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“Different weird.”

Briggs glances over from across the table.

“You didn’t have breakfast or lunch today, and now you’re picking at dinner.”

I point my fork at him. “Why are you all suddenly obsessed with my eating habits?”

Nobody answers immediately.

Clint shrugs first. “You’re crankier when you don’t eat.”

“I’m cranky when I do, too.”

“That’s fair,” Tripp says.

The laugh slips out before I can stop it, but it fades fast when warmth creeps up my neck again.

God, I hate this.

“I need air,” I mutter, pushing back from the table before anybody can stop me.

But when I step onto the porch and the screen door shuts behind me, I catch Clint watching through the kitchen window for half a second before he looks away.

That shouldn’t do something to me, but unfortunately, it does.

The porch creaks when I sit on the top step, pulling my phone out mostly to distract myself.

No Hunter or Gidge.

The irritation grows every time I check.

Seriously? How hard is it to answer a damn phone?

My phone beeps suddenly and the screen lights up, causing my stomach to flip before I can stop it.

Finally.

I type my passcode in so fast I nearly drop it, then stop.

I know that number… Peter.

“What the fuck?”

How the hell did he even get this number?

Snaildick- Heard you’re hiding out. Why didn’t you just come to the clubhouse.

My jaw tightens.

Douchebag.

I flip open the camera app, angle the phone, and snap a picture, middle finger front and center.

Me- Get bent, you fucking asshole.

Me- PS. Tell Hunter to call me ASAP.

Snaildick- What’s in it for me? I wanna see you in leather and boots and nothing else.