Page 35 of Wild Card

His broad palm slips from my neck, rubbing over my upper arm reassuringly. Up and then down. I can’t help but shiver at the unexpected contact. And I know he notices because he steps away, creating more space between us.

His tone changes when he speaks next. Confident and sure, but the softness of mere moments ago evaporates at once. “It’s all going to be good. You’ll see. Nothing to worry about.”

I blink away any wetness and try not to laugh at his brusqueness. Then I consider if I should cry again, just so it will bring him closer.

But I don’t get the chance.

“Oh, good. You two have kissed and made up,” Clyde rasps as he hobbles down the hallway.

“We didn’t kiss,” Bash snipes, right as I say, “There’s nothing to make up about.”

We both look at each other, eyes locking for a beat. Then Bash steps even farther away, hands raised, like Clyde caught him red-handed, while I wipe any lingering dampness from my face.

Clyde chuckles, not bothering to inspect us too closely, instead heading straight toward his boots near the front door. “One of my best naps, Gwen. Thank you. I’m glad Bash stopped sulking and invited you to his party tonight.”

Awkwardness descends between us because he most certainly did not. And based on the smug twist of Clyde’s lips and the murderous scowl Bash hits him with, we all know he didn’t.

And yet, like a scolded child, Bash turns to me. “Gwen, would you like to come to the annoying party that West is hosting for me tonight?”

He’s clearly only inviting me to be polite. The look in his eyes is practically begging me to decline. But beyond him, Clyde is nodding enthusiastically.

I shrug. “Sure. I love annoying parties.”

I tell myself I’m only saying yes to make Clyde happy. And that it has nothing to do with spending more time around Sebastian Rousseau.

Absolutely nothing at all.

CHAPTER TWELVE

BASH

Bash: I know this is random, but giving you a heads-up that I’m donating a kidney to a friend. So if I’m MIA for a bit, I’m probably just in the hospital.

Tripp: Jesus. When is this happening?

Bash: Tomorrow.

Tripp: And you’re just telling me now?

Bash: Didn’t want you to get all sappy on me or something.

Tripp: Well, I do think it’s pretty cool that you’d donate a kidney to a friend. I don’t think I like anyone that much. Lmao.

Bash: One day you will.

Tripp: Maybe. For now, I will just admire your generosity from afar.

Bash: Okay. Good luck with the end of the season. Catch you on the flip side.

Tripp: Ugh. Yeah. End of the season is looking like it will be sooner rather than later. Maybe I’ll come visit you sometime. See your place.

Bash: I’d like that. Drop me a line.

West strides out of his kitchen with a shit-eating grin on his face and a kidney-shaped cake in his hands.

He stops at the head of the table, right beneath the banner that readsWe’re going to miss you, Daddy!“Bash, congratulations on finally finding your perfect match,” he announces to the dining room full of our friends. “None of us expected it to be Clyde, but sometimes the heart wants what the heart wants. And I, for one, could not be happier for you. Or him.”

A ripple of laughter rolls through the room as he sets the white cake on the table for everyone to see. It’s covered in…veins? Capillaries? I don’t fucking know. The decorative icing has done an incredible but disturbing job of making it look like an anatomically correct kidney. In perfect script it saysBon voyage, Kidney!