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Then she took off. I twisted on my heel to follow.
Miso’s mom was here? No way it was four already. SpankKing hadn’t mentioned someone else picking her up either.
Miso grabbed onto a woman by the stage, who scowled at the crowd. The music grew louder with a banjo and harmonica joining the fiddles. Miso said something and pointed in my direction. I couldn’t hear what she said, but her mother’s gaze turned murderous.
My mind whipped in circles like a tilt-a-whirl. What was happening?
“I thoughtyouwere her mom,” a rough voice said from beside me.
Startled, I looked up at the hottie I’d stupidly allowed to distract me. A rush of heat carried up my neck and settled in my ears.
I shook my head. “Nope. I’m her Delymo.”
He raised a perfect, thick brow in question.
He’d never heard of the app. Most people had never heard of it.
“Delymo sadly isn’t the sandwich juggernaut its name suggests,” I said. “Instead, it’s a combination of Delegate Pro Services and Dynamo Inc., two companies that list jobs for contractors like me to choose.”
“I see,” the hottie said.
I didn’t have time for this. I shouldn’t have been talking to him.
“If you’ll excuse me, I need to speak with Miso’s mom and—”
In a flurry of claws up my spine, the weasel stuck its head up next to mine.
It leaped from my shoulder, right toward the hot stranger’s face.
“Ohmygosh, I’m so sorry.” I reached for the weasel in an attempt to intercept, only to grab the hottie…right in the nipple.
Mortified, I took a step back and snapped my jaw shut. I stumbled into a middle-aged couple who were trying to enjoy the music. A fresh wave of heat shot up my neck, with it likely a flush of crimson. “I didn’t mean…”
As I squeaked apologies to the couple, I couldn’t pull my attention off the hottie. It was like watching a car wreck in slow motion—only I wasn’t a passerby, but both cars, crashing and burning.
The hottie’s eyes widened for a second and he let out a low gasp of surprise. His expression was muted as he plucked the weasel from his head, leaving me no idea what he was thinking. Better not to guess, probably, because whatever it was couldn’t be good for me.
“I swear that’s not my weasel,” I said.
A voice cut through the music, through the pounding of my heart. It belonged to a woman. She said, “There, officer, in the bunny suit. She’s the wacko who stole my daughter.”
Time stood still.
This wasn’t happening to me. It couldn’t be. This rollercoaster of a weird day had to be happening to someone else. Maybe it was all a dream.
A heavy force slammed into my back. With a jolt, I fell face first down into the dirt. My ears rang. Someone planted a knee into my spine, holding me down.
Worst. Day. Ever.
TWO
MORGAN
Layana, my best friend in the entire world, wiggled on the mattress of her bunk bed. She had on her nighttime tank top, athletic shorts, and loose braid combo. She crossed her legs and popped the clip off her Bugles, clearly all set to enjoy my tale of woe. Fortunately for me, when I’d first stumbled through our apartment, she accepted the CliffNotes version and let me shower and change before assailing me with the barrage of questions she had cued and ready to fire.
Now that I was clean, that reprieve was over.
“Not that I’m complaining, but how are you home and not handcuffed in the slammer, wearing a black and white jumper and making toilet wine right now?” she asked.
