Jackson’s eyes darken. His jaw clenches and releases. “It’s not important.”
“It was Bryan Kincaid,” Jen snaps. “Wasn’t it?” She rushes to her phone, picks it up like that might somehow give her the answers she seeks. “It was, wasn’t it?”
He shrugs.
“It was! We’ve been talking about that family. Then the cousin called. Now this. Why did that prick hit you?”
“Dude doesn’t like to acknowledge that money can’t buy class, I guess.”
“Ugh!” Jenna tosses her phone down and storms back to where we stand. “I knew it was him! I totally knew it! It’s like the universe wants to rub them in our faces tonight.”
“What did they do?” Jackson asks. He narrows his eyes and stoops a little lower to catch her gaze. “Did that fucker come back looking for more?”
“No,” she grumbles. “I’m doing the wedding dress for his cousin. Chris saw the announcement in the paper. Hannah is big mad because…” She shrugs. “I don’t remember. And Maddi is over here defending them.”
Jackson’s fiery eyes swing to me.
“I wasn’t defending them!” I throw my hands up between us – and spill half of my expensive-ass wine. “I wasn’t defending them personally. I was simply…” Let’s go, drunk brain! You can do this. “Explaining that Jen’s grudge may be a little self-inflicted.”
“If you’re not with us on this,” he snarls, “then you’re the enemy.”
“Good lord.” I roll my eyes. “The drama in this house! I didn’t say they were my friends. I don’t even know them.”
“You know of them,” Jackson presses. “You know who they are.”
“Of course I know who they are. Everyone knows. But I don’t know them. I haven’t met them.”
“We’re gonna fuck them up,” Hannah adds with a sneer.
Jackson’s eyes go to hers; intense, steely, and dangerous. “Yeah?”
She nods and preens under his attention. “I say we make this the year of redemption. We’re taking them down.”
“You’re being way too melodramatic about this.” I take a sip of wine and sigh when it goes down as smooth as butter.
I think I’ve taken a step past drunk, and now I’m wading into… fucked up.
“I’m sleepy.” I turn away from Jackson and miss the way his hungry eyes slide over my ass as I move. The way his bleeding knuckles flex when he wants to reach out. The way he’s the hungry wolf, and I’m the naïve Little Red. “You guys can keep bitching. I need to pee, then I’m gonna watch a movie.”
I set my wine down on the bedside table, then move into the connected bathroom, and brush the fur from my teeth.
“He hit you?” Jenna asks her brother. “Bryan Kincaid hit you?”
“Bryan Kincaid is a fucking asshole,” he growls. “He was with some chick tonight, she said no when he started getting handsy, and when he wouldn’t listen, I fixed it for her.”
“Hold up.” I come skidding out of the bathroom with a mouth full of white foam, and my toothbrush still buzzing in my hand. “He doesn’t take no for an answer? Are you fucking kidding me?”
Jackson lifts his hands. Shrugs. “She said yes to making out. He slid his hand under her skirt. She said no, he laughed her off.”
“That fucking prick!” I spit half of my toothpaste onto the floor in front of me. “This changes things.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!” Jen cries out. “I told you he was a douche. He’s a grade-A asshole with zero respect for women. The media likes to play this family like they’re the perfect example of everything that is good in this world, but they’re assholes. They’re spoiled, they expect everyone to kiss their asses, and when they call,” she points at her phone, “they damn well expect you to answer. Or else.”
“You should make her dress two sizes too small,” I declare.
Someday, when I look back on my life, that might be considered my first mistake.
“Who’s making her cake?” I look around the room, like my friends will have the answer. “We’ll find out, and we can fuck that up too.”
“The double-dog-dare has been initiated.” Hannah sits back with a satisfied grin, folds her arms, and grins when she pops her chest and Jackson’s eyes snap to her boobs. “It’s about time they discovered what disappointment tastes like.”
“I’m gonna…” I frown. “I’m gonna…” Then I swallow my toothpaste and groan. “That didn’t taste as nice as wine.”
Laughing, Jackson crosses the room to my abandoned glass of wine, brings it to me, and presses it to my lips with a grin. “Better?”
I study his eyes while I sip and wash away the taste of mint. Pulling back, I lick my lips to mop up leftover toothpaste and wine. “Uh huh.”
I turn away and finish up in the bathroom, and all the while, alcohol buzzes in my system so it feels like I’m walking on clouds. My brain is fuzzy, and my fingers… well, they’re kinda tingly.
“I’m going to sleep. Wake me up next week.” I trip my way to the far side of the massive bed that we often fall into on nights like these.
But tonight, we’re drunk. Like, messy drunk, so when I drop down and close my eyes, I barely wake again when I feel myself being lifted…
When I’m placed under the blankets…
When a warm body slides in next to me…
And then when that warm body presses against mine, and a heavy arm is slung over my stomach.
“Goodnight, Madilyn.” Warm lips press to my bare shoulder, and though my brows draw close on a frown, I’m too sleepy to do anything about it. “Sleep tight.”
Bryan
There Are Three Sides to Every Story
Plumes of dust and dirt hang in the air, ever present, unrelenting, and assuring me that if someone took my lungs right now and sliced them open, they’d find a thick layer of the reddish-brown substance that is my life when I’m here.
Piper’s Lane.
A dirt track a few miles outside of the town where I was born and raised, a rounded, mile-long race track that was created long before I came into this world. Hell, hotheads have been using this place since before my grandparents were born.
The cops know about Piper’s Lane, but they tend to leave it alone and stay away, since – speeding cars and hotdogging aside – it’s almost considered a sport at this point. Despite the high speeds, the loud cars, the fistfights that are broken up every single weekend, and the illegal betting that liberates folks of their paychecks and pink slips, I don’t remember the last time anyone crashed.
I don’t remember the last injury acquired from behind a steering wheel.
Though there have been plenty when a guy loses a race he wasn’t ready to lose, and instead of handing over whatever he bet – cash, slips, or his girl – he decides he’d rather fight.
But, hell, my name is Bryan Kincaid, and I’m partial to fighting too.