Page 88 of The Love Bandits

I trace the fox on fire on Jake’s arm. “You drew this.” His hands are always in motion, touching, tapping,drawing. I don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it half the time.

“Ryan has the same one,” he comments, turning his arm so my finger can continue its winding path.

“Why?”

His lips lift slightly. “Foxes need to be crafty to survive. When we were kids, we made up this story about foster kids who could shift into a fox at night and got up to all sorts of crazy shit. Whenever we couldn’t sleep, we’d continue the story.”

“Is that what your graphic novel is about?” I ask.

He laughs self-consciously, running a hand back through his messy hair. “Yeah, but I wouldn’t call it a graphic novel.” He lifts his eyebrows, his mouth quirking. “Just some scribbles from whenIcan’t sleep. I know one woman who was particularly unimpressed by them.”

I’d like to ask what keeps him up at night. Or what happened to them after their mother left. I’d like to ask him a thousand questions, but with each one he answers I feel the connection between us deepening. And that’s more terrifying than the seven years I spent in a cage.

Then, at least, I knew what to expect. I knew where the bars were, and I’d played a part in making them or propping them up.

Now, I don’t know what the future holds, other than that it’s almost certainly going to tear us apart.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

LAINEY

Conversation with Nicole

I’m in with Emma.

We’re gonna get shots together tomorrow tonight.

Does she know this?

She will.

What’s up with you? Did you bang the thief yet? Damien and I have a bet running.

Sometimes I dislike you.

Is that a yes or a no?

Mrs. Rosings got us an opening at Anthony’s house on Thursday night.

You’re avoiding the question. Cold. You should want me to win because if I come out ahead we’re BOTH winners.

Has Damien gotten anywhere?

A big fat nope. But he’s working on an angle.

I stick my phone in my pocket and leave the bathroom in Jake Jeffries’s old apartment, feeling unsettled by that.

He’s working on an angle.

It suggests Damien’s on the cusp of finding something. Possibly something complicated. But I shake it off as I step into the living room, where Jake’s waiting for me with a grin. “You ready to make that motherfucker pay?”

We brought the banner with us when we left Marshall this morning, so we follow his former girlfriend’s directions to where he keeps his very expensive motorcycle, and then string it around the bike, adding plenty of fancy bows for flair. Then we hide in the trees by the parking lot so we can watch while the motherfucker himself find it.

We film his attempts to destroy it for his ex’s social media, nearly pissing ourselves from holding in laughter when he trips over the banner, then tries to rip it in half five times without getting anywhere, and finally stomps on it before dropping his lighter onto it—at which point a cop rolls by and gives him a citation.

As we pick our way out of the trees, heading back toward my car, parked with the others in the lot, Jake glances at me, a smile on his face. I say, “You’re going to tell a story about today, aren’t you? With your drawings.”

“Maybe so,” he says as we approach the car, “but the garage won’t be in it. That was just for us.”

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