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I jump, fingers grazing it, but it screams in defiance. Second jump—miss. Screw this. There’s a broom in the kitchen. I’ll beat it to death if I have to.

The broom is wedged between the wall and the fridge. It slides further out of reach when I try to grab it. Motherfucker. I bend down, fingers searching through three inches of dust anda questionable red dot (candy or cough drop?) and yank the broom free.

It launches itself at my head.

“Fuck!”

The broom’s handle slams into my skull. The smoke detector chirps, as if laughing at me.

Before unleashing my fury, I spot a navy blue backpack.

My head tilts like a confused dog. Because it’s… wrong.

My backpack is black. Ian’s backpack is navy blue.

Is he still in the house?

No. He’s at school.

Oh no.

He’s at school—with my backpack.

My backpack that I stuffed with leather straps and gear before leaving the club last night. Because Joey told me to reorder supplies. And I wanted to get home, so I grabbed the old stuff for reference and planned to place the order from here.

Now that bag is sitting in an elementary school surrounded by security and the next generation of nepo babies.

Shit.

I grab my keys—and freeze. Why am I cold? Oh, right. I’m naked.

Track pants and a T-shirt are easy. Shoes and socks nearly kill me as I hop around trying to put them on. Keys, wallet, cellphone, and... the damn bag.

The smoke detector gives one last “fuck you” as I slam the door behind me.

How could I be so stupid and lazy? Why can’t I do anything right?

I blow past a stop sign, barely registering the red and blue lights flashing behind me until it’s too late.

Shit. Deportation. This is it. I’ve never tested the fake ID before. If they run it, I’m screwed.

Knuckles white on the steering wheel, I lower the window.

The cop, a baby-faced twenty-something, chews gum like he’s auditioning for a role in an intimidation police training video. “Do you know why I pulled you over?”

“Because my life is a giant clusterfuck sandwich.”

His eyebrow twitches, but he recovers. “No, it’s because you blew through a stop sign. What’s the rush?”

I should lie. But my mouth betrays me.

“My son took my bag to school instead of his. I need to swap them.”

He lowers his sunglasses. “That’s not exactly an emergency.”

“I work at a BDSM club.”

His lips tighten as he tries not to laugh. He fails spectacularly, snorting before turning away to compose himself. Halfway to his car, he doubles over, hands on his knees, shaking with laughter.