Page 54 of Misguided

“I’m goin’ to lie down.” I thumb toward the stairs and then make a hasty exit before I do something else stupid.

The sweatshirt of mine that Mel wore still sits on the end of my bed as I step in the room. Takes me a good minute to stop eyeballing it as though I can wish her back inside it, and shut the door.

My gut churns, acidic and vile, but I can’t stomach the thought of food just yet. Maybe a dry cracker later, but for now I really do just want to sleep off the worst of it.

I strip off, dumping everything in a pile at the foot of the bed, and then bundle the sweater in one hand, my phone in the other as I climb under the sheet. Using the sweater like an extra pillow, I turn my head and inhale, certain if I breathe deep enough I’ll catch a whiff of her. My body wash overpowers most of what’s left, but there, right at the tail end is a definite soft edge—the un-nameable scent that follows her everywhere.

Fresh, like the forest.

Doesn’t take me long to find the incriminating video of my antics. One of the knuckleheads streamed the whole thing live on his profile. At least the assholes are required to set their social media to private when they’re given the prospect patch, so it’s not visible to the whole fucking world.

What sucks most, though, is that the fucker filmed right to the end, cutting it off when I stormed past to chase down Mel. I tap the video and pause it on my face, on the expression that without a hint of doubt shows how I feel about this girl.

I guess, even if I have screwed any chance I had up, I’ve succeeded in my first objective—she’s the old Mel again, smart-mouthed and confident.

***

“Dog, wake up.”

I recoil from the hand hitting my shoulder. “What the …”

King sits on the edge of my bed, angry as a fucking bear with a bee sting. “Wanna tell me why there’s some guy in a suit downstairs lookin’ for you?” He cocks his head to the side, eyes narrowed. “We goin’ to be trying to find some cash to pay for another lawsuit or somethin’?”

I pull my head back, squinting a little as though that’s going to clear him up in my sleep-fogged haze. I know what he said; I just can’t make sense of why. “In a suit?”

“Yes,” he snaps. “In a fuckin’ suit: pinstripe gray, with a fancy-ass matching vest. He looks like a goddamn gangster straight outta prohibition, or somethin’.”

Only one asshole I know who wears a three piece. I bolt upright, damn near clocking King with my knee in the process, and swing around so my feet hit the floor. “What did he say?”

“Just that he needs to see you.”

“What time is it?” I rub my eyes, trying to make heads or tails of how long I’ve been down.

“More like, what day is it?”

I hit him with a hard stare. “Don’t fuck with me.”

Asshole finally smirks. “I ain’t. You’ve been asleep since yesterday afternoon. Check it.” He tosses my phone at me.

I scramble to catch it, realizing if I have been asleep that long it would explain why my bladder’s fit to burst. Sure enough, the phone lights up showing it’s a little after ten in the morning the next day. Hell.

“Did the guy ask for me by name?” I yank yesterday’s dirty denim up my legs.

King chuckles. “Yeah. He asked for ‘Dog.’ Looked like he damn near choked on the name, too.”

“Fuck.” There’s no denying who it is downstairs now.

I snatch a clean T-shirt on my way out the door and yank it on over my head as I hotfoot it to the bathroom to relieve myself. King’s gone by the time I re-emerge and descend the stairs.

The scene in the common room would be comical if it weren’t so damn critical. On one side sit my brothers, some with a drink in hand, as they blatantly eyeball my guest. On the other sits my brother, Derek.

“What the fuck are you doin’ here?” I whisper-yell as soon as I’m close enough.

He stretches his arms along the back of the sofa; smug with the knowledge he’s put me out. I don’t mix my families, and he knows that.

“Must say, the place is a step up from what I imagined.”

“I’m sure King will be touched with your sentiments,” I sass. “What do you want?”