That Secret Crush (Getting Lucky #3)(82)

“You really don’t know?”

“No, I don’t, and if someone doesn’t tell me what’s going on”—Brig’s voice rises—“I’m going to scream—”

“Enough with the screaming. You know that threat does nothing to scare me and only makes you look like a douche.”

He sighs. “Just tell me. What is it?”

“Eve. She’s on a date.”

“What? Again?” Brig jumps from his seat and digs through a cabinet until he pulls out something that looks like a stick of incense. Lighting it and waving it around his apartment, he makes circles near me, wafting the smoke near my crotch and then up around my head.

Naturally, I smack him away.

The whole scene is absolutely ridiculous. Here’s this man—a grown-ass man—who’s built like me and my brothers, with muscles as big as Rogan’s. He works on cars for a living, for Christ’s sake. And yet he’s waving around a tiny stick of incense and mumbling some sort of chant.

He’s completely lost his damn mind.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“You’re bringing all kinds of bad vibes into my apartment. I don’t need your negativity soaking into every surface, cursing me with your bad luck.”

“I don’t know why I hang out with you.”

He gestures toward the window. “Apparently for good access to Peeping Tom locations.” After he’s done filling the air with what I can only describe as a rank shoe smell, he puts out the incense and comes up next to me, peering through the blinds as well. “Where is she?”

“They must be sitting in the back because I can’t see them.”

“Damn it. Should I text Franklin and ask for the deets?”

“Christ, no. Are you insane? If Franklin gets a text from you asking about what’s going on with Eve, he’s going to know I’m behind it.”

“Ah, yeah, you’re right. That’s totally obvious. Want me to use the Hen Line?”

“What’s the Hen Line?”

“It’s an anonymous call-in where you can put in a request for info, which is texted out to everyone who’s signed up. Text backs are posted to the Hen Line app, so you can find all your answers there.”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. That really exists?”

“Where do you think the newspaper gets all its information? The Hen Line is life. Dude, you have to read it. Some of the greatest things are posted in there. Just yesterday, Crazy Old McGwen up on the hill, he was caught outside, sipping coffee in nothing but a polo and a jockstrap—his bare, wrinkly ass just hanging out. There were pictures, and I’ll be honest, I did a shit ton of squats yesterday, thinking of that wrinkly ass the whole time, praying mine stays firm and taut for my future wife.”

I stare blankly at Brig. “You need a life.”

And with that, I grab my things and take off. This visit was a complete waste of time.

I’m halfway out the door when Brig calls out, “Sure, just leave. No thank-you for the soup, for the access to my window, for the cleansing of your aura.” His voice cracks. “You’re a user, Reid. A user.”

Sighing, I turn back and grip the doorframe, plastering on a fake smile. “Thank you, Brig, for being such a generous host, feeding me swill, giving me access to your dirty-ass window, and almost setting my dick on fire with your gross incense.”

He crosses his arms over his chest and lifts his chin. “See, was that so hard?”

Jesus.

Christ.

I slam the door shut and jog down the steps from his apartment to my truck, thinking over everything we talked about, as the gray of spring clouds the sky. The Hen Line? Who even comes up with something like that? Most likely Franklin. He’d do just about anything to beat Mrs. Davenport to the town gossip.

I don’t even know why I went to Brig’s apartment in the first place.

Maybe because I’m desperate to find out anything about Eve and her life beyond Knight and Port.

Maybe because I’m hopelessly in love with a woman who is now dating other men.

Maybe because I’m beginning to realize I made the biggest mistake of my life by letting Eric convince me to break up with his sister.



“Have you heard anything from the Hen Line?”

Yup, I’ve cracked. I’m sinking to a new low, but holy fuck, I can’t go another day without hearing at least the smallest bit of information about Eve and her new dating life. I’m desperate.

“Ha! I knew it! And it took you a whole week to break—I’m impressed. I thought it was going to be a lot sooner.”

“Just fucking tell me if you’ve heard anything,” I say, growing annoyed.

Brig slides out from under the car he’s working on and takes a rag from his pocket as he sits up, wiping his hands before picking his phone up from the ground beside him.

“Let’s see.” He’s getting way too much fucking joy out of this. I can tell from the way his eyes are lit up. I almost didn’t come. I talked myself out of it quite a few times, but after seeing Eve this morning, decked out in leggings and a low-cut sweater, I snapped.

I need to know if anyone else has been inside her sweater. I need all the information, and there is only one person to turn to—though I know he’ll never let me live this down.