Page 47 of The Bully's Dare

“The Three Muskets,” I chime in.

“No,” Donovan says, “The Three Muskrats.”

We burst out laughing at that.

22

Kenzi

Hannsett Island isn’t big. You can get around it entirely by bike or—if you’re Jason King—by golf cart. Beyond the marina, there’s the main town which is comprised of one long street. On it—a grocers, a book store, an ice cream shop, and a handful of boutique clothing stores, not to mention the required shop for swimwear and pool toys.

Four lives on the north side of the island, where there are resort houses and summer rentals that are identical save the bright colors. Pelican pink, sunflower yellow, lime green.

With the summer winding to a close and no movement from the waitlist on Berklee College, Pearl has decided I need to come up with a “backup plan.” She also figured out that the only way to get me to accomplish said backup plan is to trap me in the house and inform me that I can’t go to the marina until I’ve come up with a plan.

Which is how I end up on house arrest in August. Staring moodily at the desktop computer Four let me cart into my bedroom. So far, my options are limited:

On Craigslist, there’s an ad for an assistant at a record store. The ad specifically requests a female, 18-25, picture required with submission of resume.

Double ugh.

I keep clicking. There’s an internship for a PR assistant for a musical group in England, but what are my chances of getting that?

I’m calculating how much of my soul to sell to get Pearl off my back when I hear: “Kenzi!”

It’s strange. It’s Jason’s voice, but it sounds nearby. I open my bedroom door, but I don’t see anyone.

“Kenzi! Over here!”

I turn around and yelp when I see him. My room is on the second floor, and Jason is in the window. He’s grinning like an idiot, perched on the tree branch like a goddamn monkey.

I open my window, a smile I can’t help plastered on my face. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Busting you out, obviously.”

“Is Donovan here?”

Jason points down. Donovan stands at the bottom of the tree, his hands in his pockets.

“I don’t have a death wish,” Donovan says.

God, my boys are a sight for sore eyes.

“Alright,” I say, “scoot over.”

Jason reaches out and takes my hand. Carefully, I climb out the window and follow him onto the tree branch. Jason’s strong arm winds around me and I don’t worry about falling, not when I’m in his grip. We shimmy from branch to branch and Donovan reaches up to help us down one by one.

“Nice getaway car,” I say as I hop off the tree, brushing myself off.

The golf cart sits on Four’s back lawn.

“We work with what we’ve got,” Donovan says. He then climbs in the driver’s seat.

“Wait, Donovan is driving?” I ask as I climb in the back. Jason piles in beside me, his long limbs squished in the tight space.

“I had the same thought,” Jason says. “I felt safer in the tree.”

“I can drive just fine,” Donovan says, and the car lurches forward unconvincingly. I grip the side to stay in place.

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