It was like he’d had a personality transplant overnight. Maybe he was having a mental breakdown or something, because he didn’t resemble the guy I’d seen on campus for the past two years.

Surly, quiet, and grave. With an underlying current of darkness. He walked the halls, the Student Union, the library, and Greek row like he was a man waiting for lightning to strike him.

That bully, violent, quiet, simmering guy? The West in front of me wasn’t even related to him.

Grams didn’t act like Grandpa Freddie was there with us, so I guessed I did get my small miracle, after all. She leaned forward, rolling a coin into the jukebox and choosing “At Last” by Etta James. She was clearly enjoying the male attention, telling West about her time working at this diner.

“Let me tell you, ain’t no grass grew under those feet during those days. Still, wouldn’t change it for the world. That’s where I met my husband.”

“He must’ve been special.” West smiled back at her, and I tried to remember seeing him smile at school. We took mixed media together, so I’d seen him plenty. I couldn’t recall one time, which alarmed me.

“Boy …” She leaned forward, patting the back of his hand. “He was smart as a whip, dangerous as the Devil and twice as handsome.”

Watching her happy made me happy, so eventually, I relaxed into the squeaky vinyl seat and let them mingle.

“So, Mr. St. Claire, are you courting my little Gracie-Mae?” she asked after a while, lowering her chin to examine him through her winged reading glasses.

I choked on my fountain soda, spraying it across the table.

West smirked, angling himself on the table across from us so he and Grams were almost nose to nose, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Can I be honest?”

“Honesty is the best policy.”

“I’m not much of a commitment guy, Mrs. Shaw. Grace deserves a hell of a lot better, so that’s one tail I won’t be chasing. Besides, your daughter’s not exactly my number one fan.”

“Daughter?” Grams put her hand on her chest, giggling. “My dear, you’ve got it all wrong. I’m Grace’s grandmother.”

“Why…” He shot me a playful smile. I wanted to murder him. He knew she was my grandmother. “I’ll be damned. You look like Grace’s sister.”

“Baby sister, I assume,” I sulked, sucking on my straw. He laughed good-naturedly.

The man was laying it so thick, I wished he could do my makeup.

Grams and West ate and fell into an easy conversation again.

They talked about the weather in Maine (according to him, it sucked), the food in Maine (same, save for the seafood), his family (West had more finesse than to say they sucked, but by his tight-lipped answers, I figured he wasn’t close with his parentsg). By the time we were done, West promised to take Grams to the diner again, and soon, and she swore she would bake him one of her infamous pies. Since I wasn’t a part of the conversation, I excused myself to go to the restroom to reapply more foundation. When I got back to the table, I saw West had taken care of the bill and was standing up to leave. Grams was caught in a lively conversation with our waitress, telling her about her days at the diner.

I winced. “You shouldn’t have paid. Thank you.”

He shoved his wallet into the back of his jeans, tugging at the chain link attached to it. Both his plates were squeaky clean, and he’d also polished off Grams’ leftovers. He must’ve been starving.

“I ordered you a cab.” He ignored my gratitude, his demeanor changing back to gruff sourpuss. “Lock the front door and put the key somewhere she can’t find it.”

“She’s allowed to walk around the house,” I protested for the sake of protesting. I didn’t like that he’d told me what to do, even if I knew he was right.

He shot me a look. “Hide it where no one would want to visit.”

“Where would that be?” I crossed my arms over my chest, spearing him with a stare.

“How ’bout your bed?”

He grabbed his helmet from his seat, tucking it under his arm. He kissed Grams’ cheek goodbye and dashed off, not sparing me a glance. I watched him through the glass windows. He hoisted a leg over his bike, gunning it. Grams appeared beside me. We watched as the red light of his bike got smaller and smaller, until it melted away into a dot in the darkness.

“Be careful with that one, love. He’s wilder than an acre of snakes.” She coiled her arm around mine, patting my forearm. She was being normal, sweet Grandma Savvy again, and I wished I could have her just a little longer so I could tell her all about my life, my struggles, my relationships.

So I could get her sharp, Southern independent woman’s input.

I thought about the girls who frequented our food truck window. About West’s one-hookup rule. About his reputation and busted knuckles, and cunning, devilish smirks, and green, bottomless eyes that were carefully flat whenever he set them on someone else.

Grams was right.

My heart couldn’t afford opening up to West St. Claire.

I was going to make sure the rest of my body was going to listen to it.

West

“West, my man, what’s shakin’?”

Max struggled to catch my steps as I breezed into the café. He panted like one of those rat-looking dogs who couldn’t run from the kitchen to the dining table. He was a short, stout guy with a constellation of acne framing his jaw and coarse, ginger curls he insisted on trying to tame with hair products.

The combo made him unattractive to anyone with a pair of working eyes, which, sadly for him, was ninety-eight percent of campus population.

The idiot was best known for booking the fights at the Sheridan Plaza—and an eager collector of whatever leftovers East, Reign, and I didn’t want in the ladies department during fight nights. Max got a nice cut from orchestrating my Reservoir Dog warehouse gig. He did the legwork; I did the fist-work.

He brought all his frat friends from Pike, Beta Theta Pi, and Sig Ep to the arena each week and had them shell out money for the bets, tickets, and beer.

Worked for me, since I was the one cashing in big at the end of each night.

“Get to the point, Max. We aren’t shooting the shit here,” I snapped.

I was on my way to the cafeteria, about to meet East. My phone danced in my pocket, as it did so goddamn often. I ignored it. I didn’t need to look to see who it was—Mom—and what she wanted from me—more money.

Max clapped his hands together, practically skipping. He wore vintage Jordan Airs, a designer belt, and enough hair product to sculpt a fucking six-year-old. I got high from the fumes coming from his hair alone.

“Aight. Straight shooter, I’m digging it,” he crowed. I ambled into the cafeteria, him trailing behind me like a fart. “I got a new gig for you. Could be sick. Something exclusive that doesn’t come by every day. Lucrative as all hell, but super last-minute.”

“Are you gonna spit it out?” I scanned the place for East. My best friend made me sandwiches every morning, like a doting little mountain girl with stars in her eyes, and brought them with him. I suspected he worried I’d die of starvation if he didn’t take care of me. Maybe because he knew me well enough to know there was always going to be a small side of me that didn’t mind dying.