Page 184 of You've Got Hate Mail

---

She’s with Ten Rhodes.

It’s impossible not to like the guy.

But at the same time, it’s also impossibletolike the guy.

I didn’t know how to properly convey that in a text, so I didn’t send it.

And now, there’s no way of telling what’s inside of the wine cellar.

She might not even be here anymore. Her last location was at the door, so I assume she’s in here.

Hopefully dressed.

I push open the downstairs door behind one of the rows of barrels, and voices filter up to greet me immediately.

“Seriously, Pip, fuck Dean,” Ten says in a slurred drawl.

“Fuck Dean!” Cricket cries, less slurred, but still slurred enough to alarm me.

“This is good shit,” Ten adds.

“Good shit!” Cricket cries.

The chicken bagocks.

All goes silent.

“Dude,” Ten says.

“It’s a sign,” Cricket says.

“Is that an egg, or is she just happy to see me?” Pip asks, which sends Cricket and Ten rolling in guffawing laughter.

I pause at the end of the row of barrels, leaning on a support beam, watching.

The three of them are parked in front of one of the lower barrels, which they’ve tapped, and plastic cups of red wine are on the floor beside them.

Ten tosses back a glass, then lifts it to Pip. “To fucking Dean over!”

Cricket tosses back what looks like an empty glass, then lifts it to Pip too. “Let’s fuck Dean over!”

Shit.

They have the urn with them.

And The Cluckinator’s pecking at it.

Cricket’s head jerks in my direction.

She looks back at her two companions, who are now arguing over how best to fuck Dean over, then grins and winks at me.

I make a drinky-drinky gesture.

She gives the slightest shake of her head.

I grin.

She grins even wider.

---