Page 101 of Whistle

“Any allergies?” the barista asked, sliding a glance at me.

“No, but I appreciate you asking.”

“You know how it is,” she said.

“I do.” Rush agreed. “Thanks, bro.”

We went across the room to a back table with only two chairs.

“So how is it?” I asked, sliding into one and gazing at Rush.

He debated a second, then said, “Lars is severely allergic to nuts. We’ve made it very clear to the places we go to on the regular. And you’re new, so they probably just wanted to be cautious.”

“Of course that was about him,” I muttered.

Rush’s face darkened. “What’s your problem with him?”

“This is what you wanted to talk about?”

“One of the things.”

“Oh, there’s a list,” I deadpanned. “Goody.”

“Cut the shit, Bodhi. What did Lars ever do to you?”

Stole my life.

“I don’t need a reason to dislike him.” I sniffed.

“Actually, you do,” Rush countered.

“Maybe I’m just not wrapped around his finger like everyone else around this place seems to be,” I snapped, temper rising. “Everyone coddles and protects him like he’s a puppy and not a man.”

And that makes me insanely jealous.

Scowling, Rush leaned over the small round tabletop, dark eyes intent on mine as he drove his pointer finger into the wood as though he could grind in his words. “You don’t like him? Fine. But I’m telling you right now to stay off his ass. He’s not like us.”

I scoffed. “Like us? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“He’s not an asshole.”

The chair legs scrapped over the floor, drawing attention when I shot up from the seat. “Thanks for the invite for breakfast, but I’m not going to sit here and be insulted.”

“It’s not an insult,” he said, grabbing my wrist and yanking me back down. “It’s the truth, and we both know it.”

“Fuck you.”

He gave me a look like my words had just proved his. Asshole.

The chair legs scraped again when I pulled it back up to the table.

“Lars has been through a lot of shit,” Rush explained. “He doesn’t need you glaring and throwing insults.”

“No more shit than the rest of us,” I said, bitter that he seemed to put his new bestie on a pedestal no one else sat on.

The female barista from earlier appeared, carrying a small black tray. “Orders up.” Her voice was far too cheerful for this conversation. Rush leaned back and smiled as she slid two coffees and a plate in front of each of us. In the center was a cylinder shape wrapped in tinfoil.

“Bro, thanks. This looks awesome,” Rush said. “I appreciate it,” he told her, reaching into his sweats to pull out some cash. After counting out a few twenties, he handed them over.

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