Page 38 of Uncovered
I roll my eyes, but agree. Sometimes, it’s nice to have someone looking out for you.
***
Ty
“So, how was your iced coffee earlier today?” Knox asks as we’re playing Call of Duty: Warzone.
“What?” I look over at him just as he guns down my target and wins the game. “You fucker!”
Knox just laughs and shrugs. “All’s fair in love and video games. And speaking of love...you never answered my question. How was your date with Phoebe James?”
“It wasn’t a date,” I say, just as Whit and Booker walk through the door.
“What wasn’t a date?” Whit asks. “Are you talking about the girls from the Honors Frat who stayed for breakfast? Because that wasn’t a date. That was neighborly hospitality.”
“Yea,” Knox tells him, “the sounds coming from your room last night were very neighborly. Also, no. I wasn’t referring to your dirty brunch. Our boy here was getting cozy over coffee with one Miss Phoebe James.”
Whit takes the sofa opposite us and reclines back. “Really? The same Phoebe James of ‘nothing’s going on, I’m just tutoring her’ fame?”
“The very same,” Knox says.
“Interesting.”
“No, not interesting. Just coffee. It was hot as fuck in the writing lab--”
“Because you got so hot and bothered over Jane Austen that you had to strip naked right then and there?”
“No, and there is seriously something wrong with you, Whit. Because the AC broke. So we walked to Drip to get some coffee and finish up our tutoring session.”
“And did you? Did you finish, Ty?” Knox asks, because really, he’s still a thirteen-year-old boy. I roll my eyes in response.
“So you’re sticking with the whole ‘I’m just tutoring her’ story?” Whit persists.
“Yes. Because I am.” I stand up and cross to the kitchen to grab a soda from the fridge. I pop the top, take a drink, and lean against the counter to see three pairs of eyes staring at me. “What?”
“You’re a smitten kitten,” Whit declares. “And don’t deny it, fucker.”
“We’re friends. That’s it. And I’m her tutor.” At this point, there’s no doubt I’m protesting too much.
Whit just laughs. He’s followed me into the kitchen, but now he’s singing. Weirdly, he’s really good. Like, get-this-guy-on-a-reality-show good. He rarely performs in public--it’s just not his thing. But in our house? He sings all the fucking time.
He starts belying some tune from the '70s or '80s about lies.
“Stop,” Booker interrupts him.
“Don’t stop an artist at work. And listen, Stevie 4eva and all that, you know she’s my girl. But Christine McVie has pipes, that’s all I’m saying.”
Booker just looks at him, shakes his head, and then turns to me. He’s been quiet for this whole ridiculous, circular conversation, but that’s just his way. He’s the quiet one. The contemplative one.
“Does she know?” he asks me, and I shake my head.
“No.”
“Ty--”
“What am I supposed to say?Yea, there are totally themes of misogyny and the dangers of the patriarchy in this book, oh, and by the way, my brother killed yours. Did you know that?”
They’re all looking at me again, but instead of skepticism now, it’s sympathy. And I can’t handle that.
