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Razor and Priest are still standing in the hallway, and they both straighten when they see me.

"So, how'd it go?" Razor asks. "They kick you out yet?"

"No," I say.

"Damn," Priest says, shaking his head. "I had money on you getting benched for at least a week."

"You bet on me getting in trouble?"

"Course we did," Razor says with a grin. "What else are prospects supposed to do when one of us fucks up?"

"Support each other?" I suggest.

Priest snorts. "Where's the fun in that?"

Canvas appears in the hallway behind them. "Leave him alone, prospects. You're just jealous he got his girl before either of you did."

"I'm not jealous," Razor says. "I'm impressed. Kid moves fast."

"Fast and stupid are two different things," Priest says, but there's no real heat in it.

"Yeah, well," I say, pushing past them. "At least I'm doing something other than standing around talking shit."

"Ooh, he's got claws," Razor calls after me. "The girl's making him brave!"

I flip him off without turning around and head toward the garage. I've got work to do before seven, and I'm not wasting time listening to those two.

Behind me, I hear Priest say to Razor, "Five bucks says she's wearing his cut when he goes back."

"You're on," Razor replies. "No way she's still wearing it. Girls don't keep cuts that fast."

I smile to myself and keep walking.

They're both wrong.

She's definitely still wearing it.

Chapter 5 - Bree

I'm pacing the length of the motel room for the third time in ten minutes, and I can't make myself stop.

The phone is sitting on the nightstand, still turned off, and I know that the second I turn it on, there will be hundreds of messages waiting. Voicemails from my father demanding to know where I am. Texts from Victoria calling me selfish and ungrateful and every other name she's perfected over the years. Missed calls from Chase's mother, from the wedding planner, from people I barely know who somehow think they're entitled to an explanation for why I didn't show up to my own wedding.

I don't care.

I don't care about any of it.

I walked out of that life twenty-four hours ago, and I'm not going back.

The thought should terrify me. It probably would have terrified me yesterday morning when I was still standing in the dressing room at the church, staring at myself in that fifteen-thousand-dollar gown and trying to convince myself I could go through with it.

But now?

Now I just feel free.

I stop pacing and look at myself in the mirror above the dresser. I'm still wearing Angel's cut over my pink sweater, and I know I should probably take it off. It's been hours since he dropped me off. He's not here to see me wearing it. There's no reason to keep it on.

Except I don't want to take it off.