We back get away Now it’s gonna explode everywhere
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The bell ringing is not a usual sound in our house.
Both my father and I have a key to it, so when I reach home—usually just minutes before my father—there aren't exactly many people who need to ring it in order to enter.
But the bell rang, and I rose with a frown.
It was a Sunday, one of the few Sundays when both me and my dad would be at home, but not exactly together. Though we'd grown apart, somewhat, over the years, we would still sit in one room. Not looking up once from our work.
My dad looked up then, as I made my way to the door, trying to hide my confusion. Mail? It couldn't be. Door-to-door salesmen? Maybe.
But what greeted me was the hopeful face of a familiar brunet.
Vernon smiled at me without parting his lips, a habit I'd caught on during hours of walking around the garages with him under the sun. To say I was speechless would be an understatement.
"Y/N? Who's at the door?" My father questioned from inside.
"Uh," I stared at him, who smiled a little wider and raised his eyebrows in question. "It's someone from...college."
Vernon's eyebrows jumped, and he parted his lips, mouthing, you're not wrong.
My hands were fisted, frozen at my sides as I walked back a couple of steps and stiffly turned to look at my dad, who's face was lifted from his newspaper with an expectant expression.
"I just remember I had a study date." I said, trying to sound as natural as I could without giving away any indication that I would be out—probably driving—with someone from the street racer group. "I'll be back in a few hours."
His brow furrowed, but he nodded, though slowly. "Stay safe."
"Sure will." I muttered, forcing a smile onto my lips, and turning back to the door, where Vernon was still standing with a self-satisfied smile taped across his chapstick-ed lips.
I grabbed my jacket from the back of the chair I had been sitting on, taking along some of my notes for good measure, and exited the house in a flurry, shutting the door softly after me.
"This better be good," I muttered to him, who only touched my wrist, still smiling, and jerked his chin towards where his car stood.
It was an everyday, commutable model, not the show and pomp you would usually see in the garage of a street racer and recruiter. As I climbed into the passenger seat, waves of the smell of fresh diesel hit me, and I guessed this was only a temporary ride.
