Page 95 of Trick Shot

What do I say? He cut the peppers too thin?

No. I can’t beat the shit out of him with everyone watching—and he knows it.

“Say something like that again and I’ll put you in the fucking ground,” I grit out.

“I’m getting bored of this conversation.” He picks up another pepper and casually slices the stem off. “If we’re not going to fuck together or fight each other, stop butchering the vegetables and go set the plates.”

“Let me check you real fucking quick.” I set the knife down and turn to him. “I think you’re forgetting whose house this is. You don’t tell me to stop cutting, you don’t tell me to set the plates, and you sure as fuck don’t plant shit inside Melody’s head.”

“Jace,” he sets the knife down and do the same, “I’m not here to fuck and I’m not here to fight. You’ve opened up your home to me, and I will not disrespect you in here. But my patience is wearing thin. So, I’ll say this once—and hope you’ve cleaned your ears this morning. What you do with that girl is none of my business.”

We stare at each other, both knives down. The sounds of laughter and clinking glasses drift in from the patio, a seagull screeches in the distance, and Pitbull’s Hotel Motel scrapes against my spine as it booms through the speakers.

“Don’t confuse my boredom for interference,” he says without looking at me. “I like to stir the pot when I get bored. Doesn’t mean I want a taste.”

“You ever stir the pot again with her,” I say, voice low and lethal, “I’ll make sure you regret it.”

Zed picks up another pepper, slicing through it with the same slow precision like nothing happened.

“You know,” he says, “for someone trying so hard to keep things quiet, you’re loud as fuck.”

“You gonna tell him?” I ask the real question, folding my arms across my chest, glaring at him.

“What would I gain from that?” Zed lifts a brow.

“The satisfaction.”

“Not worth it. I’m not interested in watching people burn just because they’re dumb. I save that for the ones who deserve it.” He pauses, then nods toward the patio. “But that?” he says, chin-jerking toward Dom. “That’s a fire waiting to happen. And you’ve got two choices.”

“Let’s hear them, wise master.” My smile is nothing but mockery, but Zed doesn’t seem fazed.

“You keep sneaking around and let the truth findhimfirst.” He holds up one finger, tattooed with a weird symbol I can’t understand. “Or you walk out there, balls in hand, and tell him yourself.” He holds up a second one, carrying a similar symbol.

Zed leans in slightly, his voice dropping.

“If you want to keep her and your friend, you better control the narrative. Because when it comes from someone else, you’re not just a villain—you’re a liar.”

“Dom is going to flip,” I mutter, not knowing why I’m even confiding in him. Maybe I need someone to talk to about this.

“Dom is going to flip either way. You have to control which side he flips to.” He taps the cutting board once with the tip of his blade—but it’s enough to lodge it into the wood. “Melody’s grown up extremely shielded. This is new to her. You’re the one who has to step up in this situation.”

I blink at him, confused—then remember the fucker used to hang out with Dom when they were younger. He’s known Melody longer than I have. And the thought doesn’t sit right with me, but there’s jackshit I can do about it.

“I apologize for my inappropriate comment to her,” he says, looking me dead in the eyes. “I shouldn’t have disrespected you both the way I did.”

And then he extends his hand toward me.

I stare at it.

I could ignore it and walk away.

But instead, I grab it—feeling like he’s putting some fucked up curse on me with all that shit he’s got tattooed.

“You say one more word to her,” I mutter, “I’ll chop your dick off and serve it with the appetizers.”

The sun’s low, bleeding gold over the backyard. Dom’s outside by the grill, Tanner’s tossing the salad way too aggressively, and I’m inside, stirring a pan of garlic rice and losing my mind again.

Melody’s not talking to me.