Page 85 of Wrong Pucking Player

Dad loves that song.

Loved the memory of my being surrounded by his parents in the midst of the never-ending crowd of people at that once-in-a-lifetime concert.

That was the last core memory before his parents were killed in a gang-related crime revolving around fraud.

Finding the phone again after the millionth vibration, I finally pick it up.

“Hmm?”

“I swear to fucking God, if this is some sort of prank shit you’re pulling, I’m going to get you fucked up if you’re trying to ruin this for me.”

Ruin what?

I don’t even know what he’s saying.

Actually, I don’t care.

I’m too content right now.

I’ve never felt this calm before after waking up.

The morning always invited waves of anxiety about whether today would be the day my life would take a tragic turn. A deal would go wrong, or Jayce would finally set me up for failure of some kind that fucks my entire life.

It’s actually crazy how many close calls I’ve dealt with thanks to this asshole, yet here I am. Still sticking by his side even though he treats me like a piece of shit.

Love makes you do stupid shit.

“Armani, if I have to come over there, I promise you, you’ll attend our first meeting with a black fucking eye!”

What’s he talking about?

“Meow.”

A soft lick to my face makes me grunt before I open my eyes just enough to see the small black kitten in my line of view.

“Meow!”

A nudge to my face confirms the little devil is hungry.

Guess I should get up and go for a run.

“That stupid cat is still at your place? I told you I’m allergic to cats, Oscar.”

Oh, I know. Maybe he’ll get hives and die off.

Wouldn’t that be swell? Could finally sleep in for one fucking night.

My hand seems to cramp up, which is why the device drops from my hand onto my pillow.

With a groan, I turn over to my side, my arm draping over the other side in hopes of finding a pillow to hug. I find something softer, warmer, with the smell enriched with daisies and specks of vanilla.

“Andrews,” I mumble because it smells like her.

So much like her.

Seeing her cry last night did dangerous things to me. It made me want to punch something. Punch someone. Particularly, Wyatt Cyrus, but then again, I had a strong hunch he had no idea his girl left.

I don’t know what possessed me to come to the bar and stand there for hours with Mitten on my shoulder like some sort of bodyguard.

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