“I hate that you might be right,” I mutter.
We dodge a rogue stroller and pass a shop window with a hand-lettered sign taped to the glass:Psychic Readings — Walk-Ins Welcome.
We take a turn towards the park.
“Did you know Justin’s mom runs that psychic place?” Caspian asks.
“No way,” I grin.
“Yep. She bought the shop with her settlement money. Lives upstairs. I wonder if she sensed us running past.”
“How’s Justin? Still such a…” I trail off.
“Jackass? Probably. I don’t keep in touch with him anymore. Or any of the jocks, really. Not after everything that went down with Xaden. It still pisses me off how they treated him when Lisa outed him.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “I haven’t forgiven them either. Not that anyone’s asked.”
We fall silent then, both deep in thought.
***
The ball whips through the air, skimming the new kid’s shoulder. He flinches but doesn’t run. Justin and his crew crack up like it’s harmless fun and not bullying.
I’m at the picnic tables, pretending not to watch. But I am.
Every smirk on Justin’s face. Every time the kid’s shoulders fold tighter.
But I don’t do anything, no one does.
Then Xaden steps in. He catches the ball one-handed without flinching. Drops it in the nearest trash bin.
Silence. “Still got that arm, huh?” Xaden says lightly to Justin. “Too bad it only works when the target can’t fight back.”
Justin stiffens. “Just playing around, man.”
“Yeah? Looked like you wanted him to cry.” Xaden turns to the new kid. “You good?” He offers his hand. “C’mon. You’re probably late for registration.”
Off they go, like it’s nothing.
I just stand there. Heart thumping. Watching him. Thinking: I love everything about him. The way he sees people. The way he acts likejustice is part of his wiring.
When he glances back, just for a moment, and meets my eyes, the whole world tilts.
And I know, even if I can’t say it yet — I’m his. Have been for quite some time.
***
“Did we just disassociate for a full minute?” Caspian asks when we finally stop to cool down. I give him a small smile. “I blame the running.”
XADEN
The scent of grease and sugar hits me the second I step into the garage. I welcome the smell, hell, I’d even buy one of those ridiculous Baywood-scented candles at this point. Spending the day with JJ and Ronnie is not a feast for the senses.
Frankie’s got the hood propped on an old Chevy. A jar of painkillers sits on the bench.
“Your joints giving you trouble?” I ask, grabbing the rest of the apple pie in a takeout box.
Frankie raises an eyebrow without looking up. “Help yourself. And there ain’t nothing wrong with my joints.”
