Infinite Cashback System

Chapter 218: 219 | Honk If You’re Horny and Also Want to Die

Jordan fired off a message to the group chat while crossing the quad, his thumbs moving faster than his common sense.

jordan: gonna call a rain check on iron coast today. something came up

Kyle responded in four seconds. The man lived on his phone like a feral animal guarding a watering hole.

kyle: bro we literally just talked about this

leo: wait

leo: wait wait wait

leo: so no gym today?

leo: like... a day off?

leo: 🎉🎉🎉

Jordan could practically see Leo’s face lighting up from across campus, that round boyish grin splitting his cheeks as he mentally composed his DoorDash order. Probably a double quarter pounder with extra sauce and a shake so thick it required two hands and a prayer. Jordan almost felt guilty.

Almost.

kyle: yeah leo you can go ahead and skip. leave me alone with maya for some one on one time

The typing indicator from Leo’s end vanished. Reappeared. Vanished again. Then a wall of text hit the chat like a freight train.

leo: LIKE HELL YOU ARE

leo: WE ARE GOING NOW KYLE

leo: RIGHT NOW

leo: IM PUTTING ON MY SHOES

leo: IF I FIND OUT YOU TALKED TO HER WITHOUT ME I WILL LITERALLY END OUR FRIENDSHIP

leo: IM NOT EVEN JOKING

leo: KYLE

leo: KYLE ARE YOU READING THIS

leo: DONT YOU DARE LEAVE WITHOUT ME

kyle: 😂

kyle: too easy

kyle: picking you up in 20 leo. wear real shoes this time not the gucci slippers

leo: those are SLIDES and they cost more than your truck payment

Jordan pocketed his phone and laughed, the sound bouncing off the concrete walls of the parking structure as he pushed through the stairwell door onto the third level. Kyle had played Leo like a fiddle and the melody was still ringing. Leo would sprint to Iron Coast on broken glass if it meant keeping Kyle away from Maya Santos, which meant Kyle had effectively weaponized jealousy into the world’s most reliable fitness motivator. The man was a genius hiding behind protein powder and bad haircuts.

Jordan’s white Civic sat in its usual spot near the pillar, sandwiched between a Tesla that cost more than his tuition and a lifted Jeep with an anime girl sticker on the rear window that Jordan respected on a spiritual level. He pulled his keys from his pocket and pressed the unlock button, the familiar chirp echoing through the mostly empty level.

Then he heard it.

A grinding mechanical noise from two rows over. Metal on metal. The desperate whine of a starter motor begging for death. The engine turned over once, caught for half a second, and then died with a pathetic wheeze that sounded like a dying cat being stepped on by a bigger, meaner cat.

"Vamos, pedazo de mierda."

The voice was female. Young. Absolutely furious. And the Spanish that followed was colorful enough that Jordan’s two semesters of high school Spanish picked up about every third word, most of which would get him grounded if his grandmother ever heard them.

Another attempt. The starter whined. The engine coughed. Nothing.

"ARRANCA. ARRANCA, PUTA MADRE."

A fist slammed against something that was probably a steering wheel but might have been a dashboard or possibly the soul of the car itself. Jordan walked toward the sound because the old Jordan would have gotten in his Civic and driven away, and the new Jordan had a pathological inability to mind his own business that had already gotten him two girlfriends, a business partner, and a sixty-year-old neighbor who now knew what recreational noises sounded like at midnight.

The source of the mechanical disaster sat three spaces from the end of the row. A black 2007 Honda Accord, and Jordan used the word "black" generously because the actual color existed somewhere between faded charcoal and forgotten. The clear coat had peeled in patches across the hood like sunburned skin. A bumper sticker on the back read "honk if you’re horny and also want to die" in a font that looked hand-stenciled. The license plate frame said KHAOS in chrome letters with a cartoon cat silhouette, one ear chipped off.

The driver’s door hung open. A pair of legs extended from the interior, both clad in ripped black fishnets that ran from somewhere under a very short plaid skirt down into massive platform boots that added a solid four inches to whatever height existed underneath them.

The boots were scuffed, the soles worn at the heels, and covered in small pins and patches that caught the fluorescent garage light. One shin had a chain wrapped around it like jewelry, the metal links thick enough to double as a weapon if the situation called for it.

Jordan stopped walking.

The legs swung out further. Their owner emerged from the Accord like a vampire crawling from a coffin, except vampires typically had better posture and less mascara.

She stood at maybe five three before the platforms, five seven with them, and every inch of her screamed that she had opinions about the mainstream and none of them were positive.

Her hair was jet black, chopped into a messy bob that ended sharp at her jawline with a thick streak of electric purple framing the left side of her face. Choppy bangs fell into her eyes, which were ringed with enough eyeliner to supply a Hot Topic for a fiscal quarter.

She wore colored contacts, violet, so bright they looked backlit. A septum ring glinted between her nostrils and twin snakebite piercings dotted her lower lip, the metal catching the overhead fluorescents. Her lips were painted black.

Her outfit was basically a declaration of war against the concept of dress codes. A cropped black band tee, torn at the neckline so it hung off one shoulder, the fabric thin enough that the lace edge of a dark bra showed underneath with zero apology.

The plaid skirt sat so low on her hips that the waistband of something underneath, also black, peeked above the buckle.

Chains connected from a belt loop to a wallet chain to somewhere Jordan didn’t need to be looking at but was looking at anyway because his eyes had their own agenda and his brain had filed an official complaint.

She was short. She was mean-looking. She was built like a porcelain doll that someone had decorated with a Sharpie and an attitude problem.

And she was kicking her car’s front tire with one of those massive platform boots hard enough to leave a scuff mark on the rubber.

"Piece of garbage. PIECE OF ACTUAL GARBAGE."