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“Over my dead body,” Baxter growls.
“I’m going to take your car,” he corrects. “With Nix and Ace, and we’re going to choose some decorations and shi–stuff.”
More shopping? Fuck no.
I gladly toss him my car keys and cross over to Baxter’s Tesla.
“Shotgun,” I call.
“You’re so immature.” Jax shakes his head.
“Whatever. Snooze ya lose.” Not to mention there’s no way I’ll fit in the back. It’s pokey as fuck.
“Like I care, I get Raven in the back all to myself.”
Fuck. Fucked that one up again.
“You want to fool around in the back of Baxter’s car? It’s your funeral. He loves that thing more than blood.”
Jax frowns at me like he thinks I’m saying he loves it more than his blood, meaning relatives, but I happen to know Baxter loves bloodshed more than anything. Except that car.
“Did you know they do a seven-seater version?” I ask Baxter innocently.
“Fuck off,” he snaps. “Get in or I’m leaving without you.”
We do as he says, waving off the others, and wait for him to start the engine. Before he pulls off he turns round and glares at Jax.
“If you fool around in my car I’ll cut your dick off.”
“Hey!” Raven complains. “I happen to be quite attached to his dick.”
“I know how to embalm and carry out taxidermy. I’ll immortalise it as a dildo for you.”
And with that beautiful image burned into my head, we set off for home.
Baxter: I have a question.
Rebel: Mine is bigger.
Baxter: You’re a dick.
Rebel: You mean I have a big dick.
Baxter: I meant what I said in the car about removing dicks and being able to preserve them…
Rebel: Jesus, keep your hair on! No need to make threats. What’s up?
Baxter: What’s with the tattoos?
Rebel: Which?
Baxter: You know. The feathers. It’s weird. You all have them. Is it a girl gang or a Boy Scout thing?
Rebel: Black feather for Raven. Red feather for Nix.
Baxter: And the white?
Rebel: Lizzie.
