Even so, he was shocked that, with Chloe’s fingers curved around his, that made him feel better.
Genny returned her focus to the pastor, and Corey gazed at Marilyn’s picture.
If it were him, there would be a million roses crammed into that room, and he would not give that first fuck what anyone thought of the gesture, the largess, or the excess.
Because, growing up, there was one woman on this earth who made Corey feel loved.
And now…
She was dead.
In the end, sitting with Chloe at a local bar, he drank pink ladies.
Because it made Chloe laugh.
And it would have made Marilyn smile.
Chapter 4
The Party
Chloe
Now…
“Holy crap,” Sully said, eyes on me as he walked into my room at Bowie’s house.
Well…
If I must.
Sasha and my room, since, like now, when we were both there at the same time, we shared it.
However, even if Sasha was up from Phoenix visiting Mom and Bowie more often than I was, I liked to think of this lovely little mountain-chic suite as mine, since I’d claimed it first.
Though, Sasha being up here all the time concerned me, and not because it meant she was stuffing the room with plants and had added a hideous piece of macramé to the décor (though, mark me, that also was a concern—please, Lord, take me back to when she was preppy and sporty, I could work with that—there were very few style trends I could not spin, and therefore could not embrace, Sasha’s boho was one of them).
No, what concerned me about Sasha being up in Prescott all the time was that she wasn’t up here doing a job, or looking for employment, or volunteering at a youth center or taking pottery classes or anything even remotely worth her time.
In fact, except hanging with Mom and Bowie, and playing poker with Bowie and his buds, she didn’t do much of anything at all.
So obviously, that was concerning.
“Totally already told her, Judge is gonna be on his knees begging, he sees her in that getup,” Gage replied to Sully’s opener.
“She says she doesn’t care.” Sasha entered the conversation, bouncing onto her knees on the bed next to where Gage was lounged across the foot of it, drinking a glass of champagne.
My youngest new “brother,” Bowie’s second son, had wholeheartedly embraced his newfound quality of life (that being the soon-to-be-official stepson of a ridiculously famous, insanely wealthy movie star), something I wholeheartedly adored.
I turned my attention to Sully, who was older and most assuredly already his own man.
I had time to mold Gage.
Sullivan was…
Sully.
To that end, my second youngest new “brother” had a bottle of beer in his hand.
Sullivan and Gage were Bowie’s sons. And since Mom and Bowie (what I called Duncan, because he gave me the famous “Bowie Story,” and he told me to call him that) were getting married (they’d become engaged a week ago, on Christmas, but we’d learned not too long ago that it was a long time coming (decades)), we were all going to be family.
Sasha, Matt and I had just gotten a running start at creating that with Bowie and his boys.
Sully and Gage fell in with our plans, and even though it hadn’t been long, we were already thick as thieves.
This made Mom and Bowie happy.
And that made me happy.
Even if, in a part of me I’d never share with anyone, it killed me.
But now, I focused on the three who currently shared the same space as me.
Sasha was in a glittery, slouchy, champagne sequined dress that was pinched in at the drop waist. It fell in an uneven hem around her mid and upper thighs as well as falling very far off her shoulder. It sported wide, flowing sleeves.
An unsurprising choice for Sasha, seeing as every edge, except her neckline, was trimmed in a short line of bone-colored fringe.
I could have done without the fringe, but the dress as a whole was celebratory and sparkly, and she had a stunning collarbone and shoulders, so it would do, and as ever, she looked gorgeous.
Sully was in monochrome: smart, dark wash jeans and a navy button-up. Gage was in light gray trousers and a midnight blue button-up.
The boys were casual-ish (as far as I could tell, this was dressed up for the both of them), but they were ludicrously handsome and had such good bodies they could be in ratty jeans and tees, and it would still work for a New Year’s Eve party.
As for me, I was in white satin.
High-waisted, flat front, wide-legged pants with a hidden button waistline and matching sleeveless top that was cropped on a curve—it just touched my back waistband, but in the front it went up enough to show a hint of the midriff.
One could, if one was not me, describe it as a classy tube top.
But I was me, so I did not.
“I haven’t seen Judge in months,” I reminded them. “I’m grateful for that. And the only part about Bowie’s yearly company New Year’s Eve bash in this palatial mountain manor that I’m not looking forward to is the fact that Judge RSVPed yes.”
“She’s totally lying,” Sasha stage-whispered to Gage. “One of the first things out of her mouth when she showed two hours ago was to ask Bowie if Judge was coming.”
Gage grinned as he sucked back three quarters of his glass of champagne.
I watched him do this and made a mental note to share with Gage at a later date that one did not chug champagne.
“I don’t know, Coco,” Sully said, using my nickname, which I had granted permission for them both to do, regardless of the fact that they would have done it anyway. He wandered in and threw himself on the bed with the other bodies already on it. “If you don’t care Judge is gonna be here, you tricked yourself out for nothing. This is not a fancy deal.”
“Anything is what you make of it,” I retorted.
“Well, what you’re gonna make of Judge in that getup is a mess. You’re my big sister and I half have the hots for you,” Gage declared.
I arched a brow. “Only half?”
He grinned at me. “Okay, five eighths.”
I allowed him a small curve of my lips as I shook my head and looked back in the mirror to try to decide if I should settle in with just the one delicate but dramatic gold, full-ear cuff that peeked out of the hair I’d left to hang loose (though I’d added curl) or if I should add more jewelry.
I was still doing this when there was a quick rap of knuckles on the door and then Bowie, keeping hold of the handle, swung his upper body in.
His eyes did a scan of me and widened before he muttered, “Shit.”
Well, that was a reaction.
“Judge is screwed,” he went on.
I blew out an exasperated breath.
I mean, as far as they knew, I’d had one singular confrontation with the man four months ago at Bowie’s store (no one knew about the coffeehouse scenario, because I told no one, not even Sasha, who I told almost everything, or Matt, who I told absolutely everything).
I was hardly pining for him (because I was so not interested, he was a cad).
And I knew men like Judge Oakley (Bowie had filled in his last name).
He didn’t go without for long.