Page 210 of My Dark Prince
I let my friends haul me to a Cheeto-scented van, figuring I’d burn less time if I didn’t fight them. “Seriously, guys?”
They tossed me into the back like a sack of potatoes, ignoring my words.
“Tiger King secured.” Zach – and I knew it was him because that fucker only knew how to talk in the same monotonous rumble – threw my overnight bag into my gut and slammed the door behind him.
I tried to find a comfortable position in the trunk but ended up faceplanting into random sharp objects. “Is this a joke?” If so, it sucked, and I needed new friends with better senses of humor.
“Only if you think your life falling apart is funny.” That came from Romeo as the engine roared to life. “Stay still, or I can’t guarantee your face remains intact.”
The van squeaked to a halt, probably at a light. Someone honked twice. Through the rough material over my head, I could make out the faintest shapes. Romeo sat behind the steering wheel while Zach sprawled on the passenger seat, scrolling through his phone.
We screeched to another halt at a light.
I rolled from one side of the cabin to the other, groaning at the impact. “Where the hell did you guys get this van?”
The thing was ancient. It creaked every time one of us moved a centimeter and smelled like it survived two world wars, Woodstock, and eleven seasons ofThe Walking Dead.
“Bought it off an Uber driver.” Zach yawned, tossing something into the backseat. A ski mask, maybe? “Don’t forget to five star.”
“I thought you were allergic to manual labor.”
“I make exceptions for kidnapping.”
The van careened to another sharp stop. For someone with vast experience in driving tanks, Romeo drove cars like a cat chasing a laser pointer.
“For fuck’s sake.” I hit my head on something hard. “Is this really necessary?”
“Considering you’re two shots away from a public meltdown, yes.” Romeo snorted, flicking on the turn signal. “Face it. You need us.”
“Speak for yourself. You literally lasted three days before you ran to Georgia to find your wife with your tail tucked between your legs.”
“True.” Zach nodded, as if what he’d done to that poor mango during his separation from Farrow never leaked to us. “That was arguably more pathetic than Oliver.”
The van hit a bump, jostling me into the back seat again.
I clenched my fists and swung them apart, trying and failing to break free from the zip ties. “If this is your idea of an intervention, it sucks.”
Suffering through mythirdintervention in just five days sat somewhere on my to-do list above eating gas station sushi and below getting a root canal. At this point, I needed to wipe the slate clean and restart my life with new people in it.
“Not an intervention, per se.” Romeo switched lanes hard enough to catapult me across the van. “More like a tactical adjustment. Somehow, I doubt Briar will be overjoyed with the prospect of dating a walking brewery.”
“I’m sober right now,” I pointed out. “And I’m not taking advice from two idiots that think tossing a black bag over my head counts as a therapy session.”
“We did go a little hard with the black hood.”
“Let it be on record that I suggested something gentler.” Zach swung open his door when the van pulled to a stop. “A pillowcase would’ve done the job. Didn’t Dallas buy one with Nic Cage’s face on it?”
I squirmed again, my frustration mounting. “This is kidnapping.”
“Technically not a kidnapping.” Zach popped open the trunk, bathing me in sunlight. “We’re your best friends. You consented by proximity.”
“That’s not how consent works, jackass.”
“It is when you’re sinking.”
With that, he and Romeo lifted me onto a cart and began wheeling me somewhere, the black material still pulled tight over my head.
The fight drained out of me. I slumped against the cold metal. “I’m not sinking.”
