My phone dings. I glance down. A new group chat blinks on screen. Labeled: “Darling-Thirst Support Group.”
“What the actual fuck.” I don’t even know who to stab first. Rhys, for naming it that, Benji for not objecting, or me, for opening the text thread like a moron. The chat icon is a stock photo of a therapy couch and a flame emoji.
“Yet,” I say. “You haven’t touched her yet. But if you do it in front of me? I’ll turn it into a goddamn crime scene.”
Benji grins, all sunshine and zero threat awareness. Rhys leans back, phone in hand, probably documenting my meltdown for his next thesis on possessive psychos.
I’m in hell. Let’s all share the same girl and talk about it like gentlemen hell. And these two bastards are wallpapering it in emojis and group texts.
And worse, they’re not even fighting me for her. They’re just waiting for me to catch up.
I want to flip this table. Instead, I tap a thumbs-up emoji.
Chapter Forty
Delilah
“Breakfast,” a guard yells, sounding offended we dared to sleep.
I jolt upright on the sad excuse for a bed, neck screaming. Somehow, I passed out to the ambient sounds of a woman a few cells down passionately declaring she was the reincarnation of Venus and legally allowed to walk naked through suburbia. I respect her commitment to the bit.
Destiny, my new jail wife, or possibly spirit guide, stares at me with the kind of look that makes me feel like I’ve been marked for something. Enlightenment. Murder. A surprisingly transformative pyramid scheme. Hard to say.
The guard shoves a tray at me like I’ve committed a crime against breakfast too. I glare at the food, willing it to be at least as appetizing as a motel waffle someone sat on. It’s not. The eggs look like they lost a bet.
“You don’t want that?” Destiny asks, already eyeing it like it’s a charcuterie board.
“Be my guest,” I say, handing it over. “Bon appétit.”
But I’m not thinking about food. I’m thinking about my one phone call. It should be Benji. Sweet, perfect Benji, who gave me orgasm permission slips. But Rhys did say I could call if it was an emergency. Is this an emergency? Is jail an emergency or just Friday with extra spice?
Destiny stirs her coffee like it’s a potion.
I glance at mine. It’s brown. And sad.
Then, without breaking eye contact, she hocks a loogie into hers and grins.
“Gonna be a good week,” she says. “I’m finding love. Gonna get out, get laid, get married. Probably in that order.”
I stare. “You saw that… in your spit coffee?”
“Mmhmm.” She points. “It’s all there. You gotta activate it.”
“By spitting in it?”
She nods solemnly like this is sacred ancient knowledge passed down through generations of horny prophets.
So I shrug and spit in mine. Why not. I’m already in jail and I’ve definitely done worse things with bodily fluids.
I peer into the cup. “Still just brown.”
Destiny snatches it, swishes the contents like she’s reading tea leaves from Satan’s thermos, then cackles. “You’re gonna fall in love.”
My expression doesn’t move. But internally, the soulmate sirens are going off. “I am in love.”
“No,” she says. “Three times.”
My nipples harden on instinct. Because that’s them, my men right there in my spit coffee. “That’s either the hottest thing anyone’s ever said to me, or a medical warning.”
