Page 109 of Unhinged
Me: Can you be here Saturday? There’s a party.
Franko: The Renegade does throw a good banger.
Me: Good. One more thing.
Franko: Christ, woman. What now?
Me: Bring me a pink Mitsubishi Eclipse Spyder. Good condition. Sexy.
Franko: What the fuck you want that for?
Me: I owe a teenager a car. And you owe me still, so I think a car will call it even.
Franko: I’ll see what I can do.
I smileand tuck my phone back into my jeans, then head downstairs.
Arrow’s leaning against his bike like he hasn’t moved, arms crossed, eyes watching me like I’m the only thing worth looking at.
“Everything good, Gidge?”
“I think so.”
“You sure?”
“If it’s not, it will be.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Wanna tell me what happened?”
I grin. “Wanna buy me cheese fries?”
“Done.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
BRYDGETT
It’s the day of the party, and while I should be picking out the perfect outfit to meet the brothers and flex who I am—or who I will be, I guess—I’m not. I’m crabby as hell. Woke up this way. Now I’m on a mission: Operation Soft Shit and Good Smells.
I feel like I’m on autopilot. Like a grade-A clinger. But I can’t stop myself. I’ve piled every single blanket I own on my bed and found some extra sheets in the laundry room. Hung them around like some makeshift hillbilly canopy. It’s a mess, but it’s my mess.
Now I’m creeping toward Gears’ room. It’s locked, but that’s cute. I grab a gift card from my little card wallet, slide it into the doorjamb, pop the lock, and slip inside. He’s not here—perfect.
First, I snatch the quilt folded neatly at the foot of his bed. Then I spot his hamper. Jackpot. I dig through it, pulling out a couple of his t-shirts like a feral raccoon on a mission. Happy with my haul, I sneak down the hall to Arrow’s room.
His door’s wide open, like he expected me. I snatch a pillow that’s got the faint shadow of his head on it and a small blankettossed over the recliner facing the TV. Arms full of alpha-scented gold, I dart back to my room like a damn lunatic and start arranging my treasures in the perfect way.
Last stop: Acid.
He’s in his room when I get there. I knock. He opens the door with that crooked smile.
“Come in, Gidge.”
“Hey.” I keep it casual, eyes scanning his space like a magpie looking for shiny things.
Boom. There on the floor—the shirt he wore in the basement when I knotted him. And a pair of boxers. Game on.
“What’s up, babe? You’ve never visited my room before.”
