Page 59 of The Unravelings

But we are.

Even more so with Malic at my side. But today, I’m alone. He’s off doing… God knows what. He better not be stalking Huxley again, or I’ll make him pay for that mistake. Malic is going to get both of us killed at the hands of the organization we hate the fucking most.

The Franco Syndicate.

Fuckers.

The line slowly moves forward, eating into the little time I have before class. More people murmur from the corners of the room, sitting in booths and at tables with steaming coffees. Fresh pastries and baked breads line the small display box, making my mouth water as hunger stirs inside me and my stomach gurgles loudly.

Damn, when was the last time I ate?

I was in too much of a rush this morning to get to my mom to grab anything. Add the worry sitting in the back of my mind about Malic and whatever he’s up to, and it’s no wonder I’m starving.

I’m worrying myself to death.

God, I really need a drink. Or a round at the damn gym to punch out my frustrations. Speaking of, I wonder when the next fight night will be? It’s usually once or twice a month.

I take a deep breath and count to ten in my mind. I force myself not to think about the fucking kidnapping and the stalking Malic’s been doing. I’m going to have to leash him if I want to control him. I thought that finally getting laid was going to settle him the fuck down.

Well, I thought wrong.

He’s worse than ever.

Maybe I need to track that chick down again and beg her to keep Malic occupied so I can get some work done. Fuck. Nothing says best friends like finding the girl who took his virginity in a bar bathroom and getting on my knees so she can satisfy him some more.

Fuck.

I’m a terrible friend, and that’s a terrible thought.

But Malic needs to get laid again. It was the only thing that got him to fucking focus.

The line moves forward again as I put my phone away and try to bury everything running through my mind. It’s futile, as always, but I still try. When I look up again, the big man who was in front of me has disappeared, and in his place is the guy I’ve had my eyes on.

Oliver fucking Davenport.

My heart skips a damn beat as I zero in on him. He’s in his usual baggy sweatpants and a short-sleeved shirt that hides everything he has underneath. His thick-rimmed glasses sit perched on his small nose and cover up his high cheekbones. I swallow hard, taking in the scars lining his face. The ones he seems to try to hide behind his shaggy brown hair.

Maybe that’s what draws me to him. He’s been through shit like me. Trauma recognizes trauma.

“I’ll take the maple syrup donut and a tall cup of your southern pecan latte. Extra hot. With whole milk and whipped cream on top,” he says, sounding slightly uncertain until the college-aged barista nods with a smile flitting across her lips. I swear she blushes when Oliver runs a shaky hand through his hair and bites his lip.

Shit. Is he flirting?

“Of course, what’s the name for the order?” she grins, batting her eyelashes at him, slightly turning so her chest is in his line of sight. Too bad Oliver keeps it professional and maintains eye contact. How? I don’t have a fucking clue. But I don’t blame the barista for strutting around and trying to get his attention.

I smirk when she grins more, noting the blush dotting Oliver’s cheeks. Well, okay then. Oliver has game.

“Oliver,” he says, clearing his throat as he pays for his items.

“Oliver. All right. I’ll grab your donut and get the latte made for you, if you’d like to step over there. And my name is Stephanie, if you need anything.” She bats her eyelashes again as she emphasizes her name.

“Thanks, Stephanie,” Oliver says in a lower voice now, sidestepping and standing by the pickup counter a few feet away.

I can’t hide my amusement as I step up to the barista, and her entire attitude changes from flirty to serious and unnerved. I hate that feeling. I don’t want people to be terrified of me because of who I associate with. It’s just another thing on the endless list of bullshit pressing on my shoulders.

“Wilder,” she says in greeting. “Would you like your usual?” There’s no batting of her eyelashes or a flirty tilt in her voice.

“Thanks, Stephanie,” I say, smirking when I say her name, and she flinches slightly. It’s something I’ve never done before. Shit, I didn’t even know her damn name. She’s always here. Always knows my order.