Page 3 of Chasing Paradise

“Shut up, or I willactuallyattack you.”

“You’re not allowed to manhandle me. There’s a reason there are laws against excessive force.”

“Newsflash: I’m not a cop. That law doesn’t apply to me. And considering I’m the only one actively bleeding right now, not even that fancy suit your daddy hired is going to sue me.”

Even if he was dumb enough to, that was what liability insurance was for. Hell, I was pretty sure my mom—a retired bounty hunter herself—was a little disappointed that I hadn’t been sued yet.

“It’s a rite of passage,” I remember her telling my father when she’d been informed she was getting sued for the fifth time. “If he didn’t want to be punched, he shouldn’t have had such a punchable face.”

My mom was my personal hero. For obvious reasons.

“I’m just gonna climb out,” Frat Guy said as I shoved him into the backseat of the car. On the passenger side. History had shown me that if you stuck a skip behind you, they would kick and shake your chair for a full six-hour trip.

“They all say that,” I said, grabbing one of my spare sets of handcuffs and connecting his bound wrists to the door handle. “Out of curiosity, have you ever heard of something calledchild locks?”

I slammed the door on his roar of outrage.

Leaning against the car, I glanced at a few spectators and their worried glances. “It’s our foreplay. It’s not cool to kink-shame.”

With one last longing look at the coffee shop and my not-forgotten cup inside, I sighed and climbed into the driver’s seat.

“Ahhh!” Frat Guy screamed, thrashing in his seat. “Somebody help me!”

“Out of curiosity,” I said, “what’s your favorite Limp Bizkit album?”

“What? Who?”

“The band shirt you sold to that other guy I tackled.”

“I don’t know. It was my dad’s shirt.”

“Well, then, allow me to introduce you to nu metal,” I said, toggling in my music app, and then cranking the volume up to ear-splitting.

He could scream all he wanted now.

No one would hear him.

On the whole drive back to Navesink Bank—and the police station to drop off Frat Guy, who looked like he was sporting a massive headache thanks to my musical selection—all I could think about was a comfortable bed, a clean shower, and lots of food. Not necessarily in that order.

I had no intentions of working for at least two months.

“No. Nope. Absolutely not,” I said when I walked into the office to find my mother leaning against my desk in her usual outfit of dark green cargo pants and a black tank top—showing off the great rack I’d inherited from her, and the body she kept just slightly fitter than I did. She had a piece of paper in her hand, waving it at me as her brows rose over her dark eyes.

“Oh, trust me, kid,” she said, passing me the paper, then reaching to tie up her long wavy brown hair. Another trait I’d inherited. “You’re going to take this one on.”

“I just made thirty grand. I plan to sit around for weeks doing nothing.”

“Look at the paper.”

I could be out-stubborned by exactly one person. And she was standing in front of me, waiting for me to do what she said.

“Fine,” I grumbled as I lifted the paper. “Oh.”

All the air rushed out of me.

“Told you so,” my mom said, shooting me a smirk. “I packed a bag for you.”

Going behind my desk, she grabbed a familiar duffle as my eyes scanned the paper again and again, some part of me refusing to believe what I was seeing.

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