Page 13 of Hellbent
I glance at the time. Five o’clock already. The whole day disappeared in a haze of shopping plans and pointless YouTube tutorials on boiling rice.
Jake steps inside, and moments later, Damian and Wyatt emerge from the garage, smudged with grease. Damian flops onto the worn-out couch in the lounge area. I spin on my stool to face them as Wyatt flips the “Closed” sign and locks the front door.
He pulls three beers from the fridge and passes them out. Once again, I notice that he doesn’t pass one to Damian.
Damian leans back as we twist the tops off our beers, arms spread across the back of the couch. “Well, it's Saturday night. Are we going out, or what?”
Jake takes a sip of his beer, glancing at him. “Hoping to redeem yourself after last weekend?”
Damian scoffs. “One rejection doesn’t count when I had two other numbers by the end of the night.”
Jake smirks. “Tworejections, if you count the bartender who asked if you ever shut up.”
Damian flips him off and shakes his head. “You’re just jealous.” He stretches his legs out. “What about you, boss? When’s the last time you even went on a date?”
Wyatt lifts an eyebrow. “None of your business.”
“Oh, c’mon,” Damian groans. “You could probably pull half the women in town if you ever left this place.”
“What makes you think I need any help with that?”
Jake snorts. “Remember that waitress at Dewy’s? The one who nearly dropped an entire tray of drinks when Wyatt smiled at her?”
Damian barks out a laugh. “Yeah, that was hilarious. You don’t have to lift a damn finger, do you, Captain?” He shakes his head, smirking. “Must be nice. Some of us actually have to try.”
I shouldn’t care. And I don’t.
But as Wyatt runs a hand through his thick salt-and-pepper hair, arms crossing over his chest, something unexpected tugs at me. Wyatt’s not just the strong presence I’ve been startingto trust and rely on—he’s an attractive man. Rugged. Chiseled. A man other women would notice. And the thought makes me feel…jealous.
I shake it off, forcing a smile like I wasn’t thinking anything at all.
Wyatt keeps his easy, unreadable grin, drains his beer, and gives us a lazy salute before heading for the side door. A moment later, I hear the steady thump of his boots on the stairs.
Damian watches him go, then turns to us with a wicked grin. “Well. Guess that means it’s just us. Finish those and let’s go find some trouble.”
“How old are you, anyway?” Jake asks, his eyes running over me like he’s searching for clues.
We’re crammed into the front of Damian’s pickup, me sandwiched between them, my bare legs pressed against the leather seat. I’m wearing my little black dress again, swallowed up by the giant parka I’ve been borrowing from Ryder. My legs are goose-pimpled from the cold, stretching bare from my Converse high-tops up to where the coat brushes my knees. Not the most seasonally appropriate look, but it beats wearing coveralls for the sixth day in a row.
For the first time in a week, I feel a little more like myself. A little more…feminine.
I briefly hesitate to do that math. “Twenty-two.”
Jake narrows his eyes. “Really?”
I blink. “What?”
He gives me a once-over. “You got I.D.?”
I shake my head and laugh. “Why?”
“You look young.”
I almost say,Is that a bad thing?But then I stretch up to see my reflection in the rearview mirror, and notice the way my face looks bare, scrubbed clean.
Back at the club, all the women wore makeup—including me. I never thought much of it at the time, but now, without a stitch of makeup on, I do look young. No mascara, no eyeliner, no lipstick to sharpen my edges.
I shrug instead. “Well, I don’t have any way to fix that.”
