I’m about to walk away and pull up the Uber app so I can get home, but his hand wraps around my wrist.
“Look at me, Lennon.”
The commanding tone combined with his touch makes me fold.
The second our eyes lock, he says, “I just want to make sure we each know where the other stands, so shit doesn’t get complicated.”
“Why would shit get complicated?”
The only way it could is if Phoenix returned my little crush as he called it. And we both know that will never happen.
I’ve accepted it.
But for some odd reason, it seems like he hasn’t gotten the memo.
“It won’t.” He shifts his weight onto one leg, and once again, I’m aware of just how tall he is. Easily over six feet. “Not on my end anyway.”
“Not on my end either.”
“Good.” He lets go of my wrist. “Glad we got that cleared up.”
He gestures for me to follow him. I assume we’re going inside the house, but he opens the garage door.
I take in the microphone and stand, keyboard, amp, and drum set as I enter.
“Are you in a band?”
I mean, if he isn’t, he definitely should be. Despite being an asshole, he has the voice of a god.
He walks over to the futon on the opposite side of the garage. “Yeah. It’s just me and Storm who’s the drummer, but we make it work. This is his house, by the way.”
That’s…surprising. “Oh. Are you sure—”
“It’s fine. He said we could chill here.”
I don’t know much about Storm. Other than he’s pretty scary looking, and Phoenix’s friend…but it was cool of him to offer up his place.
It’s even cooler that they’re in a band together.
I’m about to suggest they hold auditions to find a guitarist, but then Phoenix sits on the futon. “Let’s get this shit over with.”
Opening my bag, I take out the same essay from yesterday so he can read it and answer a list of questions about it after.
Our English teacher isn’t a heartless bitch who’s looking to fail him. She just wants to make sure he’s able to do the bare minimum in order to graduate.
Once he answers this set of questions, and a different set from another essay—in addition to writing a short essay of his own—his extracurricular project will be done.
Then we can focus on studying for the final.
“I’ll give you a few minutes to read this.”