The giant squared-off cashier station sits to my right with a wall of shoes behind it arranged in neat rows like some kind of footwear army. Logan inherited this place from his parents, and he runs it with the kind of easy confidence that makes everything look effortless. That’s pretty much how Logan gets through life—making it look easy while slaying dragons in his spare time. Little did we know back then that one of those dragons would be Gage.
I’m about to hunt down an Oliver, any Oliver, when I spot Drake near lane twelve, and sweet mother of all things wicked, my goofy stepbrother has really committed to this whole bad boy transformation. Not well, but still, he’s committed.
At the moment, he’s holding court with what appears to be an actual motorcycle gang that somehow wandered into our quaint little bowling establishment—and onto Paragon itself. Drake’s leather jacket catches the overhead lights, and the chains hanging from various parts of his outfit make soft jingling sounds every time he moves.
“Oh, good grief,” I mutter, watching him attempt to look brooding while explaining proper bowling form to a guy with more tattoos than skin.
Brielle bounces over from behind the shoe rental counter withthe kind of manic energy that usually means she’s either had way too much caffeine or fallen in love—again. Given the dreamy expression on her face, I’m betting on the latter.
“Skyla!” she squeals, grabbing my arm with enough enthusiasm to leave bruises. “I am so freaking glad you’re here because I am literally dying to tell someone, and you’re my best friend and?—”
“Breathe, Bree,” I interrupt. “What’s got you so hopped up?”
She glances toward Drake’s little gang and sighs with the kind of longing usually reserved for Logan or Gage—and the sighing in that case would be coming from me. “I’m in l-o-v-e.”
I follow her gaze and gasp with delight once I spot the Leather-clad Landon. “You’re in love with Drake!”
Finally, something is getting back on track. Now, just to get him back on board, and we’re all set—and so are those cute little rugrats they’ll be pumping out sooner than later. Like way sooner. Not that Bree was thinking of ditching Drake, but the more in love she is, the more aggressively she’ll be wagging her boobs in his face. And boobs are tantamount to pizza when it comes to Drake’s resistance levels.
The look of pure horror that crosses Brielle’s face is alarming on a whole other level. She actually gags, making little choking sounds while pretending to stick her finger down her throat.
“Ew, no! Not the rebel without a clue!” She waves her hand dismissively in his direction. “Look at him over there with his thrift store leather and chain wallet that probably still has his lunch money in it. He’s about as badass as a library card. It’s like watching a golden retriever try to be a wolf. Pathetic and totally embarrassing for everyone involved.”
Well, she’s not wrong, but still. She can’t go on calling him names forever.
“Wait a minute,” I say as a whole new panic sets in. “If it’s not Drake, who are you in love with?”
A throaty laugh escapes her. “I’m talking about Razor McManic.”
I blink. Hard. “I’m sorry, the what McWho?”
“Razor McManic,” she repeats, like this is a perfectly normal name for a human being. “He’s the guy with the skull tattoo on his neck and the motorcycle parked outside that’s worth more than my mom’s cabin, and probably half of Paragon.”
“Razor McManic,” I repeat slowly as I look that way and spot the wall of muscles with a skeletal pair of eyes stamped on the back of his neck. “Geez. And is that really his name?”
“Well, probably not the name his mama gave him,” Bree giggles up a storm, “but that’s what everyone calls him, and honestly, I don’t care if he picked it out of a comic book. The man is sex on legs with a side of danger. He’s mysterious and untamed, and he smells like leather and rebellion.”
“Something smells, all right. Badly.”
“I know! Skyla, he so has that whole bad boy thing going on that makes good girls want to doverybad things. Sign me up for whatever rebellion he’s leading,” Brielle sings as she slaps me a high-five. “And when he looks at me with those dark, brooding eyes, I swear I can feel my ovaries spontaneously combust.”
“Wow, that’s something,” I say, frowning at the entire crowd of rebels without a clue. “And it sounds like a medical emergency.” And yet something tells me that brooding caveman that Bree has set her sight on specializes in other people’s medical emergencies. “Bree, take it from your bestie. That wall of ratted tatted muscles is definitely not the one for you. Not in any future, real or imagined. Stick to Drake. He’s more your speed. And the speed of your future children’s genetics.”
Bree scoffs my way as if I had just told her to wear Crocs to prom. “You don’t get it, Skyla,” she insists. “This isn’t just some dumb crush. This isdestiny. This is the kind of love that rappers write about and people make vintage ’80s movies about and?—”
“The kind that ends with restraining orders and therapy,” I finish the thought for her. I’ll leave out the inevitable stitches for now. There’s no way Bree is riding a metal hog and not coming away with a few bumps and bruises, and maybe a scrambled brain from staging her own rebellion against helmets. I know how shefeels about her hair getting messed up in a baseball cap, let alone an exoskeleton designed to preserve her gray matter.
Brielle swats my arm. “You’re such a buzzkill. Just because you’ve got your own personal Oliver twist situation doesn’t mean the rest of us can’t explore our options. Besides, a criminal record just means he’s experienced. And I’m very interested in the particular skill set of someone who may or may not have a criminal record.”
“May or may not?”
“Okay, so he probably does, but we both know Drake’s idea of rebellion is wearing mismatched socks. And a criminal record just makes Razor all that much more exciting.”
“I thought so,” I say with a sigh.
Before I can point out all the ways that dating someone with a criminal record is a danger to herself and others, Logan steps out of the kitchen. The place had a major fire that destroyed the entire area a while back, but Logan’s been working on a complete remodel with new appliances and even installed a brick oven. Now that it’s fully functioning again, he’s been managing everything from the food line to scrubbing both stinky shoes and toilets with the kind of hands-on dedication that would make his parents beam with pride in the heavenlies.
“Evening, ladies,” he says, wiping his hands on a dish towel and flashing that easy smile that makes my heart do stupid things—and I have done one stupid thing after another when it comes to this particular Oliver. “Brielle, I hate to interrupt what I’m sure is a very important conversation, but we’ve got three birthday parties coming in within the next hour and the kitchen needs restocking.”
