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And Jesse took his cut and dipped. Like, across the world. Haven’t seen him in the flesh since.

“Yeah. That. Let’s talk about that.” Finn slows too, then stops altogether to give me his patient but expectant look. I imagine it’s the look he uses all day when teaching the little demon babies at the elementary school. Bless him, but fuck that, too.

“Talk about what?”

His expectant look morphs. His brows lower, lips purse in a way that says bitch, please without a single word actually spoken. But he does say, “What happened last weekend?”

I wave the question away and start pedaling again. Every muscle in my legs is screaming. “Nothing happened. Woke up with a bad wine hangover and may or may not have made some promises to higher powers about never drinking again if they made my brain stop trying to ooze out of my ears.”

“You called me Monday afternoon while hiding in the closet at the salon to try to bribe me into calling the reception desk there and tell them there was an emergency with your brother, Samson.”

“I don't even have a brother Samson, Finn, so stop giving me that look. It was a morally neutral lie.”

“What? You told me to tell your boss that Samson was one projectile vomit away from his deathbed. That is not morally neutral.”

I roll my eyes and pedal faster. “But you refused. Saved both of our souls from eternal damnation, or whatever. Did you forget the part where I said I was dying from a wine hangover?”

“Then when we went to axe-throwing that night, you taped a picture of a dill pickle to the target.”

I stop pedaling so fast, the things knocked into my shins in my attempt to get off the bike.

“Don't try to tell me axing pickles is a mark on my morals now, too?” I hop off the bike, waving away my brother's concerned face, and move towards the door.

I hear Finn call an awkward ‘bye’ to Ian before he sidles up behind me.

“I would say annihilating pickled cuccs is fine, except I have a sneaking suspicion you were pretending it was Dillon.”

I whip around quickly as soon as the door behind us closes, mouth open and ready to vehemently deny deny deny. But the smug look on Finn's face is confident. His blue eyes behind his glasses are shining with his win. I scoff and continue down the hall, passing one sweaty, meaty man after another.

“I knew it. Does Not Exist has been texting you all week. And your face does that freaky thing where it freezes, goes cherry red, and you look like you're going to either burst into tears or start screaming.” I shoot him a look over my shoulder when we get in the locker room, and his eyes widen. I would laugh, but I may actually start screaming now.

“You're not even going to deny it?” Finn pushes the glasses up his nose and then crosses his arms. “It's bad? Are you okay?”

I suck air in through my teeth, fighting with my bag to birth itself out of the sliver-sized opening of the stupid locker. “It's nothing, Finnegan. Nothing.”

Emerson

“Are you sure this was your first time?” The technicolored lights over Dillon's face are mesmerizing. I barely wince as the tequila hits my taste buds, and damn near swallow my whole ass tongue when the skin around his eyes crinkles with amusement. My eyes eat up the sight of him wrapping his lips around the bottle in his hand, and I watch with rapt attention as his throat bobs with his swallow.

His lips tilt when I make my way back up to them.

I want to feel the curve of that smile on my own. I want to feel it pressed into my skin. Anywhere. On my hand, my shoulder, the back of my neck. The inside of my thigh…

I know what it feels like to see his smile, but I want to know what it feels like to feel it.

Fuck. I'm so, so drunk. A guy can dream, right?

I laugh, trading the empty shot glass for the fruity concoction Zane handed me.

“First time, Dilly. Maybe I'll have lots of firsts tonight.” I waggle my eyebrows at him, and he immediately loses the smile.

This is my first time drunk. My first time in a club. My first time losing myself to a beat in a sea of people, sweaty and carefree on a dance floor. First time feeling like I'm not so little anymore. I was pulled free from the dancing to get more drinks, but I suspect Warren was having heart palpitations seeing me dance with that guy back there. Or was it two? Could have been three, honestly. I didn't miss the way Warren and Dillon were talking into each other's ears, both of their eyes on me. Like my own personal bodyguards that I didn't ask for.

“Twenty-one! Our little bro is twenty-one,” Zane throws his arm around my shoulders. “I can't believe it. And our ugly duckling has grown into such a little swan.”

“Asshole,” I punch him in the side, but it only makes him laugh.

The tequila has officially worked its way between and over all my thoughts, and time seems to slow. I watch my brothers and Dill laugh around me, fighting to be heard over the music. I'm jostled by Zane, flicked in the nose by Ian. I toss in a joke I barely register.