I let out a remorseful sigh. “That’s the other reason I’m here. To apologize.”
Despite the perma-scowl on his face, he opens the door wider and takes a reluctant step back, an invitation to come in. I follow him inside, sparing a quick look at the clutter-ridden room before getting down to business.
“I’m sorry I moved in on your date. It was a total violation of bro code, and for that, I’m offering you one free swing at me. Just make sure to stay away from my nose, because I’ve broken that motherfucker way too many times and I’m scared one day it won’t heal right.”
Disbelief-laced laughter flies out of his mouth. “Dude, you can’t be serious.”
“Sure I am.” I widen my stance. “Go ahead. I promise I won’t hit back.”
Morris shakes his head, looking both amused and irritated. “No, thanks, I’ll pass. Now say whatever else you wanna say, and then get lost.”
“Suit yourself. That was a one-time offer, by the way.” I shrug. “Okay, next. You should know that as long as you and Grace aren’t exclusive, I won’t stop trying to win her back.” Regret rushes through me, and my voice shakes a little. “We hooked up back in April, and I screwed up pretty badly—”
“Yeah, she told me.”
“She did?”
He nods. “On our way home from the party last night. She didn’t offer many details, but she made it pretty clear that you messed shit up.”
“Yup,” I say glumly. “But I’m going to fix it. I know that’s probably not what you want to hear, but I figured I should warn you, because you might be seeing a lot more of me. You know, if you go out with Grace again.” I cock a brow. “Are you going out with her again?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” He cocks his brow. “Either way, it’s none of your business.”
“Fair enough.” I shove my hands in my pockets. “Anyway, that’s all I wanted to say. I hope there’re no hard feelings about last night. I didn’t show up planning to kiss her, it just sorta happened and—holy shit, are you playing Mob Boss?” My gaze has landed on the frozen image on the TV that’s mounted on the wall opposite the bed.
Suspicion darkens his eyes. “You know this game? Nobody I talk to about it has heard of it.”
I wander over to the cabinet beneath the TV and pick up the video game case. Yup, I have the identical one at home.
“Dude, I’m all over this game,” I tell him. “One of my teammates got me hooked on it, this guy Fitzy. Well, his name’s Colin Fitzgerald, but we call him Fitzy. He’s a serious gamer, plays a ton of weird shit nobody even knows exists. He actually reviews games for the Briar blog—”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Morris exclaims. “You actually know F. Gerald? I’m obsessed with his reviews. Wait—he’s your teammate?”
“Yeah, Fitzy uses an alias for the blog. He doesn’t want chicks knowing he’s a hardcore geek.” I grin. “As hockey players, we have a certain reputation to uphold.”
Morris shakes his head in amazement. “I can’t believe you’re friends with F. Gerald. He’s a fucking legend in the gaming community…”
He trails off and our surprisingly animated discussion reaches it conclusion, an awkward silence creeping in to take its place. Sighing, I gesture to the screen and advise, “Save the ammo.”
His eyes narrow. “What?”
“You keep failing this level, right?”
With utmost weariness, he nods.
“Same thing happened to me. I’d make it all the way to the end, but then I wouldn’t be able to kill Don Angelo because I’d be out of ammo and there are no fucking ammo crates in the warehouse.” I offer a helpful suggestion. “There’s a switchblade on the docks. Grab that and use it on Angelo’s enforcers, then bust out the AK when you reach the warehouse. You might die the first few times, but eventually you’ll get used to killing with the knife. Trust me.”
“The switchblade,” he says doubtfully.
“Trust me,” I repeat. “Do you want me to pass it for you?”
“Fuck off. I’ll pass it myself.” He reaches for the controller, then sighs and looks my way. “So where’s the knife?”
I flop down beside him. “Okay, it’s hidden in the corner of the shipyard, near the dock master’s office. Just head that way and I’ll show you when you get there.”
Morris presses restart.
*
Grace
The first thing I do after marching out of the media building on Monday evening is send a very curt text message to one John Logan.
Me: Are u home?
Him: Yup.
Me: Txt me your address. I’m coming over.
It’s almost a full minute before he responds.
Him: What if I don’t want any visitors?
Me: Srsly? After all your “wooing” you’re really gonna say no?
His next message pops up in no time at all. It’s his address.
Ha. That’s what I thought.
My next course of action is to call a taxi. Normally I don’t mind the thirty-minute walk to Hastings, but I’m afraid my anger might multiply to a scary level if I allow it thirty whole minutes to fester. Yep, I’m angry. And annoyed. And thoroughly flabbergasted. I knew Morris wasn’t thrilled about what happened at the Sigma party, but he hadn’t given me any indication that it was a deal-breaker. If anything, he seemed incredibly understanding when I explained my history with Logan on the walk home.