Page 43 of Drifter’s Heart

The phone rings out. I press call again. And again.

I groan and call twice more, getting my reverse-stalker on and running my mind through our last conversation so that my headspace is in the right place for when he does pick up.

But no matter how many times I call, West never picks up the phone.

Eventually my call is sent straight to voicemail.

Let’s join the Overprivileged Rand Club. I have no idea if that’s a good thought or not—I’m going with not—but right now desperation coils within my veins.

I shouldn’t have pushed him away.

I shouldn’t have pushed him away.

I shouldn’t have pushed him away.

My phone buzzes in my hand. I open the messaging app so fast I swear my thumb gets screen burn.

Gig on 2mrw night. You wanna play support crew? I can always use a backup dancer.

I stare at Tom’s message, disappointment curling in my stomach. Forcing a smile I don’t feel, I tap out a lackluster response, making it sparklier with every letter.

Mister Jacobs. Do you think that I deserve only the position of “backup dancer”?

You need stage space? This is what I’m hearing?

Stage space and a pole would be excellent. Thank you very much.

You got it, hot stuff. Wear something inappropriate.

The time and location bleeps through for the other side of Cloakton. I’ll just be able to make it after my shift. I toss my phone back at the laundry pile. Revenge date acquired. I wander about the house, picking up random items and moving them around. My phone buzzes again, but I don’t look this time. I can’t.

What in the Pop-Tart hell did I just agree to do?

FOURTEEN

WEST

Sparkle, Sparkle

“Thirteen missed calls. Four messages.” Dustan hikes his eyebrows. “One declaration of love. One thrown coffee. Now that’s some serious shit, my boy.” He whistles from his place on the temporary fencing we’ve erected at the back of Dallas’s produce store across town in Cloakton.

I roll my neck, watching my new tame bull—a different one than last week’s training effort—munch away at his trough. “Yeah. Well. She threw me out, didn’t she.”

“And now she wants you back.” Dustan tosses me my phone. “So?”

“So what?”

“When are you going to see her?” He eyes me expectantly.

I stare back at him, exasperated. “Didn’t you hear me, kid? She. Threw. Me. Out. After a perfect—it doesn’t matter. Get back on the bull.”

“He’s eating. And you aren’t flirting. You know it’s no fun when you don’t flirt.”

I shake my head. “You’ve got no chance.”

“I know. That’s why we call it flirting. It’s safe, see?” Dustan grins and slides off the rail, approaching the bull side-on.

“Jesus.” I straightened. “Do you have a fucking death wish? I didn’t mean right now⁠—”