Don’t let them see you break. Don’t give them the satisfaction.
Slowly, painfully, brick by brick, I rebuild my shields.
Then I watch them walk into the café together, Ryan throwing his head back in laughter.
That laughter ricochets through every scar he carved into me.
CHAPTER 13 – CASPIAN
I’m texting with my friend, Ann-Sabrina. She owns the small but mighty Fenton’s Books in Baywood. She’s fierce, funny, and has terrible luck with dating. Unrealistic standards, too, as she expects to be courted by nothing less than a brooding Fae lord. We have all sorts in Baywood, but fantastical aristocrats haven’t found us yet.
I promised to fetch her some essentials for her DIY “Shadow Daddy” packages while I’m in Cove Bay. She needs more black leather, wing material, and ink, and the craft shop near the campus is the only place that sells them.
Grinning at the unhinged GIF she sent me, I pocket my phone and turn toward the shop.
An obnoxious voice interrupts my plans. I curse under my breath when I recognize who it belongs to.
“Stone! What’s up, bro?”
For fuck’s sake.
Ryan Rutherford walks toward me with the smug, overeager grin I remember too well.
“Ryan,” I say, my voice flat. “It’s been a while.”
He claps me on the shoulder and squeezes.
“Look at you! Still working out, I see. Good man.”
“How are you?” I ask, resisting the urge to violently remove his hand.
“Old man’s keeping me busy, you know how it is,” he replies, tilting his wrist so the Rolex catches the sun.
He nods toward the café.
“Let’s grab a coffee and catch up.”
Sighing, I weigh my options. I can’t stand the guy. Ryan has matured from a high school nuisance into a full-blown, off-putting jerk. If he hadn’t been friends with one of my teammates, I would’ve told him a long time ago to stop following me around. We didn’t even go to the same school.
I decide to suffer through the coffee anyway. Sometimes I’m too polite for my own good.
Ryan orders something unnecessarily complicated while I get my usual black coffee.
We sit, and he immediately leans back in his chair like a class clown.
“The legendary Big Stone told me you’re knitting sweaters with felons,” he says, tapping an annoying rhythm on the table.
I sip slowly and let the silence stretch between us until it becomes uncomfortable for him.
He stops tapping.
“Campfire therapy, your father said.”
He barks out a laugh.
“He gets it, y’know? Your father’s old school. None of this victim-culture shit, right?”
He snaps his fingers, the sharp sound making my jaw clench. “He said we should bond. Whatcha think? Golf? Beer?”
