We went to Jordan’s, but no one left the truck. He parked and got out, opening the back bed, and the three of us sat on the tailgate, our feet dangling. Jordan lounged against the side of his truck, his hands in his pockets. He looked like a guy leaning back, enjoying the weather, except his eyes were downcast, his forehead was wrinkled, and he frowned.
I raked a hand through my hair, feeling the frayed ends and trying to smooth some of it. After a minute I gave up, letting my hands rest on my lap.
Cross sat next to me. He gripped the edge of the truck, next to his legs. His knuckles were turning white.
Zellman was the only one nonplussed. He watched us, an expectant note in his eyes, like he was ready for whatever was next on the agenda.
“The dude fought with us.”
Everyone looked at
