Task Three: Complete.
But time’s up. The sun’s shifting, the air’s got that “if you stay here any longer you’ll get arrested again” feel. I’ve got too many tasks left and zero alibis.
I can’t stay to leave Rhys anything today. Tragic.
He’ll survive.
Barely.
I’ll bring him something extra special tomorrow.
Something thoughtful. Meaningful. Deeply inappropriate. Something that says I see the fractured boy behind the rules and also I would lick your precum and make you question every professional boundary you’ve ever held sacred.
Chapter Nineteen
Jett
I round the building and see my bike.
And I fucking know.
I don’t need a goddamned psychic to tell me she was here. It’s in the air. In the way the shadows cling to the seat like they remember the weight of her ass.
I stalk up to the bike, already tense, already half-hard because of course I am, and then I see the saddlebag.
Unlatched. Again.
Little fucking menace.
Inside, tucked between my gloves and my tool roll, is a bag.
I open it and find things. A bag of peach rings. A bag of M&Ms. A glitter bomb in a ziplock labeled “JUST IN CASE.” A tiny glittery notebook. A pen shaped like a cartoon syringe. A pack of wipes labeled “AFTER SEX CLEANUP KIT.” A pair of sunglasses that are definitely not mine and have rhinestone hearts on the corners.
The notebook has a sticker on it:For your darkest thoughts, Jett.
I stare at it.
Then I stare at the lot.
Then I stare at the notebook again.
What the fuck is this? A joke? A trap? A threat wrapped in glitter and sugar?
My hand brushes something soft. A scrunchie. It smells like vanilla and her neck. I shouldn’t know that. I shouldn’t fucking know that. My stomach knots.
Did she sit on my bike again? Did she fuck herself on the leather of my seat while I was inside trying to forget her?
I clench the notebook, thumb running over the sticker. There’s glitter on my hand now. Like she’s inside me already, carving marks into my fucking bones, glitter decorating all the dark corners of my mind.
I should throw it out.
I should throw all of it out.
I tuck it into my jacket. I’ll burn it later.
After I read what she wrote.
After I smell the scrunchie again like a fucking addict.
