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Christian pulls up a group reservation on his phone, but I open a separate tab on mine quickly and book three rooms: one for the horny trio, one for Taylor and Huck, and one with two beds for me and Logan.
I could’ve booked separate ones, put him on the couch, or made him stay in the RV, but Taylor was right. If we’re going to keep working together, keep doing this slow, bitter undoing of everything we once were, then we need to find a way to exist without tearing each other to shreds.
Maybe this is my peace offering. Or maybe it’s just guilt. Either way, when I hand out the keys in the lobby, I don’t say a word. I just hold his out to him and wait.
He takes it from me without meeting my eyes, but when he sees the room number, something ripples across his face. “We're sharing?”
“Mm-hmm. Keeping to the budget, like you asked.”
See? Compromise. Take that, Taylor. Bitch.
Logan doesn’t thank me, or respond at all, but I don’t expect him to.
When we step into the quiet room and I drop my bag on the nearest bed, he silently sits on the empty one with his fishbowl in hand.
Maybe it’s not forgiveness, but it’s not another fight, either. I've always believed that actions speak louder than words, and I've never been good at saying I'm sorry.
From the way Logan nods and kicks off his shoes before settling into the covers, I think he agrees.
We both acknowledge the moment for what it is: A stalemate. A ceasefire.
Not peace, not yet. But maybe this is one step closer to that end.
Chapter
Eighteen
Logan
There’s rubber in my nachos.
Literal tiny bits of tire, sprinkled on top of my cheese.
Taylor thinks my reaction is hilarious.
“Adds flavor,” he smirks, halfway through his third chili dog. “High-octane seasoning.”
Ignoring him, I just set the food aside, not really hungry for more junk anyway. It seems to be all we eat lately.
Top fuel dragsters scream down the strip in front of us, engines loud enough to shake the stands and rattle the soda in my cup. Smoke rolls across the track like fog, and the crowd eats it up. Some guy behind me nearly spills beer on my sleeve as he cheers on the racers.
It’s absolute chaos and somehow, Salem managed to book us right in the middle of it.
I still don’t know how the hell she pulled off getting our stunt show tacked onto a sold-out drag race event. The guys just got done performing backflips over funny cars while everyone lost their minds. Even that triple-man flip is becoming an unexpected hit.
The crowd erupts as two cars rip down the track, blue flames spitting from their tailpipes, tires screaming against the pavement. I barely notice it all.
All I see is Salem.
She's sitting next to Arya down the row, long legs crossed and sunglasses pushed up into her hair. Christian offers her some popcorn, but from the way she grimaces and clutches her stomach, I think she's just as sick of all this trash food as I am. Arya says something to make her throw her head back and laugh, a full-bodied noise that makes me forget how to breathe.
I hate that I wish I were Arya right now.
It shouldn't be like this. I shouldn’t care that she’s wearing Taylor's Symbiotic hoodie. It shouldn't bother me that I came out of the bathroom yesterday to find them snuggling, but it does.
They've always been close, and it never got under my skin the entire two years we dated. Yesterday, however, I could barely contain the flash of utter jealousy that twisted my stomach into knots.
It's ridiculous. Taylor has Huck. He hasn’t even been with her in almost five years, so why is that fucking hoodie pissing me off?
