“Another round?” asks the bartender, Freddy, who went to Kingsbury with us.
“Absolutely not,” Remy laughs, tucking some cash into the glass cup with our tab. Freddy chuckles and returns to the girls at the other side of the bar. I throw the paper umbrella at my best friend.
“You're no fun, son.”
He plucks it out of his hair. “Whatever you say, Dreezy Drea.”
I hiccup a laugh at the old nickname. The summer I lived with him was the summer I got drunk for the first time. The night ended in a three-hour karaoke-turned-rap battle that was outrageously embarrassing.
Grinning at the memory, I sigh, “We were so dumb.”
“Yeah.” His gaze drifts inward. It was a dark time for him. For me too. Darker in hindsight; seeped in abandonment and shame. We scraped through it by our teeth. Now we wear invisible scars.
My buzz takes a nosedive.
Suddenly, Remy grabs my arm and yanks me off the stool, dragging me to the exit.
“Whoa!” My feet tangle— I trip on my boots and almost twist my ankle. “What the fuck, Rem?”
“Code Stalker,” he hisses.
I crane my neck, scanning the faces until, sure enough, I spot a mess of black hair and sad grey eyes. But this isn’t the skinny emo kid with a violin I met years ago. Thisman’slean arms are decorated with patchwork tattoos that extend down his hands, his coal-lined gaze focused in a way I’ve never seen.
Six years ago, Win Rhodes looked at Remy with wistful adoration. Now, all I see is determination and open longing.
“Your stalker is staring at your ass,” I giggle.
“This isn’t funny, Drea,” Remy snaps. Each of his strides takes four of mine.
“It kind of is.”
Hazel eyes might as well be lasers. I throw my hands up and squeak, “Ok, not in the tiniest bit funny. Not even his stank face at me for leaving with you.”
“Bullshit,” He scoffs. Then checks over his shoulder. “Is it just me, or did he get scary?”
“Winston Rhodes?Scary?” I laugh. “Nah, I can take him.”
“Yeah, but you’re also scary.”
I gasp. “That might be the best compliment you’ve ever given me.”
His scowl finally cracks as he unlocks his truck. “Get in.”
“Ay-ay, Captain.”
Once I’m slumped in the passenger seat, I kick my boots up on the dash and recline the seat. Remy peels out of the tiny parking lot, headed for campus. I was supposed to be working on my thesis article this evening,notdrinking myself into oblivion. Investigative journalism might be my passion, but school work is school work. I’d rather spend my precious energy on projects that’ll expose piece of shit humans doing piece of shit human things. Like what’s been going on at FMU lately.
“You know, they still haven’t found out who jumped the poor bastard at that party last month,” I say. “Of course, no one’s talking. Athletes, man, they’re almost as culty as the church.”
Remy shakes his head and drifts into the turn lane. Headlights flash in the rearview mirror. I twist in my seat. Sure enough, a familiar Range Rover pulls up on our ass.
I’ll give it to him: Win is a persistent fucker.
“Is that?—”
“Sure is,” I sigh. “Want me to slash his tires?”
Remy groans. “No,it’s his mom’s car.”
