“No f**king way,” Ryke curses, his tone more shocked than angry.
“What?” I gape.
“Those are the guys,” Lo tells me with gritted teeth, “the ones who’ve been pranking us.”
Oh. Oh. Shit.
57
LOREN HALE
Ryke and I squeeze into either end of the red booth, blocking all four guys from a quick, easy exit. “Hey there,” I say with the most agitated half-smile.
The teenager in the hoodie sits closest by the window, and he makes a show of swigging from the paper-bagged bottle. Ryke rests his forearms on the table, itching to trash it, but he forces himself to stay seated.
Most of the teenagers wear normal clothes: jeans and a nice shirt. I can’t stereotype them as anything more than bored rich kids. Something I’m pretty familiar with.
Next to Ryke, a guy with jet-black hair speaks first, “Where’s your prick friend?”
“Yeah,” a redhead next to me asks, “is he going to show up and lecture us for an hour?”
“Let me guess.” I point at the redhead. “Your last name is Patrick.”
He crosses his arms and slouches. “So what?” So Connor talked to your parents and only pissed everyone off. This has to go better than that. But maybe it’s a lost cause.
Regardless…I still plan on trying.
“I’m not going to lecture you,” I begin, but the guy in the hoodie leans forward.
He sneers at me, “You can’t kick us out. We have a right to be here like everyone else.” He’s the one I remember most, with tousled brown hair and a soft face. The one I grabbed when they shot paintballs at our house.
A guy with a buzz-cut pipes in, “Yeah, it’s our first amendment right to be here.”
They’re lucky Connor isn’t at Superheroes & Scones. He’d tear into that statement, and he’d probably make them feel small.
Ryke rolls his eyes dramatically. “You all smell like cheap f**king vodka.”
“Sorry,” the hoodie guy says dryly. “We’ll buy better stuff next time.”
“That’s not what I…” Ryke growls in frustration as two of them make crude gestures with their hands and tongue. He loses his patience, and his eyes flit to me, tagging me in.
“Come on, you all look no older than seventeen,” I tell them. “Drinking underage is illegal, so you’re not in a power position here.” I nod to the guy in the hoodie. “What’s your name?”
“Fuck you,” he curses and then switches his V-shaped fingers into one middle finger, flipping me off.
Ryke and I exchange a look like this isn’t going anywhere. What’s worse, the booth is pressed against a window, and people keep snapping photos of us.
“How was that bourbon bath?” the jet-black hair guy asks with a laugh. And then he high-fives his friend across the table.
Ryke’s eyes flash hot. “You think it’s funny?”
“Ryke,” I interject and shake my head.
The hoodie guy mutters, “Pussy.” It was directed at me. One-hundred percent.
The redhead snickers. “Nice, Garrison.”
“Dude,” Garrison gapes, his hood falling off his head. And when he catches me watching him, he practically spits at me. “What are you looking at?”
“You,” I say, with just as much venom. And his guard lowers an inch, hurt flares in his eyes. Instinct guides me to a new place. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You all have two options.” Surprisingly they quiet to listen to me. “You can stop the pranks, never come around our house again. If you’re that bored, I wouldn’t mind hiring some of you to work here. If you don’t want a job, I get it. You can have a discount on comics, if that’s your thing.”
Ryke adds, “And I’d be willing to teach all of you to rock climb at the gym. But you can’t drink.”
“Sounds like so much fun,” the redhead says with the roll of his eyes.
Garrison picks at the paper bag, his gaze faraway on the table. “And the second option?” he asks.
“You vandalize our house again or harass our girls, and we’ll press charges. The minute we even see your goddamn pinky toe on our lawn, I’m calling the cops. Take it from someone who’s been in jail, you don’t want to be there. Even for a couple hours.”
Garrison lets out a short, irritated laugh. “When were you in jail?”
Without blinking I say, “I doused some ass**le’s door with pig’s blood.”
“No way,” the redhead gapes.
Garrison sits up straighter. “Yeah? Where’s that ass**le now?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. That shit is long gone, man. You’re going to leave prep school and you’re only going to take your mistakes with you.” I eye the bottle of booze. “You can stay here if you hand that over and don’t cause any commotion. Otherwise, you have to go.”
“We’ll go,” the buzz-cut guy says and then nods to Garrison. “Let’s buy that six-pack and head to the elementary school playground.”
My stomach twists, but I can’t force anyone to do anything. I know this. I stand up the minute the rest of them do, and they all gather to leave. As he passes me on his way out, Garrison gives me a long once-over, his lip either curling in distaste…or maybe something else.
And then he pushes the bottle in my hands. “Here, you won’t be such a pu**y if you drink.”
“If that’s what you think,” I say without falter. And then I chuck the bottle in the nearby trash.
His bewildered face is priceless.
I turn my back on them, hearing the chimes to the door as they exit. I feel Ryke next to me. And to my brother, I ask, “Do you think that’ll work?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you know?” I ask.
He pats my shoulder. “That I’m really f**king proud of you.”
It takes me aback for a moment, and I breeze through the previous conversation. I wasn’t malicious or hateful or vindictive. I didn’t treat those teenagers how my father would’ve treated me. I was just honest.
I let out a breath, and then I scan the store for Lily and our son, not spotting her behind the checkout counter. “Maya,” I call out as I see her zipping down an aisle. “Where’s Lily?”
“Break room. Garth is with her. Thank you for handling those guys!” She gestures to the now empty booth.
“If you have trouble again like that, text me.”
She bows and then she shouts a phrase in Korean. I’ve learned that it’s actually supposed to be in English, a saying from Battlestar Galactica: “So say we all.”
Just as I’m about to leave Superheroes & Scones, someone says, “Loren?”
Ryke goes rigid as a girl sneaks up behind him and slides closer to me. My face falls as I get a good look at her.
No.
It can’t be…I shake my head in a daze. She’s older, I guess around seventeen now. The first and only time I’d ever seen her—she was in middle school.
Jesus Christ. That was a long time ago.
“Hi,” she says, nervously adjusting her backpack. She keeps licking her lips like she doesn’t know what else to do.
Ryke butts in, “Do you want an autograph or a picture or something?” He’s nice about it, but he’s six-foot-three and intimidating to stare at. In fact, she tries to meet his eyes but can’t.