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“‘Do I got a phone’!” Paxton mocked. He promptly produced one from the side pocket of his backpack. “Tah-dah!”
Darien waved a hand. “Give it here.”
He held fast. “Are you calling Roman?”
Darien pried the device out of his hand. “Yes.”
“Why don’t you just use your phone? Did you break it?”
“Because no one can know I’m here. What’s your passcode?”
“If I tell you, I’ll have to change it.”
“Pax,” Darien warned.
“Fine,” he sighed, rolling his eyes. He stomped in a mud puddle, splashing both of their pants. “1 2 3 4.”
Darien deadpanned. “Wow. I never would’ve guessed.”
Paxton shoved him in the arm. “Shut up.”
“Do you talk to Roman like that?” He punched in the passcode and scrolled through Paxton’s contacts.
“All the time—he’s the one who gave me the 101 on how to be a lippy little shit.” He waggled his brows.
Darien smirked. “‘Lippy little shit’. That’s what he calls you, isn’t it?”
“Yup.”
Darien found Roman and hit call.
It didn’t even ring—it went straight to voicemail.
He hung up and gave the phone back to Pax. “Voicemail,” he explained.
“Told ya.”
Darien started walking again, and Paxton followed. They passed Oswald’s Antiques, the smell of old furniture and wood polish floating through the doors.
“You want to talk about that bullshit I saw in the alley?”
“Nope.”
Darien shook his head. “I don’t know what they think they’re going to gain by bullying Donovan Slade’s kid.”
“Dad doesn’t care. He thinks I need to stick up for myself.”
“Your dad knows about this, and Roman doesn’t?”
Paxton shrugged. “I can’t tell Roman or he’d kill them, and you can’t kill underage kids.”
“You actually can’t murder anyone, but that’s besides the point.”
“You murder people,” Pax challenged.
Darien smiled, and Paxton’s face turned a shade paler.
Darien’s brows flicked up. “Your dad’s Donovan Slade, and my killing people makes you shit your pants?”
