Page 8 of Three Reckless Words

Normally, I’d say live and let live, kids do dumb stuff all the time, but this is so not the night.

The kid looks at me again, swallowing thickly before he says, “Lady, are we cool? Can you just—”

“Sit down,” I snap, wheeling back around to face them.

The two boys shuffle their feet, but the girl just stares at me, putting on her best grown-up bitch face.

Tough luck, missy.

I’m not fazed by any attitude tonight.

“We’re sorry we disturbed you. Like seriously,” the boy tries again.

I glower until he stops talking.

“I don’t care about you disturbing me. I care about the fireworks out back. That’s what the noise was, right?” I shake my head, barely able to believe their stupidity. “Have you guys not noticed it’s summer? It hasn’t rained for a few weeks and we’re at the edge of a forest?”

“Have you noticed it’s like, none of your biz?” The girl folds her arms, sulking.

“Princess, why aren’t you sitting?” I wait for her to stop rolling her eyes. “Unlike you kids, I rented this place out for the night, so I know I had to give my details online. I had to prove I’m over eighteen.”

Colt swallows as he sits, almost like his legs give out from under him. Good. “I—”

“I’m not here for excuses, kiddo. You want to screw around and play stupid? Fine and dandy. But there’sno wayI’m letting you guys do it here with fireworks on dry grass. Have you ever heard of wildfires? Do you want to start one?”

Oh God, I sound like my dad. When did I learn to lecture?

When did I become so boring and uptight?

“What are you gonna do? Call the cops?” the girl challenges. She hasn’t sat, but her face seems paler now, and I get the first hint of fear in her eyes.

I think I have a plan.

First, I lock the door and head past them to the welcome basket on the kitchen island—which I didn’t notice much when I first came in. But there, lo and behold, is a help line typed neatly on a card.

Let’s be real, the police are probably stretched thin out here and have better things to do with their time. And considering these guys are babies who look like they’re about to piss themselves, I don’t think it’s worth scaring their souls out and potentially slapping them with a juvie record.

Kids are idiots.

It’s an age-old fact.

When I was their age, I was the same way. Now that I’m coming down from the shock of the rabid racoon slash prowler being three clueless teens, I’m slightly less tempted to cuss them into next week.

This is precisely the sort of crap I might’ve pulled if I’d ever had the freedom to do it.

“No police. You’re welcome,” I tell them coldly, fingering the info card and the number printed across it. “But I do want your names so I can tell the rental company, Higher Ends, and they can get in touch with your parents.”

From the devastation on the kids’ faces—especially Colt’s—that might be the worst threat I could make.

Awesome.

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BAD BEE-HAVIOR (ARCHER)

This kid will be the death of me.

Fatherhood, that’s something I signed up for wholeheartedly a long damn time ago, back when I was a different person. My priorities were different then, fumbling around after startup ideas in loud bars after work.

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