Page 82 of Things We Left Behind
“Fine. Tens all around. I’ll show you how to handle it,” Sloane snapped.
“I hate to point this out because I’m definitely having fun here, but I think you guys are losing sight of the reason Knox is letting me electrocute you.”
First Knox, now Waylay. The voices of reason were getting less likely as the evening wore on.
Sloane glared at me over Waylay’s head. I glared back.
“Bite me,” she mouthed at me.
“You’re not my type,” I mouthed back.
“Is everything okay down there?” Naomi asked, sounding nervous.
“Fine except for Lucian scowling at me like a—” Sloane grunted, her face contorting in pain. “Worth it,” she wheezed.
“You’re such an idiot,” I told her. And then I was doubling over, my face hovering over my plate of tacos as an excruciating current of pain tore through me. “It’s in my kidneys.”
Waylon and Piper were barking frantically now.
“Knox Morgan! Why is our daughter electrocuting our guests?” Naomi shrieked.
My friend held up his hands. “Daze, there’s a perfectly logical explanation for this.”
“Jesus,” Nash muttered. “I don’t know which one to arrest first.”
“You know what? I think I’ll go get the cobbler…and more alcohol,” Lina said, getting up from the table.
“I’ll help,” Waylay said, escaping the room before a punishment could be dealt out.
“I’ll supervise,” Nash volunteered.
We got to our feet and began ripping off electrodes. My legs felt like they were made of brittle wood. One wrong step and I’d collapse. There was an echo of pain in my lower back.
I took Sloane by the upper arm and steered her toward the back door. “Outside,” I said tersely.
“But I want to watch Naomi tear Knox a new one,” she complained.
“You have a lifetime of opportunities for that.” I dragged her outside onto the deck and shut the door. It was cold and dark. The naked trees cast skeletal shadows over the snow from the stingy light of the crescent moon.
“Did level ten fry your brain?” Sloane asked, slipping out of my grip.
“We’re calling a truce,” I announced.
“That’s not how that works.”
“I’m forty years old. I run a multimillion-dollar business. Iown property. I pay taxes. I vote. I cook. I get the goddamn flu shot every year.”
“Congratulations. Where can I send your gold star?”
“We’re adults,” I said, pointing to the window where it appeared chaos was still reigning. “And that in there was the latest performance in a long line of immature shit shows that we’ve starred in together.”
Sloane crossed her arms and looked down at her feet. Her boots were brown with purple stitching. “I’m not saying you’re right. But you’re not exactly wrong.”
“This has to stop.”
She puffed out her cheeks. The light from inside made the stud in her nose twinkle. She looked like a mischievous forest fairy. “I know.” She turned away from me and moved to the railing. “I hate that every conversation with you has me regressing to a teenager with no impulse control. It’s embarrassing.”
“I hate that I let you get under my skin. It’s infuriating,” I admitted.
