Page 53 of Reading Between the Lines
“Do you have a kinder word for ‘basically dead’ because I was going to say he’s a vegetable, but I knew you’d crucify me for it. I was exercising tact.”
“I’m proud of you. That’s twice I’ve observed you telling people to fuck off without coming out and saying it. I think you’re turning over a new leaf.”
I stared at the diner, absorbing what Diem suggested. He was right. The confrontation with the teens had been unusual, and I’d been too goal-oriented to see it. “So, what’s the plan?”
“We go at them individually, starting with the punk-ass kid with the shaggy hair and bad attitude.”
Atlas. He was the only one in the group who hadn’t said much. Therefore, I’d barely paid him attention. “Wouldn’t we be better off talking to Chett? He’s supposedly Weston’s best friend.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s trying too hard to fit in and won’t want to rock the boat.”
“How do you know that?”
“Observation.”
I went through the reel of our encounter with the teen but couldn’t pinpoint what Diem meant. Was I that unobservant?
“We could talk to Londyn. She seemed…”
“Dumber than a pile of bricks?”
“Annd there goes tact, flying out the window. Bye-bye, tact.”
“Nursery Rhyme will be target number two after Map Boy, but I have a feeling our mini Pompous Prime Minister shelters his sister, and I know for a fact we aren’t going to get shit out of him.”
“I love how you give everyone cute nicknames. Do you have one for me that you use with your frien… dly therapist?”
Diem side-eyed me, features deadpan. “No.”
“Really? Nothing?”
“No.”
“Roses has potential.”
He glared harder.
“I have two special nicknames for you. Guns, because, hello.” I squeezed his bicep. “Look at these bad boys. They are deadly weapons. And I call you cuddle bear. To be fair, that was Kitty’s nickname for you first, but I stole it. It’s fitting. I’m going to brainstorm a few for me. I can’t be plain old Tallus because that’s boring. I still say Roses has a nice ring to it. Maybe I could be—”
Diem sprung forward, shushing me and nodding out the windshield.
The teens exited the diner, gathered for a moment to chat, then dispersed. The twins, Duke, and Noel all got into a newer model SUV, Loyal and Noel in the front, Duke and Londyn in the back.
Chett took off walking down the road, nose buried in his cell phone.
Alone, Atlas pulled a pack of cigarettes from his backpack, lit up, and trudged—all teens trudged—toward a rusted Civic. He tossed his bag in the back seat and was about to get in when he caught sight of us sitting in the Jeep.
Chuckling, the teen shook his head but didn’t get in the vehicle.
Diem shut off the accessory mode and shouldered his way out the door. I scrambled after him, but the second my shoe hit the asphalt and skidded out from under me, I slowed down, glad Diem hadn’t noticed.
These damn shoes had zero traction.
Diem sauntered toward Atlas, who smoked and sized up my brick wall of a boyfriend. If the teen was intimidated, he didn’t show it. Diem stopped a few feet away and hitched his chin in a nonverbal greeting.
