“Different weird.”
Briggs glances over from across the table.
“You didn’t have breakfast or lunch today, and now you’re picking at dinner.”
I point my fork at him. “Why are you all suddenly obsessed with my eating habits?”
Nobody answers immediately.
Clint shrugs first. “You’re crankier when you don’t eat.”
“I’m cranky when I do, too.”
“That’s fair,” Tripp says.
The laugh slips out before I can stop it, but it fades fast when warmth creeps up my neck again.
God, I hate this.
“I need air,” I mutter, pushing back from the table before anybody can stop me.
But when I step onto the porch and the screen door shuts behind me, I catch Clint watching through the kitchen window for half a second before he looks away.
That shouldn’t do something to me, but unfortunately, it does.
The porch creaks when I sit on the top step, pulling my phone out mostly to distract myself.
No Hunter or Gidge.
The irritation grows every time I check.
Seriously? How hard is it to answer a damn phone?
My phone beeps suddenly and the screen lights up, causing my stomach to flip before I can stop it.
Finally.
I type my passcode in so fast I nearly drop it, then stop.
I know that number… Peter.
“What the fuck?”
How the hell did he even get this number?
Snaildick- Heard you’re hiding out. Why didn’t you just come to the clubhouse.
My jaw tightens.
Douchebag.
I flip open the camera app, angle the phone, and snap a picture, middle finger front and center.
Me- Get bent, you fucking asshole.
Me- PS. Tell Hunter to call me ASAP.
Snaildick- What’s in it for me? I wanna see you in leather and boots and nothing else.