Page 13 of The Prodigal

“All right, Potter. I’ll play.” He pulls out a marker and scrawls out the lettersIOUacross the playing card. “I can’t promise he’ll take you on. He’s very selective about who he works with.”

“I don’t need your fucking promises. I need his number.”

Apparently, my rudeness amuses my host more than it upsets him because he merely shakes his head and adds the number to the IOU, sliding it toward me. But instead of allowing me to pluck it off the table, he presses his finger on the card, keeping my gaze. “The only reason you’re leaving here with this information is because I’ve been where you are.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. I don’t have time for a heart-to-heart.

I try snatching the card, but he holds it firmly. “I know who you are, Potter, and they wouldn’t want you to do this alone.”

Oh, good. For a moment there, I was worried we were going to share childhood traumas.

Standing, I tower over Maverick, who’s still seated at the table. “That’s the difference between you and me, Lexington. I don’t care what people want. I do what theyneed.”

I flash him a look that says this conversation is over and hold out my hand. “Do we have a deal?”

With a sigh and another shake of his head, the king of campus places the card in my hand and unknowingly kicks off the beginning of the end of my time as a Potter.

Eden

When I was little, my mother told me stories about demons who scoured the earth, searching for those they could corrupt. Good souls. Bad souls. It didn’t matter. All they needed was to find individuals’ weaknesses, and they had them.

The older I get, the more I believe she wasn’t simply telling me a story; she was warning me of what was to come.

Wickedness did exist.

And it was everywhere.

In our homes, our communities, and our schools.

But today was the first day I didn’t feel alone among it.

Room 101 stood up for me—whether he meant to or not.

And that deserves, at least, some fresh, steaming-hot fries.

I pluck a hot one from the container and pick up the phone and buzz his room.

He doesn’t answer, but I know he’s in there. I saw him pull in over an hour ago.

I dial his room again.

And again.

And again.

And again, until he finally picks up. “The motel better be on fire,” is how he greets me.

He’s an absolute delight. No wonder he prefers to stay at this dump and away from the general public. He’s likely to get sniped from the nearest rooftop with that charming personality of his.

“Nope. I’ve got something better than that.”

I can hear his yawn through the phone. “All right, Eve. I’ll bite. What’s better than seeing this place go up in flames?”

Wow. He really is something.

But not wrong.

Midnight Gardens is a shithole, but it provides me with a paycheck and his hateful ass with a bed—though I don’t know why he needs one if he goes to Havemeyer. From what I know of his background, he could easily stay in the dorms or have an off-campus apartment.

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