Page 80 of Things We Left Behind

“That right there is the reason I’m freezin’ my ass off in my driveway instead of making out with my wife. So this is what’s going to happen. The three of us are going to go inside, and you two are going to behave like adult humans with impulse control. Or else…”

Sloane’s eyes narrowed. “Or else what?”

She always had the wrong reaction to challenges like that.

Knox’s grin was wicked. “I’m glad you asked. Since I don’t want Naomi to know about this and since I can only punch one of you in the face and since I’m a little bit afraid of you”—­he pointed at Sloane—­“I had to get creative.”

He held up two small boxes with wires running out of them.

Sloane was already shaking her head. “No. Nope. No freaking way.”

“Oh, yes freaking way,” he insisted.

“What are those?” I asked.

“Well, Lucy,” Knox continued conversationally. “These here are transcutaneous electrical nerve stimulation machines, a.k.a. TENS, a.k.a. period cramp torture devices the girls at Honky Tonk deploy during their Code Reds every month. They tape these sticky pad things onto a guy’s stomach and proceed to shock the shit out of him to show him what they go through on a monthly basis.”

Sloane scoffed and crossed her arms. “You’re not seriously saying you plan to electrocute your dinner guests.”

“I’ll be honest. I don’t care about dinner or our friendship that much,” I said, pulling my car keys out of my pocket.

Sloane put her hands on her hips in triumph. “Good riddance.”

Knox snatched the keys from me. “I don’t think you’re hearing me. Naomi has decided you both can’t be invited to the same social shit. Which means she’ll schedule twice as much social shit to make sure both of you pains in the ass get the same amount of quality fucking time with us. And I don’t want more social shit. I don’t want more quality fucking time. I want you two to put aside your petty ‘we have a secret feud that we won’t talk about’ bullshit and make my wife forget that you can’t stand each other.”

“This is ridiculous,” I insisted.

“No. You’re fucking ridiculous for making me do this. So either you both go in there strapped up to these toys, pretend to be adults for the evening, and make my wife happy, or you both go the hell home and think about how stupid you must be for making me the fucking voice of reason in this scenario.”

I glanced down at Sloane, who seemed to be weighing the ridiculous options.

“What’s for dinner?” she asked, eyes narrowed in calculation.

“Tacos.”

“Dammit,” she muttered and grabbed one of the TENS units.

“You’re joking.”

“I’m hungry, and I’m proving to the bearded barber herethat I’m a better friend than you are,” Sloane announced. She pulled up the hem of her turtleneck, baring her smooth stomach.

“I’m not doing this,” I told Knox.

“I’m not forcing you. You know the choices and the consequences. But I meant what I said. It’s both of you or neither. And if I go back in there and have to tell my wife that you two couldn’t even agree to not be assholes for however long it takes to shove a bunch of tacos into your face, she’s gonna be upset, and that’ll make me fucking furious. I’ll have no choice but to make it my mission in life to destroy you both,” Knox threatened.

“What’s the matter, Lucifer? Afraid of a little pain or afraid you won’t be able to control yourself?” Sloane taunted with a challenge in her eyes.

Swearing, I yanked my belt free and untucked my shirt. “For the record, these better be the best tacos I’ve ever had, because I’m not convinced this friendship is worth it.”

Sloane’s green eyes skimmed over the skin I was baring as I slapped the two adhesive pads to my abdomen.

“Get it out of your system now, ’cause Waylay is sitting between you two. If my girl catches you being dicks to each other, she gets to shock the shit out of you.”

As we marched toward the house, I comforted myself with the fact that it would be Waylay, not Knox, behind the controls. Besides, how bad could period pain be?

Lightning bolts of agony raced across my abdomen and down my legs. I slapped a palm to the table, rattling glasses and silverware.

Piper yipped and Waylon grumbled about their exile on the other side of the dog gate.