Page 91 of Hide From Me

Did I just name the thing?

What the hell is wrong with me?

“Creeper?” Moe asks, glancing at the pile of dirt near my feet, then back at me like he’s not sure if I’m serious or possessed.

“Right…” he drawls, glancing at his wrist but never actually checking the time. “Uh—well… if you and Mr. Creeper are finished here, we have dinner with my coworker.”

I stomp my foot in frustration, the crack in my composure widening. He thinks this is funny. Healwaysthinks this is funny.

His smile dims slightly as he tilts his head back with a sigh, soaking up the sun but not quite enjoying the warmth.

Then his arms open. No words. Just open.

God help me.

“You’re a prick,” I mutter, head down as I walk into his arms. I don’t even wrap mine around him, but he doesn’t hesitate to pull me in tight, hand smoothing over my hair, nose buried against my neck.

“I know, baby,” he murmurs.

But I don’t want him to believe that. Not really.

He lifts his head slowly, cupping my face in both hands, forcing me to look at him.

“Here lies Creeper,” Moe begins solemnly. “Taken from us too soon—”

“Shut up,” I hiss, shoving his chest again.

“Whoa, careful,” he teases. “You might need to stay in my arms. Bob the Bee might be next, and I don’t think there’s enough space in this garden for him to be buried, too.”

His laugh fades a little when I don’t return it. When I just stare. His hand cups my jaw, gently tipping my face toward his again.

“I’m only kidding,” he says, softer now. “Let me make it up to you.”

“Dinner?” he offers, brows wiggling.

I roll my eyes. “Fine.”

It’s not because I want to go. It’s because if I don’t, he might ask what’s really wrong, and I can’t have that.

Not today.

“When you said dinner, I thought you meant forus,” I hiss, jerking Moe’s arm back by the crook of his elbow. My feet stay planted, refusing to move any closer to the older man grinning and waving us forward like we’re at some twisted family reunion.

“I, uh—” Moe rubs the back of his neck, sheepish, refusing to let his eyes crinkle. “I saidwithmy co-worker, sunshine.”

Shit. Maybe he did. But I was too far gone, drowning in thoughts I don’t talk about, to hear it properly.

“Is this your way of telling me you wanted some alone time?” he purrs, like he wasn’t just looking like a kicked puppy seconds ago.

“Don’t deflect,” I mutter under my breath, though it’s barely audible over the pounding music and drunken shouts echoing from the pool tables. Out of all the places we could’ve ended up tonight, a bar wasn’t on my bingo card. It smells like piss, stale beer, and burnt burgers. The air is thick with smoke and bad decisions, and the dim lighting barely cuts through the haze.

Each step Moe drags me forward, my tennis shoes stick to the floor like they're warning me to turn around.

“I was starting to lose hope in you, boy! Would’ve been a hell of a dent in my wallet if I lost the bet with King,” the older man booms, his voice cutting through the noise like he was born to command it.

“You allbeton whether I’d show up?” Moe says, brow furrowing. I glance over at him, trying to figure out if the cloud behind his eyes is confusion or if something deeper is starting to churn.

His shoulders sag, and his expression shifts, like he’s in pain. I blink down at my grip on his arm, wondering if I’m the one hurting him. Maybe my nails dug in too deep. Or maybe it’s something else entirely.