Page 73 of The Revenge Agenda

P.S. As for three, “possibly even” isn’t in my vocabulary.

I wait for him to write back. It doesn’t come, and while I really don’t want to be that person, I also don’t want Rush thinking that he has to go into work, so I pick up my phone and call him.

His phone rings out. Fucking hell.

On a whim, I scroll down to Seven’s number and try him next.

“Yeah?” he answers, sounding croaky as hell.

“Hey, any chance Rush is home?”

“I dunno. Call him.”

I sigh. “He’s either not answering or can’t find it.”

“Kinda stalkerish of you to be doing the call-around for him.”

“Can you shut up and go look?”

Seven chuckles and has some kind of murmured conversation on the other end. “He went to work.”

“Of course he fucking did.”

“Something about not wanting to be fired.”

“Yes, I picked up on that, thanks.”

He snorts. “Don’t get snappy with me. I’m not the one who interrupted sex.” After that delightful overshare, he hangs up before I can even say, “Have fun.”

Rush is on the way to the office. Rush also doesn’t drive. I’m also pretty sure he hasn’t slept for days.

Sorry, Seven. Stalkerish or not, I have to go find him. It takes me half an hour to get there. I ride the elevator up to our floor, and while the front of our offices is dark, I can make out a soft glow coming from around the side where our bank of desks is.

I let myself in and make my way to our section, but as I get closer, I don’t see him. The office is sort of creepy at night, which isn’t something I noticed, given that I thought Rush would be here.

A soft moan interrupts my musing, and when I step around the next bank of desks, I find him, arms splayed over his desk, cheek on his keyboard, wearing the same T-shirt, sweats, and socks he was in the other day, under a heavy coat. There’s Coke spilled beside him, along with Post-it notes, Twizzlers, a busted-open packet of pens, and zero concern for possibly attracting ants.

But he’s sleeping. Face relaxed and half-smooshed on one side. Cute, thin nose, smooth forehead, curls still a wild mess.

Something in my chest pinches as I crouch down beside him.

“Rush …”

He doesn’t stir. Guilt trickles through me at trying to wake him, but he can’t stay here. The problem is, though, if he wakes up, will he want to keep working, or will he let me take him home? I scruff my hand through my hair, wishing I was big enough to carry him. Or had a fucking cart to put him on or something. Even a pull-out bed in my office would be preferable to the line of “cbfvcbfv” across his screen. I give his desk a quick clean, then put some actual effort into waking him.

Really hating myself for having to do this, I take his shoulder and give him a firm shake. “Rush.”

“Hersomeofer,” he mutters, shifting and filling his screen with more letters. “What … what’s going …”

“That’s right, wake up.”

He groans and turns toward me again, blinking open sleepy eyes. “Whadryadoin?”

I laugh as I try and translate. “Waking you up. Home time. Come on.”

“But—”

“No.”

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