“Great. Fucking great.” I huff out an exasperated breath. “Do they know he’s my ex? Because I swear to God—”
“Calm down, Faith.” She grabs my hand and pulls me down the driveway. “Why would they? And even if they did, why would it matter? You’ve made your feelings for Luke known. Or Jester. Or whatever the heck his name is.”
She’s not wrong. Anyone with ears has heard about my hatred for Luke Hayden. “True. I might have let it slip how I wouldn’t mind if he accidentally caught on fire.”
“That’s putting it mildly.” Kerri slides into the driver’s seat of her BMW. “God, I wish you were staying longer.”
I climb in next to Kerri and settle in the passenger’s seat, already eager for the night to end. So much for my restorative getaway from Mayhem. “I wish you would stop being stubborn and come home with me.”
Kerri gives me a mischievous grin. “I’m not saying no.”
Hope flares. “Seriously?”
“Annoy me about it, and I’ll change my answer.”
I make a zipper motion over my lip. “This is me not saying another word. Promise.”
Just call me Rapunzel because, same as the character fromTangled, I never break a promise.
Roadies is our go-to hangout, and during the quick drive, I fill Kerri in on what Jester did, and my retaliation. She, of course, is shocked I didn’t stab him right there in the restaurant. So am I, actually. Then it’s her turn, and she tells me what’s going on at home. How she only caught fragments of her father’s argument with Marcus. How Harold Ward doesn’t want to take on a certain client. Marcus, however, does, and they’ve been banging heads over it for days.
When we get to Roadies, familiar cars that belong to people I hoped to never see again fill the parking lot. But here we are, and as I follow Kerri inside, I slap on my fakest smile. We cut around the bistro tables strategically positioned around the meticulously rustic interior, and I hide a cringe at the Lynyrd Skynyrd song playing on the jukebox. Not that I don’t love “Sweet Home Alabama.” Who doesn’t? But this crowd couldn’t name one other Skynyrd song if their life depended on it. They’re here for the ambiance. Not a single person in this place would last a full minute in an actual roadhouse outside of their insulated little world.
When we reach two tables smashed together to form one long row, I swallow a groan at the gathering of snobs who spent years making me feel like dirt. Among them is Connor, with the fading bruise on his right cheek. Put there, I assume, by my ex-boyfriend.
Hate to admit it, but Connor must have earned it.
The Unholy are controlled violence. Especially enforcers. Even Jester. Knowing Connor and Mike, I’d bet my entire savings account they thought they could waltz into Mayhem and pull their Brighton bullshit. I’ve seen Mike drunk. He’s as ass who acts as if his trust fund puts him above the rest of society. I can only imagine Jester bringing him down a few pegs.
Mike and his dickhead of a father have a lot in common.
My question is, why would they go all the way to Mayhem? The town is off their beaten path. Unless they wanted to slum it and lord their superiority over the peasants for the night.
Or deliberately stir up trouble.
But Mike is reckless—not suicidal.
The first one to greet us is Kyle, who comes racing over, nearly tripping over his feet in his haste to say hello to me. “Can’t stay away from us, huh?”
I hold back a groan as his bear hug forces the air out of me. “I’m only here for dinner.”
After a peck on the cheek, he frees me. “Shame. It’s boring without you.”
“I’m sure.” Brighton wasn’t all bad, and I did make a few friends. Among them is Kyle, but the rest of the people seated around the table? Frenemies, the lot of them, and I’m already itching to get as far away from here as possible.
So much for a fun evening with my best friend.
And I can’t even drink my frustrations away without asking for a whole host of other problems.
Friggin’ diabetes.
Might as well put this disastrous night to good use. I purposely occupy the empty chair next to Connor, and when his face turns an ugly shade of red and he tries to get up, I grab his thigh to hold him down. “I didn’t mess up your face, so don’t blame me for what someone else did.”
God, if looks could kill I’d be dead and buried. “But you probably know the guy who did.”
Intimately.
“Yes, I do.” Why bother to deny it? Again, he moves to leave, and again, I stop him. “As I said, you’re not going to put what someone else did to you on me.”
