Page 53 of Kings of Sherwood

Zayn opens his mouth, shuts it, stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Uh...not exactly.” He looks almost embarrassed. “I live around here. Shit’s been kind of wild, so...” He shrugs. “I guess I’m volunteering.”

“Volunteering’s a lot like crime, you know,” Will observes. When Zayn frowns, he explains. “As in,it doesn’t pay?”

Now I groan. “Oh my God,” I say through my teeth, “can youshut up?” I turn to Zayn. “I’m sorry. It’s actually...it’s really good to see you.”

But Zayn laughs, a real laugh. “Stupid fucking joke, man,” he says. “But you ain’t wrong.” He shrugs again. “What can I say? I’ve got two skillsets: starting shit and stopping shit. And only one of them really feels useful right now.”

The moment feels strange—tense, but not in an altogether bad way.

“Coffee,” I blurt out. Zayn’s brows knit.

“Pardon?”

“I mean, let us buy you some. Coffee, that is.” I smile. “Just to...I don’t know. A peace offering?” I glance at Will, who lifts a shoulder.

“Sure.” He nods at Zayn. “You’ve certainly earned as much just now.”

“Well, thanks,” Zayn says, just a hint of sarcasm in his tone. But, to me, he says, genuinely, “Sure, Maren. Thanks.” And adds, with a glance at Will, “but I’ll pick the place.”

Chapter Thirteen

Maren

“Honestly?” Zayn says when we’re settled into a booth. “It’s kind of a relief to see you guys.”

The diner Zayn picked is humble, to say the least—yellowed windows all scratched up and rips in the upholstery—but it smells cozy, and it’s relatively empty.

“This whole bounty hunter thing?” he goes on, picking up a menu but not opening it. “Wanted posters? I mean, what is this, the wild west?”

“It’s not great,” Will agrees, drumming his fingers on the table and glancing around like he’s mapping potential exit routes. I sigh as quietly as I can and give the waitress an extra-big smile. For as rough as the joint itself looks, she’s very well turned-out: pressed uniform, beautiful makeup, even a flawless coral-colored manicure that practically glows against her light brown skin. She can’t be older than twenty.

“Coffee for the table, your honor,” Zayn says, bowing his head. “If it please the court.”

“Of course, sir,” she says, scribbling dutifully on her pad. She looks up. “Anything else?”

“Just coffee,” Will and I say at the same time. “Thanks,” I add.

“One question, actually.” Zayn throws an arm over the back of the booth, raising a single finger. “Howareyour studies going?”

The waitress’s polished demeanor dissolves as she cracks a smile, and suddenly she’s a goofy teenager, folding her arms andpouting. “Straight A’s, okay? Jeez. Why are you always on my case?”

Zayn just grins. “I’m just asking! Doing a little undercover investigating.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she mutters, still smiling, and walks off.

Zayn watches her go, nods at her. “My cousin. Graduated early, doing community college now. Going for law school after. Makes me look like the family disappointment.”

I nod. “That’s awesome.”

“And explains the choice of venue,” Will mutters.

“Coffee’s good too,” Zayn says. “Trust me.”

I’m not loving the vibe of the conversation, so I fold my arms on the table. “Hey, uh. Before this gets too cozy...look, Zayn, Will should apologize. I know that and you know that and probably he knows that. But I’m not sure that hewillapologize, so allow me to do it for him?” I give him a genuine, contrite, smile. “I’m sorry.”

Zayn’s own smile softens. “Yeah, he should.” Next to me, I feel Will stiffen a bit. “But maybe I should too.”

I cock my head. “Really?”

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