1642734778_punk-57-pdf

“What’s up?” Dane asks.
I grab my keys off the table and stuff the cell in my pocket. How the
fuck is she at a party at that asshole’s house, and who the hell is she
screwing off with?
“Let’s go,” I bark at the guys.
“Where?”
“I’ll explain in the truck.”
I head through the pool hall, hearing them put their instruments down
and run after me. Once outside, I hop in the cab. Dane climbs in the
passenger side, and Lotus and Malcolm jump in the bed behind us.
Firing up the engine, I speed away from Sticks and hop onto the
highway. I lay on the gas, determined to make the thirty-mile drive in ten
minutes. Is she actually drinking at his house? She has to know how stupid
that is.
She wants to party? Fine. She wants some space? Okay. But going
anywhere near that asshole or being entertainment for some horny little shit
who wants to touch her is pushing me too far. Ryen doesn’t do fucking body
shots. She’s trying to piss me off, and it’s working.
And I think of Annie and what she did to herself, because she wasn’t
thinking straight, either.
By the time we make it to Trey Burrowes’ house, I’m more worked up
than I’ve ever been, but I know if I go in there half-cocked, she’ll just fight
back, and I’ll walk out of there without her.
We climb out of the truck, and I can feel the vibrations of the music out
to the street. “Bad Girlfriend” plays, and I glance around, seeing the houses
all a good distance away from each other, but some of them have to be able
to hear this noise. I’m tempted to call the cops myself, if they haven’t been