Page 151 of Between the Lines

“No cap, I’m seriously good with the ladies in seventh grade.” Rocco leans forward, elbows propped on the table, and steeples his fingers together. “What do you want to know?”

I huff a laugh, smirking in amusement.

“I uh… I’m not going to air my dirty laundry with you, Mr. Thatcher.”

“Well then, I guess I’ll have to guess. You fumbled, didn’t you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Whatever happened, it’syourfault.”

I scoff, leaning forward.

“What makes you think?—”

“Because.” He shrugs. “Dudes don’t like to admit they’re wrong. You’ve been pouting this whole game. If it was on yourlady?You would have already talked. You’re just afraid to tell her you’re sorry.”

He leans back in his chair, arms crossed, smirking with his second victory of the day.

I swallow. Made by a middle school boy with a rap sheet longer than the bills currently hanging over my head. Thankfully, this little interrogation is interrupted when Aaron and Sam come barreling into the library.

“Harding! Myguy!” Aaron says, clapping his hand over my shoulder. “Just the man we were looking for.”

Rocco pushes away from the table, stealing a plastic pawn from the board and pocketing it as a trophy.

“My mom’s probably here anyway.”

As he leaves, I turn to Aaron and Sam.

“What can I do for you, gentlemen?”

“Join us for a drink,” Sam smiles.

“Basically, our women are having a girls’ night, and we figured we’d gossipon our own.”

My heart thuds at the sound of the ladies’ plans.I’ll bet Claire is going with them.

The protector in my heart wants to send her a text, to make sure she’s safe. The angel/devil combo sitting on my shoulder sticks a wet finger in my ear to remind me that I don’t get to worry about her anymore.

Knowing that Aaron and Sam probably have insider information is the next best thing.

“I’ll get my coat.”

“We’re going to be insomuch trouble for this,” Sam says.

“I will be grounded for life if Lucy finds out,” Aaron nods.

“I swear, I won’t tell a soul. Justhelp me.”

Anthony looks incredibly distressed. He folds the bill of his hat in his hands. The last time I saw him, he’d been doused in sixteen ounces of water. Now, he looks like he’d prefer that over the pain of whatever has been wailing on him.

“How do I say I’m sorry when I’ve fucked things up this badly?”

Oh. I lean in, elbows on the table, fingers steepled, needing to get in on this particular conversation.

“Have you tried talking to her?” Sam asks.

“She blocked my number, and stomps away anytime I get close.”

---