Page 111 of The Ruthless Note

Finn gets up from his seat and grabs one of Zane’s bottles. Cracking the top, he guzzles down the drink and wipes the back of his mouth.

“Let me know what you decide about Miller,” Finn says, passing me by. “I’ve been feeling restless lately. If it has to be messy, I’m not against it.”

I nod.

Zane offers a beer to me.

I wrap my fingers around it, thinking about Cadence. As usual.

Damn little terror has a dedicated space in my head.

She looked worried today. I saw her just before the ending of last period when I came back to Redwood to pick up my guitar for the Halloween Bash sound check.

She was sitting in the back of the class, face turned to the window overlooking the garden. She looked small and alone, a tiny planet spinning out of an endless galaxy. So far from me, so different that I shouldn’t be affected by her at all. And yet, the only time I feel anything other than dead inside is when she’s spinning in my orbit.

I don’t want to dig beneath what that means or why it’s important.

I only want to take her to bed as quickly as possible and move away from these disgustingly heavy feelings.

“You look like a lovesick fool,” Zane says, taking a swig of his beer. “No wonder Finn calls you pathetic.”

My eyes jerk toward him. “No wonder he calls you an idiot.”

“Like he has any right to judge,” Zane grumbles. “He’s in love with an anonymous account. If Jinx turns out to be a thirty-year-old dude, I’m going to laugh in his face.”

That draws a chuckle out of me.

I raise a brow at Zane. “How long are you going to keep avoiding Miss Jamieson?”

“Until I forget.” He stares at the pool. The lights are bouncing against it, sending blue rays all over the back deck. “Until it doesn’t freaking feel like I’m choking on my own breath.”

I stare at my twin. Face like mine except for the eyes that are blue instead of hazel. The hair that’s black instead of blonde.

I’ve never seen him so broken down before.

Never seen the smile leave his face.

He’s drunk.

Which is probably why he’s being honest.

“Don’t screw it up with your girl,” Zane warns, “at least you have a shot at it.”

Your girl.

I can’t explain the way my chest swells when he says that.

And I can’t explain the sudden urge I have to call Brahms and ask her to get in my car and take a drive. Just drive and drive. Until we get to the edge of nowhere.

Freaking hell.

I grab another beer and down it quickly.

This girl has me losing my mind.

CHAPTERTWENTY-SEVEN

DUTCH

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