Unamused, Hannah scowls. “What are the chances of her calling right when we were talking about her?”
“Probably felt her ears burning,” Chris mumbles. “What’d she want?”
“Reschedule her next fitting,” Jen grumbles. “We were booked in for Wednesday. I moved clients for the Wednesday slot, and now she wants Friday.”
“You’ll have to move clients again? Guuurrrrrl…” I burst out laughing. “Guuuuuurl, that sucks!”
“Shut up!” She tosses her phone so hard that the corner slams against my knee and – I swear – dislocates the whole damn thing.
“Ouch! Stop hurting me. What happened to that oath about never harming?”
“That was me,” Chris raises a hand. “Jen never made that promise.”
“Gurrrrrrl.” I scramble along the bed with snorting giggles when Jen’s face reddens with anger. “You’re such a pussy,” I tell her. “You bitch about her behind her back, but then you yeah, girl her to her face. That makes you two-faced and a coward.”
“Er, no. That makes me a smart businesswoman who knows not to shit in the hand that feeds me.”
“Pussy.” I climb off the edge of the bed, stumble when the covers try to tangle me up and pull me back. Then I trip my way to the bottle of wine Chris opened. “You’re all pussies. Over here bitching about a family, but you’re waaaaay too scared to ever say anything to their faces.”
“Why would we say something to their faces?” Hannah glowers. “That’s called career suicide.”
“Is it really?” I pour, and giggle when it spills. “They seem like a duke-it-out kind of family. If they have enemies, they fight about it, not bitch about it.”
“Easy for you to say,” Jen scowls. “You haven’t had a run-in with any of them.”
“You slept with the ponyboy.” I clap my hands. “You.” Clap. “Slept.” Clap. “With.” Clap. “Him! He didn’t take advantage of you. You’re just mad that you got caught. And you!” I point at Hannah. “You’re mad he won’t sleep with you.” Then I turn to Chris. “Remind me again why you’re mad?”
She snickers. “They’re obnoxious.”
“Oh yeah! She’s mad because they’re loud. Gurrrrrl, those rapscallions are so loud.”
“You should be the maddest of us all!” Hannah snaps. “Are you serious right now, Maddi? You know the stories. You know what that family did to yours.”
“Please.” I roll my eyes so hard that I almost drop to the floor. “I’m finding it a little hard to get mad over what happened like…” I count with my fingers. “I don’t even know. Fifty years ago? Sixty? Fuck knows how long, but it was eons before I was born.”
“If you met them,” Hannah growls, “you’d get on board this hate train.”
“I should pull the rug on the dress,” Jen grumbles. “Get her excited for her gown, and on the morning of the wedding, accidentally lose it.”
“Yes!” Hannah stands, so this becomes super American Pie, ‘we’re all going to lose our virginity’ pact. “Yes! Let’s fuck them up. As if they don’t deserve a slice of humble pie once in a while.”
“Not it,” Chris slides in with a fast tap of her nose. “Nuh uh. I’ve grown since grade school. I have a career I’d really like to keep, and self-respect I’d rather not toss to the gutter.”
“I can’t do it,” Jen says. “They already know me. Bryan…” She shudders. “Intimately. And Evie, because of her dress.”
We look to Hannah.
She only shrugs and lets out a drunken belch. “I’ll have to think about it. It’s not like I see them on the daily, so opportunities to fuck them up won’t come organically.
“Oh! OH!” She bounces with excitement. “You should approach them, Maddi! Offer to sponsor the tournament, or some shit. Get them invested, but make sure you add some clause to the contract that’ll get you out of it.”
I bark out a loud laugh. “Why the hell would I want to get out of it? Having Monaco logos plastered all over their tournament would be a solid business move for my company. Hell, my dad might actually tell me he loves me.”
Chris throws her head back on a bellowing laugh. “Poor Maddi, our emotionally stunted mushroom. Her daddy never told her he loves her.”
“Shut up.”
I grab the almost empty bottle and chug until it’s all gone. Then I slam it back to the mahogany countertop and spin when the door at the top of the stairs opens.
First, a pair of shoes come into sight – black, dusty, and a little scuffed at the toes. Then jeans – dark, designer, and expensive. Thighs – thick, muscular. Fighter’s thighs. Wrists – one of which is adorned with a shiny, gold Rolex. Then finally, Jenna’s older brother comes into sight, his chiseled jaw and salon-styled haircut, before he stops at the bottom of the steps and takes in the carnage of four women, seven bottles of wine, and one epic bitchfest.
His dark eyes roam along my legs, so when they stop on my gaze, his lips quirk up – despite the bleeding slit that mars them. “Ladies.”
“Go away,” Jenna whines. “Girls only tonight.”
But then she looks again, and her eyes widen.
“Jackson!” She throws herself off the bed, and races to the stairs to cup her brother’s bruised jaw. She runs a thumb beneath a bruising eye, and turns his face to the left to study the other side. “What the hell happened to you?”
He tries to shrug her off. Tries to act unaffected. “Just a scuffle.”
“With who?” she screeches. “And what the hell about?” If she had sleeves, she’d already be rolling them up. “Dammit, Jackson. This isn’t the first time you’ve come home with a busted face.”
Again he shrugs, and flashes a smirk in my direction.
Jackson is… I consider how best to explain him, and while I do that, I take a sip of expensive wine.
Well, Jackson is twenty-four years old, he’s handsome, fit, esteemed – whatever the hell that means in real-world terms – and has enough money to never have to work a day in his life.
Helloooooo, trust fund.
He fights at the local Devil’s Muay Thai gym, trains a couple times a week, and holds a filthy grudge because the one family he wishes would train him… said no.
Ouch.
He pulls away from Jenna’s probing hands, only to slide in my direction, and doesn’t stop until his expensive cologne is all I smell, his chest, all I see.
He’s broad, muscular, enigmatic. He’s what we’d call a career flirt.
But in my drunken mind, I poke my fingers into my mouth and fake gag.
“Have you guys seriously been getting your drunk on all night?” He lifts the empty bottle I just set down, turns it in his hands, then brings his trouble-filled gaze back to me. “A hundred and seventy-five dollars a bottle, and you ladies are treating it like this is an underage party in Kentucky.”
“Don’t hate us because you wanna be us.” I snatch up my glass and try to make my sip elegant. In reality, fruity white dribbles along my chin and drips onto my chest. “Who hit you?”