“Yes, what the heck do you think I meant?”
He nods thoughtfully, and I want to punch him. “I thought maybe you meant his mental state, which I’m not qualified to assess.”
“Havoc!”
“Okay, okay.” He raises his hands. “Physically, and exactly, he’s at…”
He rattles off an address.
I don’t wait for anything; I hurl the tray in the general direction of Diesel — he’s a big boy, he can catch — and sprint for the door, dodging the couple making out and leaping over a spilled beer on the way out. Behind me, Molly’s shout follows: “Riley! Shift! You’re on shift—HEY!” But I’m already gone, out into the parking lot.
My car is parked at a diagonal in the lot, and I almost eat gravel twice as I run for it, keys already clenched in my fist like a weapon. There’s a second, as I slam the door behind me and grip the wheel, where the world blurs a little, the panic so sharp it cuts the edges of everything. I don’t know what I’m expecting — a hospital, a crime scene, a smoking hole where Breaker used to be — but I punch the address into my phone with trembling hands and peel out.
I don’t stop. Can’t stop. All I can think is: Breaker’s hurt. He’s in danger. Something happened. My heart slams so hard it hurts, and I barely breathe the entire drive, whipping through town toward the address Havoc gave me.
Every corner I take, every second I get closer to my destination, I expect to see the man I love dead.
Except…
When I pull up…
It’s not a crime scene, not a hospital, not a morgue. It’s a craft store.
A craft store with a banner reading: “GIRL SCOUT TROOP 417 — FLOAT PREP TODAY!”
I blink. My brain stutters. This must be some kind of fever dream, or a prank set up by the Devils, or maybe this is what it feels like to pop an aneurysm from pure panic. Little girls in sashes dart around inside the craft store like caffeinated bees. Glitter coats the windows like a layer of multicolored snow. There are streamers hanging from everything and everywhere.
“Breaker?” I whisper to myself as I approach the store, feeling like I physically have to fight against the chorus of cheers, laughter, and shouting that flows from the store like a river.
I push open the door and step inside.
And that’s when I see him.
Conrad “Breaker” James. Former Marine. Twisted Devils biker. Walking embodiment of danger and masculinity. The man I love. The man who shelters me from the monster in my nightmares.
And he is covered.
In.
Glitter.
It’s not justsomeglitter, either — I mean, we’re talking full-body, nuclear-load, holiday-parade-level detonation. His beard has gone from lumberjack to Liberace. His eyebrows twinkle. There’s so much pink and gold on his face, I can barely see his actual skin. There’s a boa around his neck, and the boa is a shade of Pepto-pink that I’m certain isn’t found in nature, and it’s wrapped around him like some kind of sparkly python. It occurs to me, as I stand there dumbstruck in the entrance, that I’m witnessing the collapse of a dangerous man's dignity, one sequin at a time. He’s seated on a chair surrounded by a bevy of Girl Scouts who attend to him like a flock of hyper-caffeinated hummingbirds; one is carefully painting his fingernails a shade of neon teal; another is applying heart-shaped temporary tattoosup and down his forearms; a third is clipping tiny, sparkly barrettes into the tangles of his hair; and another is brushing blush onto his cheekbones.
I freeze. For a minute I just stand there, jaw slack, taking it all in. I’m not even sure if I should laugh, run, or call for backup.
“Breaker, what in the world is going on here?”
He startles, as if coming out of a coma.
“Oh shi—pwreck,” he sputters, catching himself in front of the crowd of young witnesses.
“Watch yourself, Mr. James.” Officer Maya Alvarado stands nearby with her arms crossed, one eyebrow arched so high it might fly off her face.
“What is all this?” I ask, covering my mouth, torn between shock and uncontrollable laughter.
One of the Girl Scouts beams up at me. “Mr. James is helping us build our parade float! And we needed to test our outfits! And our makeup! He’s helping us with all that, too.”
“Mr. James?” I choke out. “Helping with… makeup?”
