Corey kept that sly grin plastered across his face, clearly enjoying the way Kota's eyes had lingered a second too long. He spun on his heel toward the guy who'd been delivering those casual shoulder punches like it was his full-time job and jabbed a thumb in his direction.
"This grumpy little shit right here is Bartholomew Miller. Yeah, I know, dumb as fuck name. Sounds like he was born to be a Victorian accountant or some crap. Goes by Mort now because apparently it means 'death' in Latin or whatever ancient bullshit he googled at three in the morning. Needs to get some dick instead of walking around with the least hot personality on the planet. Seriously, mate, loosen up before your face gets stuck like that forever."
Mort's hand shot out faster than Kota expected, aiming for another punch, but Corey was ready this time. He ducked sideways with a dramatic flourish, hips swaying so hard the baggy gray jeans he wore sagged even lower on his narrow waist, the fabric pooling around his sneakers.
"Oi! Missed me, ye slow bastard!"
Corey crowed, laughing again, that bright, horny enthusiasm bouncing off every word.
"Crikey, you're getting predictable. Gotta work on that swing if you wanna keep up with me."
Mort straightened, expression flat and unimpressed, dark eyes flicking from Corey to Kota like he was sizing up whether the newcomer was worth the effort of speaking. He crossed his arms over his chest, the black skull graphic on his crop sweatshirt stretching tight across his slim frame.
"I'm Mort,"
he said, voice low and clipped, carrying none of Corey's wild energy.
"Call me anything else—Bartholomew, Bart, whatever—and I will step on your balls until you cry. No warnings. No second chances. We clear?"
Kota nodded once, quick and automatic. "Crystal."
Mort kept staring for another beat, making sure the message sank in, then continued like he hadn't just threatened grievous bodily harm over a nickname.
"Nineteen. And no, before you even open your mouth to ask, you are not my type. Yikes doesn't even cover it." He delivered the last part with zero inflection, like he was reading off a pre-written rejection script he kept in his back pocket for exactly these situations.
Corey snorted, still rubbing the spot on his shoulder where the earlier punches had landed. "Harsh, Morty. Real harsh. You wound me."
Mort's lips twitched just the tiniest smirk, barely there, but enough to show he enjoyed seeing Corey deflate for a split second. "Good. You play guitar in the same rock band as me. Unfortunately."
Corey's grin slipped for real this time. His shoulders sagged a fraction, the playful spark in his eyes dimming as he processed the word. "Unfortunately?" he echoed, quieter than before, almost like the jab had actually landed somewhere soft.
Mort caught it immediately. That smirk grew a little sharper, satisfied, like he'd scored a clean hit. He didn't say anything else, just let the silence hang while Corey tried to shake it off with a forced laugh that didn't quite reach his usual volume.
Kota took the opening to look Mort over properly now that the introductions were out of the way. The guy was pretty short Corey stood around Kota's own height, easy six feet to six-one depending on how straight he was standing, but Mort barely cleared five-five, maybe five-six if he stretched. The height difference made everything about him look compact, almost delicate at first glance, but there was nothing fragile in the way he held himself. Classic blunt bob haircut with bangs that fell straight across his forehead, the kind of maintained feel that said someone spent actual time with clippers and product to keep the lines sharp.
The black skull graphic crop sweatshirt left a strip of pale midriff exposed, and those shiny black baggy parachute-style pants hung loose but somehow still managed to hug in all the right places when he shifted his weight.
Kota's eyes drifted lower without meaning to. Damn. Mort had a fat ass. The curves were obscene, the arch in his lower back pushing everything out in a perfect heart shape that made the shiny fabric catch the parking-lot lights and gleam. Kota could picture the way it would move if Mort walked slow roll, heavy bounce, the kind of jiggle that would clap softly even in those loose pants. His brain shorted for a second, stuck on the mental image, heat crawling up his neck again as the four cups of water pressed insistently lower, reminding him why he was even out here in the first place.
Mort felt the stare. Of course he did. His head snapped around, dark eyes narrowing into slits. The death stare hit like a physical thing cold, sharp, promising violence. "Keep looking and I'll stab your eye out," he said, voice flat but deadly serious. "I have a switchblade"
Kota's gaze dropped immediately. He fixed his eyes on the cracked asphalt between his sneakers, cheeks burning, pulse hammering in his throat. The lot suddenly felt a lot smaller, the thump of rock music from the van louder, Corey's barely-suppressed snicker floating somewhere off to the side. He didn't dare look up again, not yet. Not while Mort was still watching him like he was one wrong glance away from making good on the threat.
The other two people in the van stayed quiet, one scrolling on their phone, the other leaning against the doorframe with arms folded, content to let the chaos play out. Kota kept his head down, breathing slow through his nose, trying to ignore the way his body was reacting to everything the lingering image of Mort's curves, the weird mix of tension and absurdity hanging in the air. He stayed put, rooted to the spot, waiting for whatever came next because leaving right now didn't feel like an option anymore. Not with eight people supposedly waiting, not with Corey still grinning like he knew exactly how flustered Kota was, and definitely not with Mort's threat still ringing in his ears.