Benji: She still has your hat. And both gloves.
Jett: How the fuck do you know that?
Benji: She dances in them. Nude.
Rhys: I’m blocking both of you.
Jett: Bout time.
Rhys: Is she with you?
Jett: Nope.
Benji: Not yet.
Rhys: Yet?
Benji: She has a key. Nights are long.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Delilah
The boys have gym day today. Testosterone temple bonding time. Bro reps and dick-measuring in public.
I have shit to do. I set up a checklist. A real one. With stickers and everything. First on my list is make the boyfriends feel violently adored.
I have customized gym bags. Because nothing says I love you like glitter and mild sabotage. Jett’s is hot pink with black skulls and angry eyes. Punk rock Barbie realness. Benji’s is every color I could fit on one surface without triggering a migraine. There’s a teddy bear patch hugging a protein shaker. Rhys’s is metallic silver. I kissed it. Left a red lipstick print on the front pocket. Professional boundaries my left tit.
Each bag is fully curated: Towel? Yes. Soft and crime-scene red. Snacks? Obviously. Protein bars and peach rings. Glitter bombs? Naturally. Hidden. Like landmines of joy.
And the personal touches: Jett gets a new scrunchie. His current one wrapped around his wrist like a fucking mating collar is fraying like my moral compass. Rhys gets one of my pink diamond studs. First time I’ve ever taken it off. I cleaned it in vodka because it felt like a communion ritual. I’m still wearing the other one. Benji gets my heart-shaped sunglasses. If he puts them on, I’ll collapse and die like a Victorian widow. And then haunt him lovingly.
I race to the gym like I’m on a government mission. Kevin’s at the desk, looking bored until he sees me.
“Kev,” I say, slamming the bags onto the counter. “I need your help and your silence.”
He glances at the bags. “Do I want to know?”
“No. Jett’s got two new gym bros. Very special clients.” I waggle my brows. “These need to appear in the locker room. After they shower. Not before. Very important. The element of surprise is crucial. This is love warfare.”
“You want me to sneak these into the locker room mid-shower?” His voice rises like I asked him to commit murder.
“Yes,” I whisper, conspiratorial. “While they’re wet and unsuspecting. Like gazelles.”
He stares. Puzzled. Horrified. A little turned on. Definitely onboard.
“You know,” he says, “they’re lucky bastards.”
I grin and kiss his cheek. “Or cursed.”
Sticker heart.
Task One: complete. The boys are booby-trapped with glitter and gym bags full of snacks and implied nudity.
Task Two: Kira.
I’m at the craft store, wedding isle, which is a mistake because everything is soft and pastel and smells like cinnamon-scented capitalism, and I’m having a full-body moral crisis in front of the gift bags.
