Dish the Deets
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CHAPTER 16
Penelope
My nerves are shot.
Every time I open a cupboard door or I hear a noise outside my room I’m expecting the ceiling to come in on my head. Exaggeration? Sure. But I bet Satan is mad as hell. It probably took him the better part of an hour to unwrap his precious car. It took at least that long to wrap the damn thing.
It was worth it, though. Eloise sent me pictures, and a video Ares took of Tate standing dumbfounded next to his vehicle.
Between that, and the chocolate cock-sucking pictures Tate sent me, it made my whole month.
However, waiting for his retribution has me on pins and needles. They played the night before last, I wanted to go, almost did, but Dad called at the last minute and asked me to go to dinner with him. It was awkward as hell.
But I heard the Raccoons won three to two.
I’m heading to Bitches Brew. Satan can’t hit me with a prank while I’m in public. My tightening gut says he might just do exactly that.
I was tempted to change the lock on my door, but if I’m really honest with myself, I kind of like when he pranks me. Even if it makes anxiety swirl in my stomach.
I’m halfway out my door when Satan’s roommate, Kieran... Cillian... C... C... something comes out of their room, a duffle bag draped over his shoulder.
“Moving out?” I snicker. “I’d move out too if I lived with Satan.”
When he meets my eyes there’s a sadness there and no trace of laughter on his face.
“What’s wrong? What happened?”
He shifts the weight of the bag on his shoulder, then shuffles his feet a bit, looking down at the floor like he’s undecided about whether to say something to me or not. “Tate got hurt at the game the other night.”
Oh god.
My stomach drops as ice creeps into my veins. For so long I’ve thought of him as my enemy... frenemy? I’ve thought about what his father did to mine, and I’ve wanted him to pay, to suffer just like Dad did... my family did...Idid.
But from the way nausea is claiming my body, it’s quickly becoming apparent that isn’t what I wanted at all.
He might be the son of Dad’s enemy, but I don’t want him physically hurt.
“I-is he okay?” My hands are shaking.
The roommate—Callum—shakes his head. “He took a puck to the face.”
My face must fall because Callum nods slowly.
“Th-that sounds bad.”
He keeps nodding. “He had surgery.”
An overwhelming urge to cry hits me like a freight train, but I don’t have the time to pick it apart, not least right here in the hallways in front of his roommate. So I do the only thing that feels natural, and hold out my hand.
“Is that for him? I’ll take it to him, where is he?”
His eyes understandably narrow. “Don’t you two hate each other?”
I sigh. I kind of thought so too, buddy. But whatever this emotional cascade is inside my body, hate isn’t it. I’m worried about Tate. I need to see him for myself.
