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“He ate the pot brownies.” Jason points at me, the boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Kenzi’s mouth falls into an “Ooooh.”
A sharp stab of anger between my ribs. That voice in my head: Everyone’s having a good time, and as usual, you’re fucking it up.
“I’m fine!” I snap. “You look like a fucking angel! Jason’s ready! Let’s go while I can form sentences!”
I genuinely mean the compliment, but I’m too pissed and bitter, and my mouth is full of silverware, spitting knives.
“Do you want to go?” Kenzi asks.
“Yes. No. I don’t know.”
Kenzi frowns. Then she steps over to the table, picks up a paper napkin, and plucks a brownie from the pile. She tears off a corner and pops it in her mouth. “Solidarity,” she explains.
I don’t know why…but that does help. My heart, which is bouncing around my chest like a cat on a 2:00 a.m. rampage, finally starts to slow down.
I exhale, and the breath takes some of my rage with it.
“Okay,” I decide. “Let’s go.”
68
Jason
The King Estate is the biggest private residence on Hannsett Island.
The two-story mansion overlooks the beach.
The whole place is enshrouded by tall hedges that make it impossible for anyone to look in. I didn’t realize what an effect those hedges had on my psyche until years later when I started meditating in earnest.
When I was in a bad place or feeling vulnerable, I’d close my eyes and imagine myself surrounded by hedges.
It was privacy. Security. But it did something else important: it kept people and things out.
The King family was local, but we weren’t one of the locals. We were better than the locals. The hedges kept us apart from everything.
You get a distorted view of yourself—and your place in the world—when you live in an ivory tower.
But there are consequences to being that high up, too. The fall is steep.
I pull the car up to the hedges and punch in the security code. The iron gate slowly swings open, letting us in.
I glance in the rearview mirror. Donovan is staring hard out the window.
“You okay, bud?” I ask him.
“Great,” he says, but his jaw is tight, like it’s taking everything in him to keep it together.
Note to self: maybe tone down the potency of the brownies next time.
“Why does it smell like sex in here?” Donovan asks suddenly from the back.
The noise that leaves my throat is halfway between an “oh” and a groan. I grab the coffee mug culprit from the console and shove it under my chair.
“I’m not going to ask,” Donovan says. “I really don’t want to know.”
“Hey,” Kenzi says. “How’re you feeling?”
Her fingers slip over the back of my neck. I shiver. That’s a secret hotspot of mine—the sensation of nails lightly trailing up the nape of my neck sends a hot lick of pleasure through me.
