I give a noncommittal shrug, not wanting to tip my hand. “Maybe. Is that allowed?”

Heather closes her eyes, and I can see her eyeballs twitching left to right behind her lids as though she’s reading the rulebook from memory. Trivia night is serious business. “Yes,” she says, holding up a finger, “but only if we don’t max out on team members. Someone will have to ‘have an emergency’ and leave so that we can bring in a replacement player.”

She doesn’t dare do air quotes, lest she be seen strategizing for a ringer, but her eyebrows lift and lower twice in rapid succession.

Shawn, who’s really our weakest member, raises his hand. “I volunteer as tribute if you’ve got someone, Blake?”

The whole team’s eyes land on me, and though I know this might have bad idea written all over it, I also know I’m absolutely going to do it. It might be the only way I can see Zoey again.

“I’m on it. If you’ll excuse me.”

“Fuck yeah,” Trey says, even though his forehead’s lined with worry. “Strat-e-gery.”

“Goddammit, Trey, you know I hate made-up words,” Heather says, distracted as I make my quick exit. I just hope that I’m right.

I step into the hallway near the bathrooms to get away from the noise of The Estates arguing that Edgar Allen Poe was the most influential American poet of the 1800s.

I hear a professor correcting Cole, “Just because the only literature you know by name is The Raven doesn’t make it the most influential. If we went by that standard, the most influential magazine of the 20th century would be Playboy.”

The academics laugh, and I have to admit it’s a good zinger. I sigh, hoping I know what I’m getting myself into . . . and what I’m getting Zoey into too.

I press her contact and the rings sound a bit like Poe’s Tell-Tale Heart, nerves and anxiety louder in my head than they should.

“Hello?” Zoey answers.

“Hey, Zoey, I have a bit of an emergency here and I’m wondering if you might be able to help me?” I spit out nervously. God, this could so blow up in my face.

Zoey winds up in an instant, her voice hard and worried. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

Shit.

Her first thought is that there’s been a catastrophe of her doing, which was not my intention, but . . .

“Yeah, I’m fine. Can you just come? I’ll send you the address.”

“You promise this isn’t a booty call again?” she asks a bit more warily. “If I get there and your dick is out, I will scream and douse you with pepper spray.”

I chuckle, although my dick does do a little wakeup twinge in my pants. “No, you won’t.”