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Landon’s expression matches River’s. “Skylar, I mean this as respectfully as I can, but don’t ever ask us that again,” he says.
“We can pay for our own gas,” River adds, searching my gaze. “Why would you—” Then realization dawns on his face.
“Has anyone ever asked you for gas money?” Landon adds.
My silence is all the answer they need.
Jason hated visiting. He said I lived too far and only wanted to come over if I gave him gas money.
Or if I was in Heat.
“Fuck this,” River adds, fishing into his wallet. He pulls out a card and places it in my hand. “If you ever need something,” he says.
I stare at the credit card in shock. “What? You don’t have to—”
“You live by yourself, and shit happens,” River snaps. “We can’t be here as often as we’d like to. Hold on to it. Use it.”
I stare at him, dumbfounded. “You can’t mean that,” I say. “I’m more than capable of making my own money—”
“Skylar, please,” Landon insists. “He’s right. We can’t be here all the time. Let us take care of you, sweetheart.”
My inner Omega does ten backflips in delight.
I never intend to use it. But it’s the intention behind it that makes my heart skip a beat.
I nod. “Okay,” I whisper. “Thank you.”
Landon gifts me a smile. “Now come here,” he says. “We have a lot to discuss.”
I stand around my kitchen counter with them late into the evening, answering questions and discussing their findings.
Hope rekindles in my chest.
I miss you, April.
But I’ll find you.
27
VINCENT
The bar is quiet on a Wednesday night. It’s just as joyless as I remember, and the cheap counters are stained from years of wear. My less than impressive glass of well whiskey sits untouched as I take in my surroundings.
It’s just like old times.
I haven’t been here in ages.
“Hey, old man,” a voice grunts, and I turn to see River in his worn brown leather jacket and ripped jeans. There are more dark circles under his eyes than I last remember.
I thought he couldn’t look worse.
“You look like you aged ten years,” I mutter in reply. The last time we saw each other didn’t end well, and I don’t need to have him start talking shit already.
I’m twelve years his senior, but I don’t need to be reminded of it.
Fucking forty-four years old.
“And you’re the spitting image of health,” he snaps back, and I sigh.
