“Sam’s an asshole for many reasons, none of them have anything to do with blacklisting me, but banning me from his club for no apparent reason just shows how much of a tyrant he is,” I murmured.
I didn’t speak ill of Sam often—or anyone else, for that matter—but when I did, it was to Belle, because I knew she wouldn’t judge me.
“Do you think he did it because you are Hunter and Kill’s sister?” Belle asked.
“No, I think he did it because I remind him of all the things he wants to forget,” I said honestly but didn’t elaborate.
The carnival.
That kiss.
Our conversation.
Sam never thought he’d see me again. I wasn’t in his plans, and whatever wasn’t in his plans had to go. That was why he treated me as he had—with indifference dipped in cruelty. Looking past me whenever we were in the same room. Never acknowledging anything I said or did.
Both Belle and I perched on high stools at the bar. I motioned for the bartender to get us two gin and tonics, doing my absolute best not to slump and/or cry into someone else’s drink.
At twenty-seven, I’d only been to bars a handful of times. I’d been too busy with med school until a second ago to really dive into the club scene, and now I had a residency. Or so people thought. But tonight, I wanted to do something reckless, dangerous, and stupid. To remind myself I was alive.
Tonight, I wanted to seek Sam Brennan out, even though I knew I shouldn’t.
Because tonight, like that other night, I watched someone die.
And whenever death was close, so was my need to curl into the soul of a monster and hide from the world.
To make matters complicated, I saw Sam all the time.
At dinners, charity events, and parties.
He had been working for my family for almost a decade now.
Somehow, I’d let the worst happen. I continued loving him from afar, like the sun loved the moon. Coexisting, but distantly. Eternally star-crossed, but never close enough for comfort.
We’d spoken very little to each other since that evening, even though our families had grown close to one another through Hunter and Sailor. Seeing him was always a bittersweet cocktail of elation and pain.
I’d learned to get high on both feelings.
“Forget about Sam tonight.” Belle sucked on her straw, inhaling the gin and tonic like getting trashed was an Olympic competition. Under her costume, she was the closest thing to Margot Robbie I’d seen up-close. Feline blue eyes, sunshine blonde hair, delicately arched brows, and a sinfully full bottom lip.
“You haven’t gone out once since you started your residency at Brigham and Women’s Hospital. That was over six months ago. Find yourself a hookup. Have fun. You earned it, Doc.”
“I don’t do hookups,” I pointed out, crushing the lime with my straw in my drink like it wronged me somehow.
“Time to change that. It makes no sense that an OB-GYN in training—a woman who literally takes care of everyone else’s vagina—does not care for her own. You can’t pine for an unrequited penis. There are plenty of fish in the sea.”
“Well, I sincerely hope you don’t get mercury poisoning, Belle, because you seem to enjoy sampling said fish a bit too much.” I took a generous sip of my drink, knowing I sounded prudish and regretting my remark immediately.
Belle threw her head back and laughed, far from offended.
“Oh, Ash, you are a hoot. That’s the thing most people don’t know about you. Underneath the polished exterior, the American Princess longs for the monster to steal her, not for the prince to save her. You’re kind of a dangerous creature, when you want to be.”
The drinks kept on coming, and the indie music was good and loud. Before long, Belle pulled me to the dance floor, where we ground against each other to the sound of The Shins, Two Door Cinema Club, and Interpol.
Tendrils of my blonde wig stuck to my face and lip gloss as I sweated away the memories of today’s shift at the clinic, and I belted out the words to “Runnin’ with the Devil” by Van Halen with a drunk, elated crowd, once again using noise and lights to drown my sorrows.
Ms. B.
Needles.
Death.
Mother.
Despair.
At some point, Belle zeroed in on a man as she always did.
Emmabelle Penrose was a self-proclaimed non-monogamous woman. While she wasn’t predatory, she was definitely not looking for a serious relationship and loved nothing more than indulging in one-night stands. Monogamous relationships were a foreign concept to her, like a bidet or brown sauce. She was aware it was something other people enjoyed, but was never tempted to try it out herself. But in the rare times she’d picked a lover, be it a woman or a man, she was fiercely devoted to them and made them feel like the center of the world.
Which was probably why she broke more hearts than she could count.
Her victim tonight was a tall, dark, and handsome type dressed as Zorro.
They met halfway, striking up a conversation while I self-consciously danced by myself before retreating back to the bar.
She reappeared by my side ten minutes later.
“We’re going to the Four Seasons. He’s got a friend in management who can hook us up with a presidential suite. Doesn’t he give Antonio Banderas a run for his money?” Belle sank her teeth into her lower lip, watching him from across the room as he retrieved both their coats from the cloakroom, sending her nervous glances to make sure she didn’t run away or change her mind.
I leaned my forearms against the bar, smiling. “Definitely, but the costume’s a bit cheesy, no?”
“Cheesier than Domino’s pizza. Luckily, I’m spending one night with him, not a lifetime.” Belle winked, smacking a kiss on my forehead.
“Happy Halloween, Doc. Make sure you don’t leave here alone and text me if you need anything, yeah?”
She left without waiting for an answer.
I entertained the idea of calling an Uber and going home, but then what was the point? My parents were still out, attending one of their charity dinners, which was the reason I was here in the first place; normally, when my mother was home, she insisted we spend time together. My brothers were with their respective wives and children.
I’d be going back to a pointless and excessively large manor to dwell in my own thoughts, dark memories, and regrets.
I signaled the bartender to get me another gin and tonic, downed it, and got back on the dance floor, dancing by myself.
Ten minutes later, a guy in a Ghostbuster uniform began dancing in my vicinity, drawing closer to me as he did. He looked young. Younger than my own twenty-seven years. College-aged and blond, his face pink from the bite of the Boston cold. We danced around each other for a while before he yelled in my ear, “I’m Chris.”
I leaned forward to answer him, even though I knew there was no way Chris and I were going home together. For better or worse, I wasn’t the type to go home with a random. I wasn’t a nun by any stretch of the imagination, and I wasn’t dumb enough to save myself for Sam, but I could also count on two fingers the men I’d slept with in my lifetime and knew their addresses, full names, phone number, and—embarrassingly—college grades.
“Ash,” I answered, keeping it vague.
Ash could mean Ashley or Ashlynn.
Aisling wasn’t a very common name, and everyone knew the Fitzpatricks in Boston.