My Fake Boyfriend Is the School Bad Boy novel Chapter 66

Chapter 66 A Public Date Turning Unexpectedly Genuine

After the devastating confrontation in the North Stairwell, Ryder had completely retreated behind his highest, thickest walls. When we passed each other in the A-wing, he didn’t look at me. When we sat in AP European History, he kept his body angled toward the window,

his jaw locked in a rigid, impenetrable line.

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He was absolutely terrified of the truth I had spoken into the cold concrete air. He was convinced he was toxic, a wrecking ball destined to ruin my life, and he was punishing himself by severing the fragile, genuine connection we had started to build.

But the fake dating contract was still active. Harper Vance and her friends were still watching our every move like vultures circling a dying

animal. We couldn’t afford a public breakup.

Which was why, at 3:15 PM on Wednesday, Ryder was standing by my locker.

He wore his heavy, scuffed leather jacket over a plain white t-shirt. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets, his broad shoulders slumped in a posture of forced, indifferent boredom.

“We need a public appearance,” he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly scrape that barely carried over the noise of the slamming locker doors. He stared straight ahead at the metal bays. “Vance was asking Chloe why we haven’t been eating lunch together. The narrative is

slipping.”

“Okay,” I agreed quietly, slipping my calculus textbook into my canvas backpack. My fingers brushed against the zipper, slightly clumsy from the nervous, heavy adrenaline flooding my system. “Where?”

“Off-campus,” he replied, finally turning his head to look at me. The shards of gold in his hazel eyes were guarded, completely shuttered. “We need them to see us somewhere that isn’t mandated by a bell schedule. Put your coat on. My truck is in the South Lot.”

I didn’t argue. I pulled my thin, tan trench coat over my navy uniform blazer and followed him out of the double doors.

The April air was biting, a fierce, freezing wind whipping across the asphalt. Ryder’s vehicle wasn’t the sleek, terrifying matte-black motorcycle he usually rode to school. It was a massive, beat-up, dark blue Ford pickup truck. The paint on the hood was chipped, and the rear bumper was speckled with rust. It looked entirely practical and completely out of place among the pristine BMWs and Mercedes parked in the student lot.

He unlocked the passenger door for me. The hinges groaned a loud, metallic protest.

I climbed inside. The cab smelled intensely of his signature scent-worn cedar, sharp peppermint, and faint gasoline. The seats were faded gray cloth. It felt incredibly private, an insulated, heavy metal bubble that cut us off from the rest of the world.

Ryder got in, slamming his door shut. He turned the key, the engine roaring to life with a deep, vibrating rumble that shook the

floorboards.

We didn’t speak as he navigated out of the school parking lot and merged onto the main road. The silence in the cab was thick, almost suffocating. The ghost of the stairwell sat squarely between us on the center console. I stared out the passenger window, watching the

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Chapter 66 A Public Date Turning Unexpectedly Genuine

manicured lawns of the Crestview district blur past, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

:))

I wanted to tell him that his father didn’t define him. I wanted to tell him that Mia’s math worksheet was the real him, not the dented

locker. But I kept my mouth shut. Pushing him right now would only make him run faster.

Twenty minutes later, Ryder pulled the truck into a cracked, uneven parking lot on the edge of the county line.

Dixon’s Dairy.

It was a local institution. A small, cinderblock building painted fading white, topped with a massive, buzzing neon sign shaped like a pink ice cream cone. It was freezing outside, but Dixon’s was notoriously popular with the high school crowd year-round. Three cars filled with Crestview juniors were already parked near the picnic tables.

Ryder killed the engine.

“Let’s go, he muttered, grabbing his keys. “Ten minutes. Just long enough for them to register that we’re here.

We stepped out into the freezing wind. I wrapped my arms around my chest, shivering as the cold bit straight through my thin coat. We walked up to the small sliding glass window at the front of the building.

“What do you want?” Ryder asked, pulling a crumpled ten-dollar bill from the pocket of his jeans.

“Vanilla soft serve,” I said, my teeth chattering slightly. “In a cup.”

Ryder looked at me, an eyebrow twitching upward. “It’s forty degrees outside, Petrova.”

“It’s an ice cream stand, I pointed out, my defensive instinct flaring. “What else am I supposed to order?”

“A hot chocolate,” he replied dryly, turning to the bored teenage girl behind the glass. “One hot chocolate. And one vanilla soft serve.

Cup.

He paid, and we waited in silence as the girl filled our orders. She handed me a white paper cup filled to the brim with a towering swirl of vanilla ice cream, and handed Ryder a steaming styrofoam cup.

He didn’t lead us to the wooden picnic tables where the other Crestview kids were sitting. He walked straight back to his truck.

He lowered the rusted metal tailgate with a loud, grinding clank. He hopped up, sitting on the edge of the truck bed, his heavy combat boots resting on the back bumper. He looked at me, giving a small, sharp jerk of his chin, indicating I should join him.

I hesitated for a fraction of a second before climbing up.

I sat about two feet away from him. The corrugated metal of the truck bed was freezing against my thighs through my pleated skirt. The neon pink light from the massive sign above the building flickered, casting a strange, rosy glow over the sharp, bruised lines of his jaw.

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