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“Jordan said not to tell her,” Colt murmurs.
“Yeah, and he’s also a naïve kid,” Remy snorts. “You have to tell Josie, bro. If you keep this from her and something bad happens…”
“Fine,” Colt huffs as he runs his fingers through his hair to tug on a handful.
“Give me a few hours first,” I tell them. “Let me try to convince Lyla to go home. Colt, you could go to the bar or just avoid Josie for two or three hours, right? Then you won’t have to lie to her or pretend everything is fine.”
“If I have to avoid her, then I’ll just stay here with RJ until we hear from you,” he huffs.
“That’s a great plan,” Remy agrees. To me, he says, “You better fucking handle this.”
“I will,” I assure him.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Lyla
For the past four days, I have absolutely not been just sitting by my phone, waiting for it to ring or ding with a call or text from a trigger-happy biker.
I’ve spent most of my time on my laptop, searching for a job. Any job, anywhere. I’ve sent applications from one coast to the other and everywhere in between for all the nonprofit organization positions, including ones I’m nowhere close to being qualified to do.
And since Barrett hasn’t called me, the last thing I expected was for him to show up randomly at Holly’s house.
“Are you sure it’s him?” I ask from my seat on Holly’s bedroom floor after she tells me he’s there to see me.
“Is he a big, hot guy with tats and a leather biker vest?”
“Yes.”
“Then it’s probably him.”
“Wait. Is Thane out there too?” I ask as I get to my feet, which are still asleep and refusing to move.
“No, it’s the prospects and another guy.”
“Good,” I say in relief. Limping over to her mirror, I hastily smooth my hair and redo my ponytail. I could change, put on something other than my pajamas, but I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard to impress him.
I’m still angry at Barrett and just want to know how he found me.
My foot has finally stopped tingling when I walk down the hall, past the huge crumbling hole in the drywall courtesy of my father.
Holly told me he came here looking for me Sunday afternoon while Barrett and I were fooling around in the fairground parking lot. He made an ass of himself, but at least I can fix it with just a little spackle and paint. I’ve gotten pretty good at patching walls growing up with his temper.
The sight of Barrett Fulton, so big and beautiful, standing just inside the door of the town house, takes my breath away.
“What are you doing here? How did you get this address?” I ask first and foremost, hoping he can’t tell how flustered his mere presence makes me.
His eyes sweep up and down my pajamas so intensely that I wish I had changed first.
“Your father gave it to me,” he finally answers.
“You’ve talked to my father?”
“Well, he didn’t give me much of a choice.”
“What do you mean?”
Barrett starts to take a step toward me, then stops himself. “You need to go home, Lyla.”
