Page 33 of Monstrous Serpent

Atlas: ?

Me: Talk later

Atlas: :middle finger emoji:

I pocket the phone, pull out the key fob to the F-250, and unlock the door. An empty Gatorade bottle rolls off the seat onto the pavement. “Goddammit, Atlas.”

I pick it up and toss it into the back, three more already there, with a granola bar wrapper and a crumpled napkin. I blow out a breath. He is never going to clean this truck.

After tossing my bag onto the passenger seat, I climb into the truck and buckle my seatbelt. There's an orange ring on the dashboard from another bottle. “I swear to fucking god.”

Tossing it aside, I start the engine and punch the address to Crestwood into the GPS. Forty-seven minutes with current traffic. Enough time to make it there and back without being late for off-ice.

I wait for some kid to walk past, face buried in his phone, when I catch sight of the 906 sticker on the back of a red Prius a few spots ahead. My gaze lowers to the license plate.

Michigan.

My knuckles go white on the steering wheel, every muscle across my shoulders tightening. Haven’t seen those three numbers since I left Ironwood that night.

I shake off whatever crawled under my skin and pull out of the spot, glancing at the Prius one more time in the sideview mirror. The car is small and wrong for the U.P. in every way.

The phone rings just as I pull onto the parkway. Atlas’s name pops up on the truck’s touchscreen. I hit the green button to answer. “Yup.”

“Where are you going?”

“Errand.”

“What kind of errand?” Atlas drags out the last word.

“Don't worry about it.”

“Whatever. Can you grab me Raisinets? The big bag, not the little theater box ones. Those are a ripoff.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah, clean the truck. It's disgusting in there.”

My jaw clenches. “It's your mess, Atlas.”

“Semantics.” Something rustles on his end.

“Reyes got you?”

“Yesssss, he's right here.”

“Gotta go.” I end the call before he finds something else to talk about. Always does that when he’s not with me.

I pull the GPS tracker from my pocket and place it into the cupholder. Running into Jenkins Friday night was lucky. But I don't do luck twice.

Not when some motherfucker had his hand on what’s ours.

Ours.

Don’t know why I said it the first time. The second time is easy. Atlas is interested. More interested than I’ve ever seen him. And I’ll make sure my best friend gets whatever he wants.

But Jenkins is different for me too. Can’t explain it. Every hookup I've had, I forget their face by the time I'm done. My cock doesn't care who they are. It cares that they're there, and then it's over.

Except I didn’t even get off with Jenkins.