Page 63 of Cold Mercy

“Okay, fine,” he says, entirely too casual. “Maybe throwing it out the window was a little much, princess. I’ll buy you a new one. But that guy looked like a potential serial killer. I was doing you a favor.”

I turn my head toward him so slowly it’s terrifying.

“You will regret this, Reed.” My voice is quiet. “And when you do, it won’t be nearly as funny.”

The car finally slows in front of my house.

I don’t wait for the car to stop fully before I unbuckle and push the door open.

“James,” I say through clenched teeth, “thank you. You were the only tolerable human in this entire nightmare tonight.”

I slam the door and walk toward my gate. I step inside my house, slamming the door behind me. If I have to build an underground bunker, install landmines, dig a moat, buy a tank, hire snipers, and place a rocket launcher on my roof just to keep Thomas Reed away from my property… I will.

Or I will try… Yeah, I will start with trying.

✽✽✽

I wake up with the unmistakable feeling of a hangover. My eyes burn, and my mouth is dry.

And even though so much happened last night, I apparently fell asleep like a damn toddler, arms wrapped around a pillow like I hadn’t spent the night in emotional warfare. Now I just lie here, staring at the ceiling, letting the headache pulse behind my temples, because the idea of getting out of bed feels illegal.

A knock sounds, and before I can even answer, the door, of course, swings open.

Mrs. Gonzalez pokes her head in with her eternal look of half-terror, half-determination.

“Miss Sophia? A package came for you.”

She sets a small cardboard box on my bed, bites back a laugh she absolutely fails to hide, and hurries out before I can interrogate her. I sit up slowly, with blanket wrapped around me, and reach for the box.

It's a small box with huge letters across the top:

‘From pretty boy.’

Jesus. Knowing him, he might actually pop out of it like some deranged Jack-in-the-box. I open it anyway and find a brand-new iPhone inside. The exact same model as the one he yeeted out of a moving vehicle last night. It’s nine in the morning. When the hell did he have time to buy this? Of course, there’s a note.

I’m sorry about last night. I bought you a new one. My number is already saved, so don’t panic trying to find it. Check under ‘My beloved Thomas.’ You're welcome. And since you said you ‘know nothing about me’, princess, here are two verified facts about your favorite annoyance:

1) My birthday is March 21th.

2) When I was six, I broke my leg trying (only trying, read that twice) to learn how to roller-skate. So no, I’m not amazing at everything like you assumed.

I have included photographic evidence.

Thomas

That son of a bitch actually took everything I said to heart. He turned my rant into homework and completed the assignment with extra credit. I pull out the photo he mentioned.

It's a photo of little Thomas, looking furious and offended at the universe with his leg in a bright blue cast and wearing the very same expression he uses on me weekly. I clamp a hand over my mouth and start laughing like an idiot.

Really, Sophia? Is this all it takes? A childhood injury confession? Get it together.

But credit where credit’s due, and the bastard played this extremely well.

And he listened, he actually listened to the part where I told him I didn’t know a single real thing about him. Unable to stop my embarrassing smile, I grab the new phone and turn it on.

His contact is, indeed, labeled Beloved Thomas. I should be offended, but I’m not. I’m… something else entirely. Without thinking, without stopping to remember how he tossed my phone into the street like trash, I send him a message:

You look adorable in that picture. Almost unlike you. Thank you for the phone.