Dirty Toe Drag (Nashville Assassins Next Generation 6)

I scroll through Instagram and like and comment on my friends’ posts. When a text comes through, it surprises me. Especially when I see it’s from Wes.

Wes: Hey, stunning Stella.

Wes: You’re up early.

Me: How do you know?

Wes: LOL. You answered me.

Me: You said it first!

Wes: I saw you comment on your brother’s post. Remember? Stalker?

Me: Oh, totally. I may need a restraining order.

Wes: Wait till after Sunday to decide on that.

Me: I can do that.

Wes: Good. Wyd?

Oh. Oh shit, do I lie? I stare at his question, unsure what to do. I know he told me about his therapy and that was sharing, so I should share this, right? I don’t want to lie to him. But then, why is it okay to lie to my family but not Wes? Crap.

Wes: You fall back asleep?

Me: LOL. No, sorry. I’m working out.

Wes: Mmmm. Working on your fitness, I see. What’re you doing?

Me: Treadmill.

I feel bad.

Wes: Make sure to pick up some weights. Weight training is the best for your body. We can work out together if you’d like.

No, I would not like that. I don’t like working out. I would like to watch him work out, but I don’t want to do it myself.

Me: Sure.

Wes: That’s a very noncommittal sure.

Me: Sorry. Don’t know if I want to do that or not.

Wes: I’ll take it easy on you.

Me: No, you wouldn’t.

Wes: I wouldn’t.

I grin as his next text comes through.

Wes: What’s your day looking like?

Me: After I’m done here, heading home, and I have to work tonight.

Wes: No school?

Me: I have two online classes I have to do, but nothing too crazy.

Wes: Awesome. I have practice and tapes and shit. Maybe I’ll come to Brooks tonight for dinner.

Me: I’d like that.

Wes: So you can eat my food again.

Me: Well, duh.

He sends the laughing emoji and I send one back, but then the timer for the cupcakes goes off, meaning they’re done cooling. Penny starts to get up, throwing her phone on top of her bag, and I look back down at my phone.

Me: Hey, gotta go. Talk to you later?

Wes: For sure. Have a good day.

Me: You too.

I tuck my phone into my back pocket and get to work. As I frost each cupcake, I think about how I hate that I lied to him. I don’t know why I feel so guilty or why I’m letting this bother me, but I am. I try to focus on each cupcake, but the guilt is eating me alive.

“What’s wrong with you?”

I glance over to Penny, pulling my brows in. “Huh?”

“You’re talking to yourself with no sound and making weird facial expressions,” she accuses, scrunching up her face. “You okay?”

“I didn’t realize I was doing that,” I admit, relaxing my face. “I’m overthinking something.”

“What?” she asks, her gaze holding mine as she fixes the frosting bag.

I take a deep breath. “I lied to this guy, who I guess I’m talking to, about where I am.”

She gives me a dry look. “So? You lie to your family about this daily.”

“I know, but I feel bad for lying to him.”

She blinks. “Well, then fix it. Why are you upset and kicking yourself when you can correct it?”

“Because I don’t know what to say!”

“It’s easy. You pick up the phone and say, ‘Hey, I’m making cupcakes for my aunt. Do me a solid, and don’t tell anyone because I’m too scared to follow my dreams, and instead I’m wasting my parents’ money on schooling that I don’t even want.’”

My jaw goes slack as I gawk at her. “Man, don’t hold back, Pen!”

She shrugs. “It’s annoying. I hate doing this. Despise it. And you love it and hide it. If it makes you happy, be direct about it. They’ll support you. I mean, come on. You could fart, and they’d say glitter was coming out of your ass.”

I look away as I start to frost once more. I don’t answer her. I don’t like this conversation because it makes me nervous. My parents have spent so much money on school and even things out of school related to my passion for fashion and design. I don’t know how I would tell them that I don’t want to make clothes, that I want to make cakes. The fear of their disappointment rattles my soul.

With Wes, though, there would be no disappointment.

I want to tell him.

Chapter Ten

Wes

When my phone sounds, I glance down at it, not recognizing the number. I pause my razor at my jaw as I scrutinize the screen. It’s not a Tennessee number, nor an 800 number. I don’t know who it is, and that makes my stomach twist with ungodly pain. I place the razor on the counter beside my phone and watch it ring, unable to move or think. I have this feeling of who it could be, and there is no way in hell I am answering that call. The problem is, it could be a teammate or even someone for foundation stuff, but I let it go to voice mail. I tap my thumbnail on the counter as I wait for the voice mail to show up, but it doesn’t come. My hands are shaking, and my gut is hurting.