What I didn't expect was themen.
There are at least ten of them, maybe more, and they're all... huge. Not just tall, though most of them are, butbuilt. Broad shoulders and thick arms and the kind of muscle that comes from actual physical labor, not a gym membership. They're covered in tattoos—I can see ink crawling up forearms, peeking out of collar lines, wrapping around knuckles. Most of them are wearing leather or denim vests covered in patches I can't quite make out from here.
And they're all staring at me.
Every single one of them, with varying degrees of concern and alarm and something else I can't quite identify. Wariness, maybe. Like I'm a bomb that wandered in from the rain and might go off at any moment.
"You walked here?" one of them asks. He's got dark hair pulled back in a bun, arms crossed over a massive chest, and he'slooking at me like I've personally offended him by dripping on his floor.
"My date left me on the side of the road." I take a sip of tea—whoever made it put in enough sugar to rot my teeth, but I'm not complaining. The sweetness is actually helping with the shakiness. "About two miles back? Maybe three? I saw your lights."
"Your dateleftyou?"
That's Jason—I can see him now, and he's younger than the others, maybe mid-twenties, with bright eyes and an open, expressive face. He looks personally offended on my behalf, his whole body radiating indignation like a scandalized golden retriever.
"In the rain?" he continues. "On the side of the road? What kind of asshole—"
"Jason," someone warns.
"What? It's a valid question! Who does that?"
"Apparently, Derek." I reach for a fry, too tired to perform okay-ness anymore. "Who also spent forty-five minutes explaining Bitcoin to me like I've never seen a computer, and then told me I'd be prettier if I smiled more."
The fries are perfect. Crispy outside, fluffy inside, salted exactly right. My stomach growls loudly enough that several of the men definitely hear it, which is mortifying, but I'm too hungry to care. I never actually ate dinner—hard to have an appetite when your date won't stop talking about his crypto portfolio and his ex.
"You didn't eat," Jason says. It's not a question.
"I was at a restaurant." I take another fry, then another. "But somehow listening to Derek explain blockchain for the fifth time killed my appetite."
Jason makes an outraged noise and pushes the basket closer to me. "Eat more. Silas, can we get him actual food? Like a burger or something?"
"I'm fine, really—" I start, but a man with silver at his temples is already moving toward what I assume is the kitchen.
"You're not fine," Jason says firmly. "You're freezing and starving and some asshole left you on the side of the road in a storm. You need food."
"And for you to stop hovering," the man with the bun interrupts. "You're going to smother him."
"I'm beinghospitable, Vaughn."
"You're being a mother hen."
"Both can be true!"
I eat my fries and watch them bicker. It's oddly soothing—the warmth of the blanket around my shoulders, the heat of the mug in my hands, the easy rhythm of their argument. Like watching a family, or at least people who've known each other long enough to fight like one.
My phone finally has enough charge to turn on. I swipe past the lock screen to find five missed texts from Robin, timestamps spanning two hours—which means he's probably pacing our apartment right now, genuinely worried.
I type back quickly:I'll be home soon. Date from hell. Getting uber.
His response is immediate:TOBY. Where the hell have you been?? I was about to call hospitals.
Phone died. Long story. I'm fine.
You're not fine, you're getting an uber which means Derek the Douche didn't drive you home. What happened?
I hesitate, then type:He left me on the side of the road because I wouldn't put out.
WHERE ARE YOU.
