Also, how old are you?” Zeke is still staring at me. I don’t know what the fuck he’s expecting to see, but he needs to focus on packing and not on my face. He gives a startled laugh when I ask his age and I glare at him. “Uhm, I’m in my junior year. I’m twenty, but I’ll be twenty-one in a couple of months.” “You look twelve, or something.” “And you look like someone who breaks kneecaps for the mafia,” he retorts.
