The Last Piece of His Heart (Lost Boys 3)

“Dude, I don’t have time for some cloak and dagger bullshit—”

“Do you want to see him or not?” I snapped. “Be there. I’ll handle the rest.”

After school that day, I walked with Shiloh to the student parking lot. I’d squeaked out a C-minus in History, though I suspected Baskin hadn’t wanted to give me that much.

“He’s an ass,” Shiloh said, fingers twined in mine. “Your last paper on the Cold War was brilliant.”

“Don’t know about that.”

She kissed my chin. “I typed it, so I do.” We arrived at her Buick and she ran her hands up my chest. “I have a free afternoon, if you catch my drift. Want a ride to your place?”

“Can’t. Tonight?”

“A man of few words. Tonight will have to do.” She kissed me softly. “Love you.”

“Love you,” I said and watched her go, still fucking trying to believe that girl was mine.

I started for home while typing a text.

Meet me at the Shack. 4 o’clock.

I waited and walked, praying Holden would fucking answer. Relief gusted out of me when he did.

Why?

I hesitated over a response. It had to be good. Holden was too fucking smart; he’d see through bullshit immediately.

I have something 4U.

Sounds romantic.

I rolled my eyes. It’s important. And if you don’t take it, I’ll never speak to you again.

Too late, I realized that might be exactly what Holden wanted.

I see what you did there, he replied. I don’t need new boots.

Just come. Please.

Please? Is this still Ronan Wentz or did someone steal his phone?

I bit out a curse and was typing something a lot worse than please when another text came.

I’ll be there.

I sighed again. Christ, he’s more work than Shiloh. The thought made me smile and then it faded instantly because the fucker was leaving.

But I’d done what I could. I didn’t know if it was enough, but it wasn’t nothing. That was something.

I walked home and arrived at my complex to see a thin old guy in a gray suit outside my door. He knocked, peered in the side window, and then started for the stairs to leave.

“Hey,” I said when he came down. “Can I help you?”

“Are you Ronan Wentz?”

“Yeah.” I crossed my arms, tensing.

“I’m Joel Barker, your Uncle Nelson’s attorney. We spoke on the phone.”