Page 41 of Tar City
“I’ve got something for you.”
I let out a small breath. “That’s not an answer.”
He shrugs, one shoulder lifting. “You’ll see. I’ll be there at seven.”
I glance back again. “Okay.”
Jax’s mouth shifts like he almost wants to say something else but he doesn’t. “I’ll be outside,” he says as he leaves.
I stand there replaying every word until they all rush to me.
Millie crosses her arms. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” I say, too quickly.
Lou raises a brow and I notice Ivan is still looking at the doorway.
Millie narrows her eyes. “That didn’t look like nothing.”
Lou points at me. “Ignore her. You were good. That’s what matters.”
I nod, but I’m not really here anymore.
* * *
I don’t even know what to think. The leather sticks to the back of my legs, cool at first, then suffocating, while the AC blasts straight into my face.
Ronny sits in the driver’s seat—tall, neatly pressed, posture so straight it looks practiced. His suit isn’t expensive, just immaculate. He keeps his hands steady on the wheel, eyes forward, not out of disinterest but out of respect, like he’s giving us privacy without ever stopping his watch. He nods when our eyes meet, polite but unreadable. A man who could carry groceries for an old lady or block a punch without thinking.
“Continuing with the plan, Mr. St. Clair?” Ronny asks, voice smooth, accent polished into neutrality.
“Yes, Ronny,” Jax says. “All going as planned.”
My stomach knots. “Where are we going, Jax?” I ask, adjusting in my seat.
He turns to me, eyes bright with excitement. “Trust me, okay?”
The proximity between us feels more nerve-wracking than the audition I just survived earlier today. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t want to be here this bad, with him, in his family’s car. I keep telling myself this is not a date in any shape or form. He’s just being nice. A friend.A very good-looking friend.
I glance at him quickly. The black button-down fits like it was made for him, sleeves rolled to his forearms, the collar open just enough to show skin. Dark jeans. Brand new looking shoes, not a mark on them. Everything about him looks… perfect.
Then I look down at myself. Simple jeans, a plain shirt, old sneakers that have seen too much. I suddenly feel painfully aware of the space between his world and mine.
We drive for too long, and I press my forehead to the window. The buildings thin out, the grime disappears and my brain short-circuits. I see giant green trees and a lake so wide it looks like it belongs in someone else’s world, a view too pretty for the train route.
“Keyhill Park,” Jax says, like the name should mean something.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, my mouth falling open in awe.
“It’s not developed yet,” he says, and suddenly he’s not Jax—the boy who kissed me to protect me. He’s Jax St. Clair, son of the family that buys places like this, rips out the nature, and builds skyscrapers overcharging the poor.
He sees green and thinks money. I see green and think escape.
Ronny slows down and I recognize where we are.
“Jax—”
“Here,” Jax says, already getting out. He comes around the car and opens my door. “You said this was the place, right?”
