Never Gonna Tell by Sarah M. Ross Read Free Book Online

smells, but they’re only open until nine and I don’t want to miss dinner two nights in a row if I can’t get enough time in today. Please, Daddy?”
    I can see his resolve weakening and want to beg when I see him pull out salmon patties and curry powder.
    “All right, but I want you home no later than nine-thirty. I’m sure you have other homework to do and I don’t want you up all night because you spent all your time working on a story instead.”
    I jump up and kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you so much. You’re the best.”
    He tosses me his keys as I throw my backpack over my shoulders. “Take my car. I’m sure your ankle’s still bothering you, and besides, I don’t want you out walking by yourself at night.”
    I stifle the urge to roll my eyes. Sometimes I think he forgets we moved for the very purpose that I could walk around by myself at night. Instead I just say thank you.
    “You want me to save you some of this?” he yells as I head out the door.
    I pretend I don’t hear him, but know he’ll leave a covered plate in the oven for me. Charlie is so lucky that he’s missing this. It’s times like this I wish we had a dog that I could feed Dad’s cooking to, but I doubt even a dog would gobble tonight’s concoction up.

 
     
    HALFWAY TO THE library, I turn the car around. My gut is telling me that if I just talk to Hunter—under the pretense of being a reporter for The University of Tennessee, that is—I’ll be able to get a better sense of if he’s lying or telling the truth. I’m very good at reading people. At the very least, I can try to snoop around and maybe find some evidence.
    Pulling up in front of his house, I see his obnoxious bright-red F250 sitting in the driveway. Of course it’s got one of those over-the-top lift kits where you have to have a running start to get in and spotlights so bright Ray Charles could see them. Perfect.
    I dig around in my bag for my fake college ID—one of several I’ve made over the years in order to get my foot in the door for stories—and head up to his front porch. One of the many benefits of being a social hermit is that I’m not recognized very easily. Since he’s one of the most popular people in school, I’m next to positive that he’ll have no clue who I really am. Before I ring the doorbell, I shake out my hair from its ponytail, rake my fingers through it, and undo the top two buttons from my shirt. If I need to use every weapon in my arsenal to get my story, then that’s exactly what the girls and I will do. I might not have much in the boob department, but I’m willing to take whatever help the girls can give me.
    A few seconds later, Hunter swings the door open, shirtless and dangling a bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand. “What.”
    It’s not a question, and I stumble for a second. This is not what I expected to see when he opened the door. The team has a playoff game tomorrow, and I know they have a strict “no fun until the game is won” policy.
    “Hunter Everett?” I ask, even though I know it’s him.
    “Who are you?” He leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms, not even bothering to conceal the alcohol.
    “My name is Reagan Green,” I lie. “I’m a reporter at The Daily Beacon at The University of Tennessee. I’m doing a story on potential recruits for the football program, and I was wondering if I could ask you some questions.”
    This piques his interest. He straightens his stance and nonchalantly hides the bottle behind his back. “Oh. Hey.”
    “So can I come in?”
    He looks around inside the house. “Um, sure. But you should know I haven’t decided on a school yet. I’m not sure if I will.”
    “If I will?” I question.
    “When. I meant when I will. I have a lot of things to consider right now.”
    He ushers me into a very cluttered living room that’s in desperate need of a good scrubbing. There are several empty pizza boxes piled beside a recliner that has seen better days. Red Solo