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“You are so fucking gone for her. Worse than I ever was with Serena.” Trey laughs as he helps me into the passenger seat of his car by shoving me in.
“No way. You were a mess over her. Remember when you wrote her a poem and played the guitar? You don’t even know how to play the guitar!” I laugh so hard it turns into a cough and my eyes tear up.
“I do play the guitar,” Trey replies grumpily.
“Not well.”
“Maybe,” he admits as he buckles his seatbelt and double-checks mine. But even drunk, I buckle up. I always buckle up.
“Serena, Serena . . . will you be my queen-a?” I sing loud and off-key.
Trey laughs. “Well, I couldn’t rhyme her name with hyena. I’d have never gotten laid.”
“Facts,” I deadpan, pointing my finger at him. “You’re smart, man. Tell me . . . what am I going to do?”
“It’s two more days, Blake. Not forever. And you’ve been texting the woman every morning and night.”
I shake my head, which is really not a good idea because the lights on the dash swirl with halos. “Not enough.”
“Phone sex?” he suggests, and I consider it for a long moment.
Zoey in her bed, touching herself as I tell her what to do, her voice in my ear telling me what to do as I jack off. But fuck, I’ve been doing that with my own imagination.
“I need to see her.”
“So sneak out and see her,” Trey says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“We should sneak out!” I say, just now coming up with the most brilliant idea ever.
“Good idea,” Trey says flatly. He doesn’t get how genius I am.
Tomorrow, Zoey and I are sneaking out because I need to see her, listen to her, hold her, taste her.
“Inner voice, Blake. Not your outside voice,” Trey says nonsensically.
Why’s he smiling?
* * *
The next night, I don’t remember a lot about trivia night. But I do remember my brilliant idea. The moon is now high in the dark sky, thankfully only a crescent that illuminates without making it so bright that any nosy people can see what I’m up to as I sneak into the trailer park. I park almost a half-mile away behind a dumpster and walk the rest of the way too, just to make sure no one can hear my car or see the headlights as I drive in.
Under the cover of darkness, I duck down next to Zoey’s trailer when I see light flashing in the living room. That must be Jacob playing video games. I pull my phone out to text him, hissing when the light of the screen blinds me. I lower it down and look around frantically but sense no movement.
Me: You up?
The lights keep flashing, glowing a blue-tinted white as I hold my breath and wait impatiently. “No! You bush camping motherfucker!”
I text him again.
Me: Open the door.
This time, there’s movement, and a few seconds later, the screen door opens slowly, letting out a creak that could wake the dead.
“Blake?” Jacob whispers.
“Shh!” I hiss, coming up the steps and pushing my way inside. “Shut the door!” I order, and though he raises his brows at me for the barked command, he does it.
“What are you doing here?” he asks. “Aren’t you and Zo supposed to be staying apart until after court?”
“Yeah, but . . .” I can’t explain it—especially not to him, since I barely understand it myself. “I need to see her.”
Jacob looks over his shoulder toward Zoey’s bedroom. “You know this is against everything she believes. You’re asking for the bad luck gods to strike you down with lightning.”
“I’m not her grandfather,” I tell him gently, knowing he lost the man too.
He smirks, but there’s a haunted look in his eyes he’s trying to cover. “That was a test to see how much she’s told you. See if you know her history.”
“I do. Just as importantly, I’d like to think I know her future. If you’ll let me by and she doesn’t freak out. I brought a coaster so she can touch wood for luck.”
I reach in my back pocket and hold up one of the new coasters I bought for my living room to show him.
“You brought a coaster?” he says, trying to be quiet while he laughs. It’s not working.
“Shh! Yeah, I brought a coaster. That’s not weird. It helps Zo’s nerves if she can touch wood.”
“Oh, I bet. On that note,” he says, grabbing his phone from the coffee table, “I’m going to Angelo’s to spend the night.”
“Thanks, man.” I offer a hand, which he shakes firmly.
“I’m going to make a production of it as cover. Then the only thing people will be talking about is little old hellion me. Not Zoey, for a change. But you need to be gone well before sunrise,” he warns. “Thelma and Louise get started on coffee around six, and by eight, they’ll have added a ‘wee dash of warmth’ to it.” He tips an imaginary bottle into his hand and then upends it, mimicking one for the cup and one for the gut. “Whisky.”
