Down With the Shine by Kate Karyus Quinn Page B

shit.” Smith releases me and takes a step back. “Your friend Larry?”
    “Yeah,” I answer, surprised that Smith guessed he’s the one friend who would call me—the two of them don’t exactly run in the same circles.
    “And you told him you’d go straight into the shit storm. For him.”
    I shrug, a little uncomfortable with this line of questioning. “Yeah.”
    “Okay.” Smith nods. “So what should we expect at Michaela’s?”
    “You’re not coming with me.”
    “Technically since I’m driving, you’re coming with me.”
    I shake my head. “I’m calling my uncles. I gotta ask them what to do about Dyl anyway.”
    “What do you mean, ‘Do about Dyl’? No offense, Lennie, but I’m not gonna have your uncles locking Dylan in the basement with W2.”
    “They wouldn’t,” I protest, but when Smith gives me a skeptical look, I can’t help but modify my defense of the uncs to, “probably.”
    “Right,” Smith says. “So here’s the plan. You’ll stay in the car with Dyl, while I run into Michaela’s and grab big dumb Larry.” I might agree that Larry is big and dumb, but Smith sure as hell hasn’t earned the right to say so.
    “Fuck. You. That’s why you’re not going.”
    Smith scoffs. I’ve never actually heard someone scoff before, but he makes this throat-clearing noise that can’t be described in any other way. “Because I don’t like your boyfriend?”
    “No, because—” I stop as I realize what Smith just said. He thinks Larry and I are together? Ugh. The high school attitude of believing that a boy and a girl can’t be friends without sucking face is so stupid, and I should’ve guessed that people would’ve interpreted my relationship with Larry that way. For some reason, though, I thought that Smith of all people would’ve known better. “Whatever. He’s a good guy and you’re—”
    “Not?” Smith cuts in finishing my sentence for me. Except that isn’t even what I was going to say. I’d meantto repeat that he was not going with me to rescue Larry.
    I glare at Smith, wondering what is going on in his head. As usual it’s impossible to tell. He looks angry and dark and complicated and not at all like someone I’d describe as a “good guy.” Which is, of course, a big part of the reason I’ve always been so drawn to him. Hot mess—emphasis on the hot—seems to be my type.
    And just like that, I give in. Because who am I kidding? If I’m gonna walk through hell, I want Smith at my side, trying to convince me to let him hold my hand.
    “Fine.” I throw my hands up in the air, so my complete surrender is clear. “We’ll both go. But forget the whole me sitting in the car with Dyl while you run inside. Actually, I don’t think it’s a great idea to bring her along at all.”
    You’d think Smith might meet me halfway on this. But like me, you’d be wrong. “Yeah, well, it’s a worse idea to leave her here. Let me paint you a real quick picture. Teena and her guy of the week have a fight. She storms off. Most likely comes home to get drunk. And when she’s had too many, there’s nothing she likes more than tottering into Dyl’s room and playing up the grieving mother bit. Screaming. Crying. Shaking her fist at the ceiling. All while asking, ‘Why why why . . .’” Smith stops and takes a deep breath. “Half the time she passes out on Dyl’s bed.”
    “Okay,” I say. “I get it. But . . . we can’t hide Dyl from her forever.”
    “Maybe. Maybe not.” He sighs. “But for now, at least until we figure out what’s going on with her, I think we should keep Dylan close to us.” Springing to his feet, Smith holds a hand out to me. “Come on.”
    I almost put my hand in his. It feels so natural, like an agreement that we are in this together. I even go so far as to stretch my arm out, before I remember and recoil. “Why don’t you lead the way?”
    “Damn. I almost had you,” Smith says, flexing his hand so that I can see his torn and