A fist bangs on the door. “Loren Hale!” Connor calls. “You better wake up. You promised me gym. I want gym.” Lo reluctantly leaves my side and lets him in. “You’re on time,” he says flatly, going back to the kitchen. “Always am.” He watches Lo grab a bottle of vodka from the freezer. “You know, it’s barely noon. Brain cells generally don’t respond well to alcohol this early. Gatorade is the better option.”
