Chapter Four
3 years, 12 weeks, 4 days
For approximately two weeks, I debate the validity of ruining Jack Hunter’s life-slash-reputation-slash-all future prospects with women. Or men. Just love in general, really. Guys like him shouldn’t get to be happy. He ruins a girl’s happiness at least once per hour. On Wednesday, someone left him a love letter tucked between the wipers of his black sedan. He tore it off without a second glance and ripped it in two. A distant wail could be heard as a well-dressed, beautiful blond girl from drama club had her heart shattered and smeared all over the pavement. She’d been waiting for his reaction, and now she had to watch the pieces of her carefully crafted letter-feelings whisk across the parking lot.
I chased the pieces around, grabbing as many as I could, and comforted her for three hours in a stairwell while she cried on me. I pieced the letter back together. It was full of Shakespearian references and a particularly well-thought-out passage in which she drew comparisons between Jack and Romeo. I informed her she was right—Romeo’s manic mental illness and pigheaded refusal to acknowledge another person’s feelings are mirrored exactly in Jack. She thanked me for that keen assessment by calling me a bitch.
Drama Club Wailer was just the first. In two weeks of stealthily following Jack around campus, I’ve counted four love confessions, each more creative than the last. The girl who runs the morning announcements says Jack’s won a prize from the announcement committee, and to come to the PA room after school to get it. She does this every. Single. Day. And yet every day Jack never goes near the PA room; he doesn’t even walk in the same hall. He takes a route that leads him around it and makes him almost late for fourth period. I sneak a peek at the PA room after school for a few days. Sure enough, Announcement Girl waits in that room for thirty minutes before finally locking up and going home with a defeated look on her face.
A girl in art club is working on a marble statue of him (it’s definitely him, everyone can see that) complete with resplendent Greek posture and a perfectly replicated face. She’s left the crotch area blank and goes red if anyone asks her about it, but according to Kayla she’s diligently chipped away at it since freshmen year, and she’s now a senior. Another girl writes poetry and leaves it in his locker.
Through all this, Jack is impervious. It’s like he’s numb to whatever a girl does to get his attention. On top of that, no one dares to call his name out loud in the hall. He doesn’t have any guy friends; he keeps to himself at lunch, and during recess he’s in the library. He’s always alone, and it’s definitely by choice. But why? That nags at me more than anything—pretty people are never alone. That’s what I’ve learned, in my scant seventeen years on this green earth. Why is he defying the one law I thought I had pinned down?
At first I stayed far away from Jack to quell the rumors, and to maybe-hopefully get Kayla to forget the fact that he kissed me. But there are so many rumors now; it’s just one irritating slurry. “They’re going out” is the usual; the most out-there one is that he’s my pimp and I’m addicted to lean. My favorite is the one where I’m his long-lost half sister and we’re doing the incest and doing it hard. None of them is helping my relationship with Kayla, of course, but today she sat at my table and we ate together. In total silence. Which isn’t exactly a step in the right direction, but it’s a step nonetheless. She only started sitting with me after she returned Jack’s wallet to him, which I watched. It went much smoother than their first encounter—she handed it over and he actually nodded at her! A positive signal! I didn’t see his lips form the words “I’m sorry,” though, so technically he hasn’t swallowed his pride and technically I am not regrettably still at war with him.
Kayla’s smile lasted for hours after the exchange. And that only fuels my need to see Jack apologize. It’s incredible how much control he has over her emotions, and how little he cares. Any guy in school would kill to make her smile like that. Jack’s indifference toward her only makes me hate him more. No one should pour their entire heart onto another person without even an acknowledgment.
And so, armed with only a single business card and my indomitable charm, I go hunting.
My prey is easy to find. He moves like clockwork—always the same boring places at the same boring times. I open the door to the library. Frigid air mixed with the pulpy smell of old books greets me. The librarian eyes my purple streaks but doesn’t say anything. She’s seen worse. I meander through the aisles, looking up and down for him. Finally, I find him in the romance section. His sandy hair grazes his eyes as he leafs through a book with . . . a beefy guy on the cover? I feel my eyebrows shoot up.
“You could do the fair maidens of the school a favor and inform them you’re gay,” I say.
“Didn’t you read the sign?” he asks coolly without looking up. “No harpies in the library.”
“If I was any fantasy animal I’d be a majestic unicorn, thank you, but I’ll forgive your transgressions. It takes keen eyesight to differentiate a harpy from a unicorn. Also, common sense.”
He looks up, blue eyes growing irritated. “I don’t have the patience for you right now.”
“Listen to yourself! I don’t have the patience for you,” I mock in a deep voice. “You sound like my freaking mom! Like a parent! Like a really old, decrepit man. You’re what, seventeen? Start acting like it.”
“They’re spreading rumors about us. It’d be best for you to keep your distance.”
“Aha! I’ve already thought of that! But let’s be realistic. This is high school. No amount of space between us is gonna stop the rumors from breeding like rabbits.”
“Your Freudian choice of metaphor is getting ridiculous now. If you want me, just come out and say it. Get it over with so I can shoot you down.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Nope. Not happening. You aren’t my type, first off—”
“I’m everyone’s type,” he says tiredly.
“And second off, have you even seen that marble statue? It’s incredible. You should at least give her a chance, okay? Someone with that much talent has to be cool.”
He snaps the book closed and picks up another one. “No.”
“You have to agree it’s an incredible piece of art, creepy stalkerish qualities attached to it or no.”
“You’re the only stalker I see here.” He sighs.
“And what about drama club girl—”
“Who?”
“Windshield love note girl.”
“Ah.” His face sours.
“But she’s so cute! And short! And she has huge boobs! And she’s got tenacity! But mostly huge boobs. That’s a thing with guys last time I checked. Boooobs!” I make a cupping motion around my significantly flatter chest. “And if she has tenacity, she’ll be able to put up with your arrogant bullshit longer! It’s a perfect match!”
He snorts. “You don’t know anything about me, let alone enough to match me with some pathetic girls.”
“Stop saying they’re pathetic! They’re nice, okay? You just haven’t given them a chance—”
He moves so fast I barely have time to blink and he’s looming over me, arms on either side of me and that same deadly cool look in his eyes I saw when he was talking to Evans. A strange pressure threatens to collapse my lungs, but I stay strong. For Kayla. For the sake of the war. I’m strong and I can’t let him see anything otherwise.
“All they do is grovel,” he snarls. “I am a thing to them, not a person. They worship me because they don’t know me.”
“Yeah, but you keep it that way. Everybody thinks you’re intimidating and hard to approach, just how you like it. You don’t make any effort to be nice or make friends. It’s easier to be worshipped by people than it is to be friends with them.”
“What the hell do you know?”
“I don’t know anything—except that you’re here, in the library, reading corny-ass romance books.” I gesture around me. He holds my gaze, like he’s looking for something inside me, some weakness to exploit. He is the spitting image of a lion circling its prey. But I’m no wildebeest to be eaten.
I’m a tiger.
He must see that, because he backs off. He returns the book and takes out a few others, piling them on his arm.
“These aren’t for me.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“I have a friend who enjoys them,” he says, voice now softer. “But she can’t get out a lot. So I take them to her.”
“Oh. Well. That’s nice of you. Also kind of weird, since you seem to intensely dislike all women.”
“I don’t dislike them. I’m tired of them. There’s a difference.”
“Tired of them? You’re seventeen! Why do I have to keep reminding you of that? There are soooo many women you haven’t even met yet! Don’t act like you’re tired of the puss-puss; no guy is ever tired of the puss-puss.”
He shoots me a withering look, but for a split second I swear I hear him half laugh, half scoff quietly under his breath.
“You’re bizarre. And a moron. But I suppose it could be worse. You could be normal.”
“I could be normal,” I agree. “It could be even worse—I could like you.”
“True. I don’t like you, either. In fact, I despise you.”
“Can we maybe not talk about your gross little feelings for me?”
“Trust me, they’re anything but little. And gross is an understatement; they cause instantaneous vomiting.”
“Oh, good! That makes two of us. I threw up four times on my way to the library to ask you about this.”
I flash the black-and-red card between my fingers. Jack’s expression doesn’t change from one of utter boredom. I flash it again in front of his face, waving it back and forth a few times for good measure.
“Aren’t you the least bit concerned I have one of these?”
“I knew you had it. I counted the cards when your friend returned the wallet you stole.”
“How did you know I was the one who took it?”
“How else would Kayla get it?” He sneers. “She’s not the type to steal. You are.”
“I’d be insulted if I wasn’t rolling in five cubic tons of hot-ass self-confidence.”
“I have twenty-two cards, and there were twenty-one when she gave it back.”
“Are you OCD or something? You keep count of how many business cards you have in your wallet?”
“Can you just get on with threatening me?”
I treat him to a brief glare. “I haven’t called the number on this card. Yet.”
“But you’ve written it down somewhere else.”
“Of course,” I breeze on. “And if you have an ounce of brain in that thick head of yours, you’ll apologize to Kayla before I call it and leak to the campus cop whatever sordid drugs you deal as a side job.”
He scoffs. “Drugs. That’s what you think it is? You think I’m that predictable? I’m almost offended.”
“The people in juvie will certainly be offended by your holier-than-thou attitude. Offended enough to beat you up on the daily.”
“You poor girl.” He laughs, pinching the bridge of his nose like he has a headache. “You poor, naive little girl. You talk a big game, about how much smarter you are and how you’re different from them. But at the end of the day, you’re just as oblivious as all the other girls.”
“Don’t patronize me!” I snarl. “I know you’re doing something illegal to make money. If you don’t apologize to Kayla—”
“You’ll what? Out me? Go ahead. Call that number.” He leans in. “I dare you to.”
“Back the hell off,” I hiss up at his face. He narrows his icy-flint eyes but doesn’t lean away.
“Do it.” He holds out his phone.
It’s a trap. I’m walking into the biggest trap in the world. Jack looks at me with a keen, almost hungry interest. He wants me to find out what this card means. By the time I do, I might’ve sprung his trap closed. But I want to know, too. The part of me that wants to know is louder than the part of me that’s a prudent, tactical battle master. If I call this number, I’ll get a huge amount of blackmail material. In theory. What’s the worst that could happen? It’s not like he’s rigged a bomb to the number or anything. It could be nothing at all, a huge dud, but I won’t know until I try.
I dial slowly and raise it to my ear. There’s a ring. And another ring. Jack isn’t moving. He’s barely blinking. I’m barely breathing, anticipation heavy on my chest.
“Hello, Madison speaking,” a pleasant woman’s voice chirps. “How may I help you?”
“Uh, hi, I’m—”
“Looking for a rose,” Jack says softly. He’s so close I can smell him—pepper and honey? His hair falls in his eyes and I’m pretty sure I’m in the middle of a photo shoot, but I can’t tear my gaze from his to confirm that.
“Looking for a rose,” I finally croak.
There’s a brief pause. “One moment while I bring out the books. May I ask your name?”
I look to Jack again, but he just shakes his head.
“Isi— Isabelle.”
“All right Isabelle, and who are you calling after?”
“Um . . . ”
“The name on the card you were given?”
“Oh. Jaden.”
If this is a drug request line or something, it’s the weirdest one ever. There’s a tapping noise as the woman types on a keyboard. Jack’s eyes are scanning over my shoulder, watching people walk by, but I can tell he’s still fully tuned in to the conversation I’m having.
“And is this your first time with the Rose Club, Isabelle?”
“Y-Yes? Yes.” Club? What kind of club—
“All right, thank you so much for choosing to book with us, Isabelle. Jaden’s one of our most popular escorts, so I’m afraid there’s a bit of a wait. The soonest opening I have is on December fourth, at twelve thirty p.m., in Columbus. In addition, I’m obligated to mention to any and all customers his fees are considerably higher than those of our other escorts—”
I scrabble for the button to cancel the call and end up fumbling the phone onto the floor. It slides beneath a shelf and disappears. Jack hefts off the shelf and picks the phone up in one fell swoop.
“I set my phone to record that call,” he says. “I now have you and the operator’s conversation on tape. I will edit it to only implicate you. If you tell anyone what you know about that card, I will sue you for character defamation. Is that clear?”
I swallow so hard I swear I hear my throat crack. Jack Hunter an escort? A real-life escort? At seventeen? It’s not possible—
“I said, is that clear?” He hardens his voice. I don’t dignify him with a nod. I’m gone before he has the chance to form another imperious sentence. It was a trap. And I fell for it.
I watch Isis go, her footsteps petulant. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen her angry. But it’s definitely the first time I’ve seen her off her game. She’s thrown, imbalanced by my reveal. If this isn’t enough to get her off my case for good, I don’t know what is. I gambled on the truth, scaring her enough to keep her away from me, but I’ll only know if it worked for sure in the next few days.
I want it to work.
I want her to stop following me, harassing me. She’s clearly misguided, or just bored—either way, I remind her of someone who hurt her in the past. Even an idiot can see that much. How can a girl be this infuriating and stubborn? Most of them give up after I tell them off, or at least quietly go about their business and leave me be. But she has no sense of boundaries, no tact. She’s raw and forward and never holds herself back. She throws herself headfirst into any problem she comes across. It’s utterly baffling. It’s driving me crazy.
“Another girl you’ve scared off, eh, Jack?”
I look up. The librarian has an armful of books, and she puts each back carefully on the shelf next to me. She and I haven’t always gotten along, but she lets me stay in the library whenever I want, and for that I’m grateful.
“It’s none of your business, Ms. Schafer.”
She laughs. “Oh, I know. But keep going like this, and you’ll end up like me—all alone.”
“Maybe that’s what I want.”
Ms. Schafer sighs and puts a book back on the highest shelf. “That’s very romantic and tragic and all, but I’ll let you in on a secret—nobody actually wants that, kiddo. Only poets and psychopaths want to be left alone forever, and after three years I know you’re not either of those.”
“Thank you for your words of wisdom, but forgive me if I don’t take the bittersweet ramblings of a high school librarian to heart.”
I start to walk away, but she speaks after me, sounding exasperated.
“You don’t have to keep punishing yourself, kiddo.”
I keep walking. She doesn’t know anything.
The air outside is warm and smells fresh, but my insides are rotting. They’ve been rotting since that night, five years ago.
But I deserve to rot.
This is my punishment.
Somewhere deep down, I am relieved. I’m relieved someone knows what I really do now, even if it is an insensitive girl like Isis. I’ve kept the secret for so many months, I forgot it was festering. But now it feels freer—no. I feel freer. I’ve chained myself to this side job to help Sophia. Or at least, that’s what I keep telling myself. Of course I’m helping her. At the same time, it’s bothersome. It’s tiring. And sometimes, it feels like I’m being used.
But this is my punishment for the evil I’ve done.
And I will accept it.
...
I am getting my shit kicked in.
I say that admiringly about Jack Hunter, even if I hate his guts. He’s pulling out all the stops, hitting hard and heavy and never relenting. I would be wounded, my pride shattered and completely defeated if I were anyone but me. Thankfully, I’m Isis Blake, and word on the block is she’s a pretty rad girl who is never defeated. Nameless couldn’t do it. I sure as hell won’t let some random pretty boy do it. The only one who’s worthy of defeating me is me!
Feeling mildly more pumped, I blast my radio louder at a stoplight. My brain’s working overtime. I make a list in my head.
1. Jack knows a girl. He brings said girl romance novels. She can’t get out a lot. Maybe she has overprotective parents or something? Is she the same girl I heard Evans trying to convince him to leave behind? More investigation is necessary. The girl could be the key factor in turning the tide—Jack seems to care about her, mildly more than he cares about himself, anyway. I need to find out who she is.
2. Jack is an escort. It’s like something out of a stupid drama on TV, but I heard the lady on the other line. If she was a hoax, she was a very good one. Something in my gut tells me she wasn’t—Jack’s good at this mind game stuff, but not that good. He couldn’t have set up an entire fake telephone line and hired a fake lady to convince me he’s an escort, and even if he did, what would he gain from it? Why would convincing me he’s an escort prove helpful to him? It wouldn’t. So that means it has to be true.
2A. The word “escort” has a buncha definitions, but “a man who is a companion of a woman, especially on a social occasion” is the one that fits here. People hire Jack—no, Jaden. Women escorts more or less are hired for sex. Is that true with the men, too? Is Jack—for all intents and purposes—having sex for money?
2B. If it’s true he’s an escort, then I can’t use that info, since he has the recording to use against me. It kills me that I can’t say anything—revealing he has a part-time job as an escort would be the ultimate retaliation for him stealing my first kiss. But I don’t wanna get dragged down with him. I don’t wanna get sued—even if it is a bluff, Mom doesn’t need the extra stress of the legal system right now. And we definitely don’t need another chip in our finances. So I’ll just have to find other ways to make him regret ever touching me, or insulting Kayla, or being the Massive Douche Bag of the Century™.
I’ve never fought someone this confusing.
My enemies in my old high school were straightforward assholes, the kind who shouted “bitch” and “dyke” and sometimes spread rumors about sleeping with certain (pretty) girls. But that was all they did. That was the limit. They were easy to see through (insecure, compensating), and easy to shut down with a well-placed comment about their inferiority complexes or urge to fit in.
But Jack? Jack is steel and black ice. He’s deadly serious, sharp as a katana, and as disorienting as a mountain blizzard in December. I have no idea what his deal is. All I know is he isn’t what he seems; a boy who takes a girl the romance novels she likes to read because she can’t get out much can’t be a monster. That’s the act of a kind person.
But then again, I learned the hard way that even kind boys can turn out to be monsters.
Since Jack is good, and I’ve never quite faced this good of an enemy before, I need answers, information, and tactics. And I need them fast. So I’m going to the one person who might know something about Jack.
Wren volunteers on Saturdays at the local food bank. I know this because every time Mrs. Gregory sees his face on the morning announcements she feels the need to list each one of his accomplishments, starting with how often he volunteers and where. I park and get out, mincing through the crowd of single moms with screaming kids and the half homeless. A guy looks me up and down and whistles “Ay mami” but he smells like booze and pee and that makes sense—only people with severely impaired judgment would think I’m pretty enough to whistle at. Wren’s at the front of the line but behind the tables, stocking cans of corn and tuna. He talks with the other volunteers and coordinates them with a brisk, clear efficiency. He has dark midnight hair perfectly slicked back. His glasses make him look way older than he is. He isn’t handsome like Jack, but he’s terribly cute in that bumbling, wide-eyed boy-next-door way. I sidle up beside him.
“Your mom should’ve just named you Chicken.”
Wren looks up, hazel eyes confused. “Excuse me?”
“You know, it’s a more common word than Wren. Plus people wouldn’t be bugging you about how to spell it all the time. If you’re gonna name your kid after a bird, at least have the courtesy to make it a bird people can spell.”
“It has four letters,” he says.
“Those little paper fortune-teller hand doohickeys have four things, too, but do you even know how complicated that shit can get?”
“I’m sorry.” Wren squints at me. “Do I know you? Oh, wait. I do know you. The new girl. Isis Blake.”
“The one and only!” I smile.
“July 1, 1998. Blood type O positive. You previously lived in Good Falls, Florida, with your aunt. You’re allergic to strawberries.”
I’m shocked, but I keep my smile. “How do you know so—”
“I’ve read your school record. I volunteer in the office.” He stacks another can on top of the small pyramid of tuna.
“Ah. Right. That makes less creepy sense!”
“Is there something I can do for you?” He grins, locking eyes with mine, and it’s then I’m subjected to his fabled stare. He doesn’t move his gaze in the slightest, boring a hole deep into my head. I glance away, but when I look back he’s still staring with that same pleasant smile on his face. I clear my throat.
“As you may or may not know, I’m engaged in casual war with Jack Hunter.”
“Yes, it’s hard to go anywhere without hearing about the newest tantrum you two collectively pull.”
“And a little bird—not a chicken—told me that you know everyone. Like, everyone.”
“I make it a point to speak with everyone on campus. I enjoy being on amiable terms with many people.”
“So that’s a yes?”
“Yes. I know everyone. And if I don’t know them, such as in your case, I hope to soon.”
His smile brightens, but it only creeps me out more.
“Right,” I say slowly. “So anyway, I’m betting you’re the only guy who knows Jack.”
Wren laughs. “‘Know’ Jack? Sure. I know him. As much as anyone can. He’s like a wolf—he comes and goes and doesn’t really give you any explanation about anything. But sometimes, just sometimes, he’ll visit you in the dead of the night. If you’re looking for information about him, I’m afraid I can’t help you. I’m a little busy.”
Wren pulls out a can of tomato sauce and inspects it like it’s a precious gem. He hands it to a lady working with him.
“It’s dented. Send it to the back pile.”
“But it feels fine!” the woman protests.
“No, right here.” Wren guides her fingers to the side of the can. “See? A nick. Tin doesn’t stand up well to denting. You could poison someone like that.”
The lady has to be postcollege, but she flushes a darker red than any schoolgirl. Wren turns back to me, and I make a low whistle.
“That’s a hell of a metaphor, prez. Personally, I’d liken Jack more to a limbless, ooze-leaking amoeba, but wolf works, too.”
“My name is Wren,” he says sternly.
“Do you like burritos, prez? There’s a burrito place around the corner. Saw it on my way here. They look huge! I can’t eat one all by myself. But I’m hungry as hell and it’s nearly lunchtime, so . . . ” I jerk my thumb behind me. “I’m gonna go get one. I guess I’ll see you around.”
The burrito truck is situated in the middle of a ring of picnic tables, colorful umbrellas shading the parking lot and tired construction workers from across the street lining up to get a bite of cheesy, beany glory. I order a chicken and green salsa one. I cut it neatly in half and place one half across the table, and dig into my own. And I wait. It’s the perfect lure. Wren might hide his exhaustion well, but I know he doesn’t eat enough. He’s the kind of student who’s so busy buzzing around doing extracurriculars he constantly forgets to eat.
A shadow falls over my table, and Wren slides into the seat across from me. He pulls the burrito half to him, pleasant smile faint.
“You don’t mind, do you?”
“Nope.” I dribble lettuce eloquently on my shirt. He wolfs the burrito down with impressive speed. When he’s done, and wiping his mouth with a napkin, I clap.
“Very good, prez. There’s hope for you yet.”
“I didn’t have breakfast,” he admits sheepishly.
“I know.”
“You . . . knew?”
I nod toward his hands. “Your nails. See how they’re all translucent, and ribbed with those little raised spots? Mine used to get like that when I was dieting. Not enough iron. Hell, not enough anything, period. I can get you another burrito, if you want.”
“No, no I’m fine,” he says a little too quickly, and does the creepy eyelock thing with me. “You’re very observant, aren’t you?”
I shrug. “How else would I maintain such a fabulous awareness of human existence at all times?”
“You are like him.” Wren laughs and stands. He starts walking back to the food bank tent, and I trash my napkins and quickly follow.
“Like who?”
“Jack. You two have the same eye for detail. The same eye for delving into what people are all about.”
I roll my eyes, but Wren merely shakes his head.
“He already came to see me. About you. That just further proves you two think alike—except you might be the slower one.”
I shoot him a withering look, but he just smiles.
“I didn’t say much about you. If you want to know about him, I can only tell you a few things. There’s a lot I don’t know.”
“Who’s the girl?” I immediately ask.
“What girl?”
“The girl he takes books to.”
“Oh. You must mean Sophia.”
“Sophia,” I repeat quietly. “Is she his sister?”
“No. She’s a friend. Maybe more than a friend. She’s the one thing he guards very closely. I know she’s ill; she’s in the hospital almost always.”
“Sick Sophia. Got it.” I catch a falling can and hand it to the blush lady. “Anything else?”
“He lives with his mom in Coral Heights.”
“That’s that fancy gated suburb with the huge houses, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, a lot closer to Columbus.”
“Where’s his dad?”
“Died in a plane crash, I believe. It was a long time ago, but I read articles about it. He was a pilot for a major airline. The insulation melted over the wing. It came right off.” Wren inhales. “He landed the plane and managed to keep the cabin area safe. Two hundred people escaped. But he and his copilot were crushed under the impact. Jack’s mother got a substantial amount of money from the company after a lawsuit against them.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. My heart sinks. I pull it back up by the ventricles. Now is no time to be feeling sorry for the enemy, heart! Get it together! Extremely together! Get it together so well you fuse!
“So . . . what did you tell him about me?”
“I told him about Will Cavanaugh.”
I flinch so hard I jolt into the table behind me. A pyramid of soup cans wobbles and comes crashing down. I bite back a swear and hurriedly help them clean up my mess. When the pyramid is back on the table in a mass of tin and cheery labels screaming “SODIUM FREE,” Wren sighs.
“My cousin is kind of a cruel little shit. I can understand why his name affects you like that.”
“He’s—” I swallow what feels like the entire contents of a staple box. “He’s your—”
“Cousin,” Wren confirms. “I don’t know if you’ve been told, but it’s a very small world.”
“Microscopic.” I laugh nervously, but no part of me feels happy. Nameless is closer than I thought. No—it’s not him. Calm down. It’s just a relation of his. He’s not here, and he won’t ever be. Hopefully. I mentally make a note to search for the closest cliff to dive off of just in case.
“I don’t know the full story between you and my cousin, but he’s said you and he were involved at some point.”
“Yeah. Involved. That’s hilarious.”
“Are you okay? You look green.”
“I’m— I’m fine.” I put a hand on my stomach to steady it and send it a memo.
Can you wait until we’re alone to recalibrate the burrito?
Thanks and love, The Management Upstairs.
My stomach replies with a rebellious gurgle. Wren checks off something on a clipboard, eyes burrowing into me all the while.
“Anything else I can help you with?”
“Yeah, how legal is underage prostitution?”
He blinks. “Excuse me?”
“Like, it’s not death sentence illegal, but it’s not booze-legal either. So it’s somewhere in between those two, right?”
“Presumably, yeah.”
“Okay. Cool. Thanks again, prez!”
He flinches at the nickname as I wave and walk off, my mind brewing with a fantastic, ultracool, surefire plan.
Jack Hunter might be a little more human in my eyes now—he might have a sick girlfriend and a dead father—but he’s still a dick. We’re still at war. And he’s still gonna apologize to Kayla, if it’s the last thing I do.