Brielle purses her lips in protest. “I was just telling Skyla about my future husband.”
“Future husband?” Logan’s eyebrows shoot up as he glances toward the cashier station, where a few of the other girls who work at the place are busy with actual customers. “Anyone I know?” He shoots me a sly smile because he thinks this heart-shaped train is headed in Drake Unlucky-in-Love Landon’s direction. But as fateand Bree’s hopped-up hormones would have it, she’s about to run over yet another victim.
“Razor Blade McManic,” I supply helpfully. I added theBladepart myself. At this point, he’s slicing off a few branches of the family tree, so the cutting moniker fits in more ways than one.
“Razor, huh?” Logan looks like he’s trying exceptionally hard not to laugh. “Right. Well, maybe you could tell Razor Blade McManic about your future together while you’re refilling the nacho cheese dispensers?”
“Fine,” Bree huffs at the thought of doing actual work at her place of employment. It’s sort of an affront to why she actually shows up at this place. “But when I’m married to a dangerous biker and our kids have the coolest names ever, don’t come crying to me about your boring, safe relationships—or your boring baby names either.”
Bree’s kids will definitely have names that are anything but boring, but it still doesn’t have anything to do with Mr. Felony-Waiting-to-Happen over there.
She bounces off toward the kitchen, leaving Logan and me standing near the lanes where the sounds of strikes and spares startle us to this grim new reality every three seconds.
“Razor Blade McManic?” Logan asks.
“Apparently, leather and rebellion are very attractive scents,” I explain. “And evidently, bad boys are having a moment.”
“Great. And here I thought being mysteriously dangerous wasmything.”
“Your thing was lying about being a Count and making me cry in bathrooms.”
“That was character development. Very different from whatever Razor’s got going on.”
“Right. Because nothing says,boyfriend material, like making a girl question her entire reality.”
“It worked on you, didn’t it?”
“Only because I had a weakness for drama and danger.”
“Lucky for me, you never outgrew it.”
Before I can respond, Gage appears from the direction of the arcade, having navigated through the technological torture chamber without going blind. His expression is serious in a way that immediately puts me on edge, and judging by the storm clouds gathering in his cobalt eyes, my night is about to get a whole lot worse. But newsflash: Things aren’t going to get any easier for him either.
“I need to talk with the two of you,” he says without preamble.
“Ooh, a threesome!” Brielle calls out from behind the food counter. “Tell me when and where, and I’ll record it. I know how to get all the right angles.”
“Bree,” Logan warns, but she’s already disappeared into the kitchen, probably to continue her dangerous fantasies about scary men with even scarier names.
Gage nods toward one of the picnic-style tables scattered throughout the bowling area. “Privately.”
My stomach does that thing where it tries to tie itself into a pretzel because Gage only gets this serious when something is catastrophically wrong. And considering our track record—faction wars, cursed jewelry, multiple deaths and resurrections—catastrophically wrong is basically our brand.
Logan and I follow him past the lanes, where the overhead lights cast everything in that specific bowling alley glow—the one that’s supposed to feel nostalgic and comforting, but tonight just makes everyone look like they’re extras in a low-budget horror movie about possessed bowling shoes.
We settle onto the wooden benches, and Gage looks between Logan and me with an expression that lets us know he’s about to solve a math problem that’s going to make someone cry.
“I know what’s going on,” he says with a frown.
Logan and I exchange a look that probably screamsguiltyin neon letters to anyone with working eyeballs. We promised each other that Gage wouldn’t find out about our little time-traveling field trip, and now we’re both doing the mental math on who screwed up.
My money is on Logan. He has that I-accidentally-said-something-while-showing-off energy. Although knowing me, I probably blurted it out during a jealous rage and then immediately forgot about it. We’re both disasters, just on different fonts.
“What do you mean by you know what’s going on?” I ask, going for innocent and probably achieving girl who definitely didn’t just travel back from the future to wreck everything.
“I know you guys aren’t into the plan anymore,” Gage continues. “Not in the way I thought you would be. Look, I’ll do my part to help deflect the Fems, but Skyla, I can’t pretend to date you. It’s not in me.”
A small rush of relief hits me. He’s talking about faction politics, not light driving. But why does this suddenly feel ten times more dangerous?
