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“Your whole world can go to shit,” he goes on, “andeverything could be falling on your head all at once, but you can still make your bed and get a gentleman’s shave.”
“Hell yeah,” Calvin calls out, and I hear a round of two beats as they all knock on something to show their agreement.
I know why my grandpa always liked it here. It was the people. Ciaran was old school long before he was old, and the citizens of Weston didn’t like change. They didn’t get vacations to the Caribbean, so if life’s pleasures were smaller, then why not do them right? They do things like go for walks, play cards, and a big night for kids is going for a ninety-nine cent ice cream cone at the Village Drug Store.
I’d heard what Dylan had said in first period, and she was right. There was nothing else for them.
And that had made them a unit.
That’s why I came to Weston. We’re going to win.
I hear a small lid close, and then I feel Fletcher place his hand on my cheekbone, pulling the skin taut before he slides the sterilized razor up my face.
“What time was she in bed last night?” Farrow asks.
Constin replies, “Lights were definitely out by eleven.”
Yeah, they were. I close my hands around the ends of the armrests. Constin was watching, too.
“We should’ve put cameras in there,” he says.
“We had no time,” Farrow retorts. “I didn’t think we were getting a girl, and definitely not her.”
“Someone could do it tonight,” Constin points out. “We’ll take her to eat, come back, get the bikes. We can keep her out of the house for hours.”
“I’m not hearing this,” Mr. Fletcher says as he moves across my jaw.
“I’ll stay with her,” Constin goes on. “I want to drive her to Breaker’s too. I want her to get used to being alone with me.”
I flex my jaw, Fletcher’s razor slips, and I feel the slice in my skin.
I grunt, breathing hard, and Fletcher pats the wound with a towel. “Boy, keep still.”
“You okay, Hunter?” Farrow calls out.
But his voice is amused. I lift my middle finger.
He chuckles.
“We’re not gonna do some shit, right?” T.C. asks them. “To her, I mean? I’m not into that.”
“We’re not going to hurt her,” Farrow tells him. “We’re going togroomher.”
My stomach coils.
“And then she’ll be begging us to ‘hurt’ her between the sheets all night long,” Constin coos.
I pull so hard on the armrests, I hear them whine under my fingers.
Fletcher clears his throat, and Constin pipes up again, “Relax, Mr. Fletcher. She’s eighteen.”
I push Fletcher’s arm away and bolt out of the seat, kicking his tray into the air as I charge for Constin. He meets me head on, both of us chest to chest.
Farrow pushes me back, and I stumble as he steps between us. “Are you claiming her?” he asks me.
I shake my head, the challenge in his gaze clear.
“Are you claiming her?” he says slower, his voice deeper.
