“I completely forgot about it! We’ve been Ubering around town this whole time when we have a perfectly good—“ I reassess what I’d been going to say “—a semi-functional car we can use.”
“At Rooke’s house,” Kai says slowly, like he’sstillprocessing.
The weed wasn’t that hectic, seriously. If anything, it’s reconnected synapses in my brain that have been dormant for way too long. Or…however brain stuff works.
“He hasn’t said anything about it. We could just, like, leave it there. Forever.”
“What? No!” I slap him again, and he recoils like I punched him in the kidneys. “That’s my car! I want my fucking car!”
I get this creeping suspicion that I don’t care as much about the car as I do about getting it back from Bastian. Maybe it’s why I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him. There was this open loop in my subconscious, and my brain was—subtly, stupidly—trying to remind me I was forgetting something.
Whatever. I’m drunk and stoned, and this suddenly feels like the most important mission of my entire fucking life.
“We have to go get it.” I’m already climbing out of bed and hunting for my shirt.
“What, now?”
“Right fucking now.”
“Babe, it’s—“ Kai checks his phone. “One in the morning.”
“So?”
“So Rooke’s probably…” Kai trails off.
If it was anyone else, he’d say Bastian would probably be sleeping. But we both know what our professor’s favorite weekend activities include.
Sex, drugs, and psychopathy.
Preferably all three.
Simultaneously.
“This isn’t Mission Impossible, Kai. It’s…”
“Mission Fuck Around and Find Out,” Kai supplies grimly when I flail.
He’s staring at me like I’ve lost my mind.
I stab a finger toward him. “This is happening with or without you. You can blame Kruger and his Superman weed later.”
“This is fucking insane,” Kai says as he shoves his sneakers back on.
“Definitely.”
“He’s going to be sooo pissed,” Kai mutters, standing to his full height, arms on his hips like he’s trying to death-glare me into a stand down.
It doesn’t work.
I’m fuckingwired.
“Abso-fucking-lutely.” I match his stance—shoulders back, arms akimbo—and watch a war play out on his face between common sense and chaotic impulsivity.
Common sense loses.
“Jesus.” He heads for the door, grabbing my arm on the way past. “If he gets all murder-y, I’m sacrificing you to save myself.”
“Attaboy, Romeo.”
