Sloane’s smile is sweet, her movement fluid and graceful as she grasps the tub with one hand, the spoon with the other, then gently pulls them from David’s grip. He doesn’t protest and relinquishes both items at her request.
“Well,” she says as she saunters closer to me, her dimple a shadow of restrained amusement as she keeps her eyes fused to the plain white tub in her hand. She’s still reading the homemade label when she draws to a halt in front of me. “I might never look at ice cream the same way again.”
“I don’t want to know.”
“Ingredients: cream—”
“Sloane—”
“Sugar—”
“I’m begging you,” I say, but as soon as ‘beg’ leaves my lips, Sloane’s grin ignites. My stomach flips in the most uncomfortable way.
Sloane clears her throat. “‘Semen, milked April tenth to April thirteenth.’ That’s an interesting substitute to salt—”
I push past her and vomit in the sink to the sound of her traitorous laugh. Christ, I thought there wasn’t anything left, but I was wrong. It takes a long moment to recover myself before I can rinse my mouth and the sink, my breath and balance both unsteady.
“Christsakes. What a fucking weirdo,” I say as I wipe a thin film of sweat from my forehead and turn to face Sloane where she stands next to David with her arms crossed and a shit-eating grin spread across her lips.
“Yeah, he was a strange one.”
“I’m still not sure if I’m talking about Thorsten or you.”
Sloane giggles and shrugs. “Maybe it’s fun to see the perfect pretty boy a little messed up for a change.”
My dark glare only seems to amuse her further. “I think you’ve already seen that plenty,” I reply as memories of last year’s game bubble to the surface. I can still recall Sloane’s touch as she bandaged my bloody knuckles, can still feel the warmth of her fingertips on my skin.
“That was different,” she says. “That was you in your natural element. This is…definitely not that.”
I huff a breath of agreement but say nothing further.
“But, you do kinda owe me extra for this year’s win,” Sloane says as she wanders closer.
I give her a suspicious glance as I lean against the stainless steel sink. “How do you figure?”
“Saving you from choking, for one thing. I thought that was kinda obvious,” she replies with a shrug. She stops just out of reach as she gnaws the edge of her lower lip. “I think I need to make a claim.”
“A claim?”
“A victory claim.”
“Hold up,” I say, shaking my head. “I didn’t make a victory claim last year when I beat that piece of shit into the ground for spying on you.”
“To be fair, you also kinda spied on me.”
I scoff, but it sounds forced. “Did not.”
“No? The way I remember it, you were pretty much in the wall, that’s how hard you were listening to me getting myself off.”
“I was listening to that pink tie motherfucker getting himself off to you. So, no.”
“Sure,” she says with a flat glare. She turns toward David, watching him for a long moment before she spins on her heel and levels me with ferocity in her green and gold eyes. “David.”
My gaze travels over to the vacant expression of the man who sits on the prep table, his legs still swinging in circles. “What about him?”
“Give him a job.”
I snort a laugh. “A job.” Another loud laugh whooshes from my chest before reality sinks in. She’s fucking serious. “What the fuck?”
“You heard me. A job.” Sloane’s eyes narrow when I shake my head. She takes a step closer and pins me with a murderous glare. “We can’t leave him like this.”
“Sure we can. He should be glad he didn’t get eaten. He’s in the clear. Dodged a bullet. Or a fork,” I say.
“And now he’s got nothing. You could give him a place to work. A purpose.”
“Have you noticed that we’re in Cali-fucking-fornia? I live in Boston, Sloane. How the hell am I going to get him from here to there without arousing suspicion?”
“I dunno,” she says with a shrug, her expression unconcerned by this dilemma she’s dropped in my lap. “If he hasn’t been reported missing by anyone, you could just…take him.”
“It’s not like Winston. I can’t just put him in a cat carrier and bring him with me.”