The Rebel of Raleigh High (Raleigh Rebels #1) - Callie Hart Page 0,103
the door behind me before I can heed the anxious voice in the back of my head that’s telling me this is a dumb idea and I should go home. I can barely stand still as I wait at the top of the steps, trying to gather the confidence required to knock on the door. The music inside dips suddenly, though, and I hear movement on the other side of the door.
Alex’s voice—a little muffled, though perfectly audible—is a little teasing when he speaks. “Come on, Argento. You’ve made it this far.”
“You’re seriously going to make me knock?”
“Only polite.”
“Jerk,” I groan. “Open the door.”
The door swings inward, revealing Alex in a pair of black jeans and a plain black t-shirt. His dark hair is swept straight back, highlighting the shaved sides of his head. God, the longer, usually wavy strands are wet. He looks so, so unbelievably sexy. A fresh, clean smell hits me, stronger than ever, and I realize that he must have just gotten out of the shower.
I’m woefully unprepared to deal with this kind of shit. Next level ‘Alex-Moretti-is the-finest-fucking-thing-to-walk-the-face-of-the-earth’ shit. I’ve never been one to succumb to hormones or lose my head over a handsome guy, but with him standing in front of me now, the side of his face bathed in the warm glow coming from inside the trailer, I discover what it means to be rendered speechless by the mere sight of someone.
He smirks, mouth open a little, the tip of his tongue pressing against his front teeth, and my traitorous knees nearly go out. “Get your ass in here before one of my neighbors steals you,” he says, placing a hand on my hip, pulling me up the last step into the trailer.
I formed a pretty clear picture of what his place was going to be like on the way over here, but, stepping into his home, I learn just how wrong I was. The place doesn't reek of dirty socks, for starters. It smells clean, just like him. The living room I've stepped into isn't a bomb site, cluttered with clothes, empty take out cartons, and dirty dishes. There are no posters of half-naked women draped over motorcycles on the walls, either. A large sectional couch fits along the wall and into the far corner of the room, and on my left, there's a shelf, stacked with row upon row of tatty, worn, well-read books.
The music I heard playing from outside is coming from a record player on a side table underneath the window, underneath which is a staggering amount of vinyl. The television isn't as big as I would have thought. A collection of photos, framed and mounted beside it, take up most of the real estate on the largest wall. I'd prepared myself for a ratty, sticky carpet, riddled with cigarette burns, but there are polished hardwood floorboards beneath my feet instead—and they look like they've been freshly swept and cleaned.
“No need to look so surprised,” Alex whispers into my ear. I didn't even notice that he'd crept up so quietly behind me.
“I’m not surprised. I just, well…okay. All right. I’m surprised. But can you blame me? A guy’s parents go away for the weekend and the place ends up destroyed. You live on your own permanently. I figured your place would be…”
“Disgusting?”
“Yeah. I did. I thought it was gonna be disgusting.” It’s a relief to laugh. It kills the tension that’s been climbing up my spine since I got out of the Nova. Alex spins me around, wrapping his arms around me.
“The kitchen can get turned upside down,” he admits. “But don’t worry. I cleaned out all the dead flies and rat shit in honor of your visit.”
“You are not serious.”
“No. I’m not.” Hesitantly, he leans down and places a gentle kiss against my mouth. “I’m just fucking with you,” he murmurs. “The park doesn’t have rats. And Oscar catches and eats all the flies.”
“Oscar?”
“The cat.”
“You have a cat?”
“No. He’s the cat, not my cat.”
“What’s the difference?”
Alex shrugs. “Sometimes he lives here, with me. Sometimes he lives at one of the other trailers. He's a cat slut, keeping his options open. Come on. I'll show you where everything is.”
The kitchen isn't quite spotless, but it's damn near close. The counters are clean, and there are no dishes in the sink. Small, spiny cactuses sit on the window sill over the sink, and my brain nearly melts. Even a cactus requires some level of attention, and I just can't wrap