Page 57 of Kings of Sherwood

I grunt. No promises. But I let him pass.

“Your drink, my lady,” he says, offering Maren the bottle before staring at his second, empty, hand. “And...looks like I’ll be going back for my own.” He glares at me as he loops back to the sliding door.

I barely pay attention. I smell food. Tuck’s got a whole spread laid out. Stuff I can’t name, but there’s at least meat and cheese. And music’s coming out of a speaker somewhere, acoustic. Boring.

But then I hear her laugh.

She’s out on the deck, feet kicked up on the cooler, beer bottle in hand. The tip of her nose is pink, like she got sunburned today. Smiling.

Absolutely fucking perfect.

From the looks of it, she’s doing her best to listen to whatever the kid’s going on about—Nick. Don’t like him either, but at least he never successfully put any of us in mortal danger. He’s on the steps beside her, animated as hell about something he’s explaining to her and Zayn. I catch the words “subnet mask” and “Tuck said if you reverse the encryption—” before I lose interest.

But Maren’s nodding, smiling. Like a big sister or something. Patient, amused.

Then she glances up and sees me.

I give her the barest nod. Don’t want her to change anything about what she’s doing or how she’s acting.

Something flickers in her eyes. And she looks away.

But damned if her smile isn’t a little bigger.

“Hey.” Tuck strides up to me with a nod. “How’d the casing go?”

“Fruitful.” I drop onto the nearest chair, my legs suddenly sore. “Lots of running. But lots of rich assholes.”

He grins. “You love to see it.”

I swig beer. “How’s your computer shit?”

“Oh, it’s...” He tilts his head. “Layman’s terms, it’s fine. Technical terms, it’s—”

I put up a hand. “You’re good.”

Before I can say more, the air shifts. Zayn takes a seat across from me.

“Hey, LJ.” All casual he says it, like we’re best pals. “No bad blood here, right?” He sticks out a hand. “Truce?”

I stare at it.

I’m not shaking his hand.

He waits a moment. Then drops it. His smile fades back a little.

“Damn, all right,” he mutters. “Gonna make me work for it, huh?”

I say nothing. Just snatch the beer out of Will’s hand as he approaches and pop the cap against the edge of the cooler.

“Again?” he protests. “Come on.”

I ignore him. So does Zayn.

“You got a problem with me, man?” Zayn leans in. “’Cuz I’m offering you the olive branch here and it looks like I’m getting nothing but disrespect.”

The bottle’s cold in my hand. I take a sip, slow. Still don’t answer.

His expression tightens. “This some kind of racial thing with you, or—”

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