Harley
Oh god.
I made the biggest mistake yet, and no, it's not taking out a mortgage loan I can't afford to pay back. I didn't blow my money on gambling or, worse, murder someone.
Though, honestly? I wish I had. It would've been less traumatic.
Why did I let Clad leave my house after that? I don't know. And why—why in all that is holy—did I get into the same car as him? I must have been clinically insane.
"I can't unsee it," I groan, collapsing onto a wooden bench. Where am I? Hiding in the team's locker room like a fugitive because everywhere I go, I see him. My hand. Doing things it shouldn't. And worse—
Something. Poking. My. Ass.
I slap both hands over my face and muffle a whimper. My brain, the traitor that it is, zooms in on that particular moment with high-definition clarity. I should be disgusted. I should be repulsed. I should be scheduling an emergency exorcism.
