The Worst Kind of Promise (Riverside Reapers Book 2)

KIT

I really hope Faye can swim.

Nerves shackle me as Gage and Fulton pull up in their cruiser, the two of them the embodiment of tranquility.

Fulton has an obnoxiously loud Hawaiian shirt hanging off him—with matching shorts that make me shudder—and a dab of sunscreen smeared across his nose.

Gage slides his sunglasses up, resting them in his messy crop of hair. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t the Big Cat himself.”

I’m trying to lean on something in that cool guy pose, but there’s nothing in the nearby vicinity that could support me. “’Sup, guys. Nice weather we’re having, eh?”

Oh, God. I’ve never turned Canadian when trying to make small talk before. They’re going to know something is up. Or Gage will. Fulton’s kind of…empty up there.

Fulton stretches. “Oh, yeah. It’s really nice out. Not too hot, not too cold.”

Gage eyes me suspiciously, his gaze jumping from the cheek-biting smile on my face to the seemingly empty deck behind me.

“Whatcha doin’ out here all by yourself?” he asks.

My head whips around like I hadn’t realized I was alone. “Huh? Oh, uh…”

Think, Kit! Get him off your back. You’re not doing anything illegal. You’re fine. Just say you wanted some time to yourself or something. Keep it simple. Don’t elaborate.

I’ve never been such a mess before. Then again, I’ve also never been fostering the biggest secret in the entire world. Now my emotions are trampling me in a rockslide.

“I’m going fishing,” I lie, hoping that my consternation doesn’t translate through my voice.

Gage’s tongue pokes the inside of his cheek. “I never knew you liked to fish.”

“Oh, yeah. Fishing is great. I love…sitting and waiting for them to bite. Really riveting. And then when you catch them, it’s…super dope.”

Dope? Dope?!

“Where’s your fishing gear?”

Fishing gear. He means a rod and shit. Did I seriously not realize I’d need fishing gear for this lie to work? I’m cold and clammy. I feel like a paralyzing agent’s just been injected into my bloodstream.

“I’m fishing the old-fashioned way,” I say with as much confidence as I can muster.

Gage laughs in an I-don’t-believe-you kind of way, and even though he hasn’t necessarily called me out on my bullshit, the condescension in his tone is loud and clear.

“And what does that mean exactly?” he probes.

“Fishing with my hands,” I grunt, waving my hands around for good measure. I could totally fish with my hands. I’m a hockey player. Dexterity and precision are all in the game.

Fulton’s jaw practically drops to the ground. “You fish…with your hands?”

Gage, unfortunately, is not nearly impressed. “Bullshit. There’s no way you can catch a fish with those giant mitts,” he scoffs.

Offended, I get the sudden urge to swim around until I catch a slimy bastard just to prove it to him. “You’re just jealous because you’re not as skilled as I am.”

“Oh, sure. That’s it. Where’re the fish you’ve ‘caught’ today then?”

“It’s been a slow day.”

“What kind of fish live in this lake, Kit?”

“The gold kind,” I answer.

Fulton’s mouth hangs open for the second time, accompanied by childlike wonder in his disc-wide eyes. “I thought goldfish were only in pet stores,” he gasps.

Gage doesn’t rush to correct me, so maybe I did something right for once. I’d let out a sigh of relief if it wasn’t so obvious.

I shake my head. “Sweet, sweet Fulton.”

Goldfish were the only fish I could think of, and if I took any longer, Gage would know I was lying. I honestly had no idea they lived in the wild. That was a lucky guess. Do goldfish live in lakes? Is that a thing?

I grin in triumph, crossing my arms over my chest. “Are we done with the interrogation? I have to get back to fishing.”

Gage’s features are as hard as slate, his squinty little eyes scrutinizing me, waiting to find that crack in my guard so he can jam his fingers in there and rip me open. Very I Know What You Did Last Summer of him.

“She another puck bunny?”

“What? No,” I hiss. I wish I had hidden my reaction better, but comparing Faye to a puck bunny nearly made me grab Gage by his collar and dangle him over the side of the boat.

“A pop icon?”

“No.”

“What are you hiding, Kit?” Gage grills.

The blood vessels in my forehead are gonna burst. “I’m not hiding anything!”

Fulton, witnessing the tension underlying this whole interaction, decides to step in not a moment too late. “C’mon, Gage. We’re gonna be late to the kickback.”

“Right,” Gage replies, starting up the boat propeller, all while his unnerving stare never leaves my face.

I swallow. There’s sweat dripping into my trunks from the heat and the bitter taste of lies. And I have no idea how Faye’s faring down there. She’s going to be so pissed at me if we make it out of this alive.

“Have fun catching your goldfish, Kit.”

And just like that, I watch as their boat speeds off into the distance with a hydrodynamic drag, sending a ripple through the eerily calm lake. Jesus Christ. That was worse than a police interrogation. Not that I’ve ever experienced one. I’m just guessing.

I tentatively peer over the side of the boat to where I last saw Faye, and lo and behold, she’s bobbing in the water, giving me a Medusa glare.

“I hate you,” she growls, though half of her words are drowned out by the water sloshing into her mouth.

This is going to be a long boat ride back.