Page 95 of Theirs to Hunt
Grayson eyes me.
"Just hot dogs?"
I keep my face neutral.
"Thought we’d keep it simple.
Seems like things have been weighing on you.
Or maybe that’s your conscience."
Devon cracks open a beer.
"This feels like a trap."
I hand him a bun without looking away.
"Only if you lie."
Bobbie doesn’t miss a beat.
"So… club guy. The one who tried to dry hump the way a chihuahua goes after their plushie?"
"Funny," I say. "Haven’t seen him around."
Brooks speaks up.
"You don’t need to worry about him."
Bobbie grins.
"Oh, honey. We’re not worried. We’re curious."
I glance between them.
"Because some very specific rumors are going around. Not exactly PG-rated ones."
Devon doesn’t answer. Just drinks.
Brooks starts to say something when the back of Devon's hand thumps his chest, a beer pressed into it.
Brooks takes the beer, swigs once, and swallows whatever he was going to say.
Grayson’s voice comes low.
Cold.
"He’s not a problem anymore."
I tilt my head.
"That sounds like confirmation wrapped in a euphemism."
Nobody denies it.
Brooks coughs into his beer.
Devon snorts.
