Page 201 of Primal

That gets a laugh out of me.

She reaches into a drawer. “Eli made you something.”

“Eli?”

“The astronaut.” She hands me a crayon drawing—what looks like a red-haired queen? Princess? With a cape and about six fingers on each hand. Next to her is a stick-figure Kristy floating in the sky, with little wings and a star wand.

“He thinks you’re a superhero for visiting.” Miss Lorna huffs out a soft laugh. “So … cape and crown sound about right.”

My throat tightens. I tuck the drawing into my bag—one more story for Kristy’s collection. The kind where the good guys win and no one has to say goodbye.

Epilogue

Lucky’s a dive bar off the highway in McMinnville, with flickering neon, sticky floors, and a jukebox that probably predates the internet. Smells like beer and fryer grease and a hint of wet dog, which might be the bartender’s actual dog curled up under the stool beside us.

The truth is, we didn’t drive all this way for curly fries or vintage tunes. We’re here for Wesley.

“Okay,” Payton admits, snagging a fry from my basket. “Fine. Maybe it’s not that bad.”

“And I’ve got just the thing to make it even better.” I pull out a Ziploc bag of gummy worms.

Her eyes go wide. “Sir.”

“What can I say?” I hand her the bag.teet “I come bearing sugar and sin.”

She pulls one out like it’s something decadent.

“You always know what I want in my mouth,” she says, all faux-innocent, tongue flicking the sugar off.

Her teeth sink in. She drags it between her lips and moans.

Fucking tease. I want to shove the whole bag down her throat just to see her choke pretty.

Better yet—pin her under this table and give her something sweeter to suck on.

The jukebox hums behind us. A few old-timers play pool near the back. One of them’s in a Freddy Krueger sweater and jorts. Mesh crop top included.

A guy near the bar is wearing a cowboy hat and a Ghostface mask that keeps slipping down his neck. He lifts it to drink, yells “Boo!” at nobody, then immediately forgets he did it.

The bartender’s dressed like a slutty devil—blood-painted cleavage, pink horns, cigarette dangling from her lips as she pours beer.

Payton eyes the scene. “This place is like a Spirit Halloween crash-landed in a swamp.”

“Exactly how Wesley would’ve liked it.”

Max would’ve loved this place too. He’d pick a fight over arcade high scores, talk shit to someone twice his size, and somehow leave with a new best friend and three orders of mozzarella sticks.

I reach over, trace my thumb along the inside of Payton’s wrist. “How was the visit?”

“Well, it was nice seeing the kids.”

“Bet they loved the stickers you made them.”

Her eyes flick up to meet mine. “Yeah.” She smiles. “One of them drew me with a cape.”

“A cape?”

“And a crown. Six fingers per hand. I think I’ve ascended.”