Page 22 of My Hotshot

Smoke and I walked out of the clubhouse. The laughter and noise of getting the fire started in the backyard prep echoed, but I was already in another headspace.

One where this ended with either relief—or blood.

Our bikes were parked side by side, like they always were. I watched Smoke swing a leg over his ride, and his expression was unreadable.

I straddled my bike and started the engine. The growl felt good in my chest. Familiar. Like armor.

We pulled out of the lot and onto the road.

Smoke hung just behind me, letting me lead. The wind hit my face, and I forced myself not to overthink.

It was nine minutes.

Just nine minutes.

In nine minutes, I was either going to see Lainey again… or we were going to walk right into a trap.

And I wasn’t sure which one scared me more.

Chapter Eight

Lainey

Beep.

I froze mid-step, a half-eaten fortune cookie in one hand and a blank stare aimed at the carpet. That sound—like a little robotic hiccup—meant I had a text message. Or maybe a missed call. Hell, maybe it was just the battery telling me it had five minutes left to live.

But I needed to find it.

Silence.

“Why does my phone only beep every five minutes when I have a text?” I whispered to the empty living room.

I was in a bind, and the only way I could solve it was to play the world’s slowest game of hide and seek with my own damn phone. I turned in a slow circle, the hem of my T-shirt brushing my bare thighs as I scanned the room like I expected it to suddenly jump up and wave at me.

On the coffee table sat my sad, ice-cold Chinese takeout with a chopstick stabbed in the middle like it had lost the will to live. The Goonies was on the TV, muted, which only made it weirder—Sloth had bellowed something dramatic five minutes ago just as my phone beeped, and I’d gotten distracted, thinking maybe the two things were connected.

They weren’t. Obviously.

“Where did I put you?” I asked the room like I was a detective in a crime show, and the missing phone was the dead body. I crouched beside the couch and peered underneath. Dust bunnies and a rogue sock stared back.

Fifteen minutes ago, I’d polished off the last of my first bottle of wine and cracked open the second with the kind of reckless optimism that always spelled disaster. I had gotten thebrilliantidea to text Duane—Dice—whatever he went bynow. And in the span of about forty-five seconds, my phone had vanished.

Poof. Gone. Either I misplaced it, or it dissolved into thin air in a cloud of Pinot Grigio.

I blamed the wine.

This is why I didn’t drink often. My alcohol tolerance was pitiful, and apparently my short-term memory was worse.

Either Lottie or Duane had messaged me back. I was assuming Duane—Dice—since it had come through not even a minute after I’d sent the text. Which meant the clock was ticking on me figuring out what it said.

“Where are you?” I screamed, throwing my arms in the air.

Knock knock knock.

I jumped like the floor had zapped me. “Jesus Christ.”

I whipped around with my heart pounding like a drum in my ears.

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