“Here, you see? You put your initials—your real initials—into the heart of her. WCK.” Wicker squints his eyes. “What, that little carving? I put those there in fifth grade.” “Exactly,” Remy says, nodding. “You showed her who you were. Called dibs. Don’t be a fickle little bitch.”
GASPING FOR AIR… Too much laughing
