Jaden (Jaded 3)

He’d always been Corrigan’s local criminal friend. He had helped us a couple times; the last time was when he installed my security system. Even though that had only been months ago, there was something different about him.

No.

I got it then as he clasped Corrigan in a hug, then patted Bryce’s shoulder. He even gave me a hug before he pulled up a stool and signaled for a couple of his friends to come over, introducing them to Corrigan and Bryce.

As everyone was shaking hands, I knew this was the right place to be. Hoodum hadn’t changed. We had. Bryce, Corrigan, and I. Somehow, through everything, the three of us had evolved. I had no idea into what, but it felt right. It had gotten us over our slump, whatever it had been, and it was like old times. Bryce, Corrigan, and I were the old trio. We were the same idiots who had been handcuffed together as part of an assignment from our school counselor.

We were that again.

I met Bryce’s gaze, and I nodded, trying to say thank you. He nodded back, and then I shut it off—all the seriousness, the bittersweet memories flooding in, the fear that I’d lose this family again. It was all shut off. As Corrigan and Hoodum started telling us a story, where Corrigan tried stealing one of his cars before he realized it was Hoodum’s, I grabbed my beer and reached for a wing.

I had no idea how it happened, what exactly had happened, but I wasn’t so scared.

We were going to be fine.

I felt it in my gut.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

We were drunk.

We had moved our party outside of the bar. I didn’t know what we were waiting for, but we were waiting for something. Then Corrigan laughed and tripped over his own feet. He stumbled down, and would’ve face-planted if his newfound friend hadn’t grabbed him and pulled him back to his feet. “Whoa man, Rick.” Corrigan squinted up at his friend. “You look like Rick Schroder. Has anyone ever told you that? Are you related at all?”

The guy had a long black beard with a mustache covering half of his face. What hair he had on top of his head was covered by a dark stocking hat, and his eyes were brown. The biker was over six feet and probably around three hundred pounds.

I would’ve burst out laughing, but my stomach had been doing somersaults for the last hour. Bryce leaned next to me and breathed on me, “I think Corrigan has beer goggles on, don’t you?”

I wrinkled my nose. A wave of cheesy fries emanated from him, and it was making the ones resting in my stomach unhappy. I felt a gurgling sensation in there and groaned. Not good. I was going to hurl.

“Sheldon?”

I held up a hand. “Hold on.”

Wait for it. My stomach had moved from somersaults to the Cirque de Soleil.

“Hey.” He poked me on the shoulder.

“Hold on.”

I turned from him and bent over. Just get ready. I knew it was coming. Then I opened my mouth and assumed the throwing-up stance. Feet apart. Knees bent. Hands on hips and . . . nothing.

“No. Rick Schroder.” Corrigan’s voice rose. “You don’t know who Rick Schroder is? NYPD Blue. Silver Spoons. He was on 24, too. Nothing? For real?”

I groaned and tried to drown out their conversation. It wasn’t helping.

“Corrigan.”

Bryce decided to join in.

“—baby blue eyes. Blond hair. He’s a good-looking guy.” Such disbelief. “Still nothing? Wow, man. You have the same name and everything. Rick. You’re both Rick.”

“My last name’s Bellarke.” The guy didn’t seem too happy to be having that conversation.

“Corrigan.”

I grimaced and braced a hand against the wall beside me. It was drumming up, ready to spout out of me—then a deep and sober voice said by my head, “Raimler, your girl’s going to hurl.”

Bryce exclaimed, “Thank you. I was trying for the last hour.”