SweetHarts (5 Book Box Set)

by Kira Graham

  And into all my sick fantasies.

  “And I was going to—I really was, but I just…”

  Couldn’t, I think, shaking my head. The one flaw that Achilles has is his inability to hurt someone’s feelings, and it’s one of the main reasons that I don’t think that he’d have been a good fit for Rosetta. Not like me. He physically can’t say those simple little words that are required of a man when he doesn’t want more from a relationship. Telling someone that “this isn’t long term” is a physical impossibility for him that goes beyond just saying four words. In fact, although Achilles practically hyperventilates when commitment is mentioned, never once have I heard him break up with a girl, because he usually “wingmans” any chick he’s with, by which I mean he drags Paris along with him to make things clear. The speech I’ve heard my little brother give usually goes a little something like this: “You know he’s still sowing his wild oats, right?”

  Accordingly, I have never seen anything more come of a relationship when Achilles is with a chick. They know the score, and the few who don’t accept it usually end up with a lot of unanswered questions and an address that turns out to be his last known. The man has literally moved three times, and now he doesn’t bring chicks home unless they’ve made it clear that they’re only there for the sex. Strictly for the sex.

  “Yeah, man, I know. You chickened out,” I sigh, following him into the living room once the women have taken their seats and accepted pre-dinner drinks.

  The fool apparently thinks that with Alex sitting down, he’s safe. That’s bullshit, but hey, I want to be in there near Rosetta, and I basically don’t care if Alex neuters Chilli. He’s had enough sex for three lifetimes by now, surely.

  “Hey, Zeus! Come tell Tee that Superman’s a pussy!” Paris yells, laughing when Sin snarls at him and narrows one eye.

  “Not really, if you consider that the only reason the Justice League won is because he showed up,” I point out, eyeing Rosetta, who keeps glancing away and muttering something into a tape recorder.

  The adorable kook.

  “Bullshit! Wonder Woman is the balls, man!” Tee mutters.

  “She has a crush on Gal Gadot that goes way beyond Wonder Woman,” Alex sighs with a shake of her head.

  “Do not! All I said was that I bet her vagina smells like cotton candy,” the woman grumbles, wincing when her mom’s head perks up as if she can sniff something wrong in the air.

  For people as cool and millennial as the Sweets are, it seems odd that the threat of having a homosexual child is akin to someone finding the Holy Grail and then smashing it to pieces. But it’s apparently not because they care or are prejudiced, but rather because, as Honey once explained to me, they need grandchildren, and with the duds they already got, they don’t need anything else working against them. Like lack of procreation due to the fact that, and I’m repeating this word for word here, “Two tacos can’t make baby batter.”

  Christ.

  “Which makes you a total les—”

  “Does not! Who’s the one who sucked face with that model on the beach?” Tee barks, downing her drink because Constance isn’t just sniffing now; her laser eye is focused our way.

  In a direction that I notice Achilles steered clear of, I think, smirking when I spot him hiding behind Adonis—who’s laughing so hard that all I can see is sparkling white dental work.

  “That was a dare. You bet me two grand that I wouldn’t do it,” Sin mumbles, a smile gracing her perfect lips. “And I so did. Giselle said that I was the best kisser.”

  “Only because you’d just eaten three hot dogs, and the woman was probably trying to inhale the food from your stomach because she was so starved,” Tee taunts, sticking her tongue out when Sin flushes a deep red.

  “Yeah, well, that doesn’t explain the fact that you have a life-sized cardboard cutout of ole Gal in your bedroom.”

  “Listen, bitch—”

  “Girls! Quit messing around. It’s time to eat,” Honey yells from the dining room, settling a hush over the room as people start downing drinks and sharing looks of pure fear.

  Ma, I note, is already tottering as Pop helps her stand, testing her assertion that anyone who’s insane enough to actually eat Honey’s food needs to be blind drunk.

  I hang back as Pop helps her sway over to the dining room and almost bark out a laugh when Rose stands up slowly, giving everyone else time to drag their asses towards certain salmonella, and then crosses herself while kissing a crucifix.

  “You can’t dive out through the window to make your escape. Trust me, asshole, I’ve already tried,” she sneers when I fall into step beside her, my mood suddenly lifting because there are only two chairs open, and it turns out that I won’t have to break someone’s leg to get the one beside Rose after all.

  “Wasn’t going to. I already went through a Bruce Willis phase in my early teens. Turns out I’m more of a Bruise Willis kinda guy,” I tease, loving the giggle that escapes her before she rolls her eyes.

  “Laaaame. Every fourth grader in the world has already come out with that lame-ass joke.”

  “Then what about Jim Scary? I could probably come up with something along those lines,” I murmur, helping her into her seat even when she tries to elbow me in the crotch.

  Feisty. Just the way I love her.

  “Oh, ha ha. Next you’ll say something like Helen Cunt.”

  “Rosetta! Language!” Honey bellows, beaming down onto the table as Pop starts to spoon…

  Is that spinach? No. It can’t be, I think, squinting harder to determine its real color from under the black that seems to be Honey’s preferred seasoning on every dish.

  “What? You said that word on Sunday when Mrs. Dicer was telling the other church ladies that your scones were dry.”

  “I didn’t say the word! I said ‘C you next time.’”

  “That spells cu—”

  “Rosetta, Jesus help me with my patience! If you say that filthy word one more time, I will wash your mouth out with soap,” Honey warns, her left eye going so wide that it looks ready to pop out and roll across the table.

  “Probably taste better than these death camp vittles,” Rose mutters under her breath, her hand shaking as she reaches for the last piece of charred chicken, only to be pulled back with a hiss, a curse, and several fork holes decorating her palm.

  “Hands off the safe meat!” Cleo hisses, prison-crouching over her blackened chickened with a feral look in her eye that spells death if anyone so much as comes near her “safe meat.”

  I see why when Ares blows out a breath and cuts into his own piece of chicken, which is so undercooked that the bone is blood red.

  “Eat up! I went to a lot of trouble.”

  “Typhoid Mary probably said the same thing before she phlegm-coughed into her victims’ mouths,” Rosetta mutters, baring her teeth into what I assume is a smile, while spooning rice onto her plate.

  The stuff is hardly cooked and so crunchy that I hear people’s teeth cracking around the table, but, as usual, we all settle into dinner, and soon Jack is distracting Honey while we all fill something with food. My pockets get really stuffed once Rosetta realizes that I came prepared, and I swallow when I feel something drip into my sleeve, followed by her titter of amusement.

  I don’t complain, though. How can I, when I’m staring down at her and seeing her smile gratefully? At me. Her hero—

  “Stop sending food to my office. And stop texting me.”

  Mood. Killer.

  “You texted me first.”

  “’Cause I was drunk as a skunk. And sad,” she says, so easily that I find myself wincing and trying to recall that Rosetta isn’t sad anymore; she’s angry.

  That anger goes a long way toward soothing my jealousy, and it also helps me stay in my seat when I catch Achilles glancing our way.

  “Well, you’re not sad anymore, and you seem to be rebounding really fast.”

  “Only ’cause I was born vengeful, but trust me, under
all this awesome lies the heart of a sensitive soul.”

  I refrain from snorting at that for many obvious reasons, which include my will to live—still strong and thriving—and the fact that Rosetta is partly right on that score. She is a sensitive soul, and it’s up to me to nurture that tiny seed. Not least for my own benefit.

  “Well, whatever it is, you’re still texting me in the middle of the night. Face it, Rose, we’re friends,” I say smugly, enjoying her scowl and the hiss she lets out.

  “We are not.”

  “We are. Friends drunk text and drunk dial, and they do things like share their feelings.”

  “You’re disgusting.”

  “But right,” I counter, knowing that the lawyer in her can’t deny the hard facts. “We’re friends, and as your friend, it’s my job to tell you to move on.”

  “I am moving on, asshole. I went on a date.”

  “That ended how?” I ask, more than a little tauntingly because I already know exactly how it ended.

  She threw wine in his face and stormed out of the restaurant. Then she ordered pizza and texted me. We watched Die Hard together, text-shaming Willis because, according to Rosetta, she’d have pulled off all of those rescues with a lot more savvy and style than he did. And I can’t deny it, not after seeing the distance that she ran through the park to get to Cleo and save her before Cameron Black could shoot her.

  “Shut up.”

  “Can’t. I need something to do as a cover while I try to feed this mongrel under the table,” I mutter, glancing down to where Jack’s new dog is sitting, shaking his head at my offering of raw chicken.

  It seems that even the mutt isn’t stupid enough to eat this stuff. I see that Ma is, though. Either stupid or drunk—or both, because she’s going to town on what I am assuming is broccoli, even though it’s not green.

  “He won’t eat it. Trust me. Dad bought him as a food disposal, and the little runt turned out to be a dud,” she snorts, gagging when Honey looks over at us just as Rosetta forks up some carrots, and silently glares at her until she eats it.

  Even the dog whines and lifts one paw to cover his eyes, as if the sight turns his stomach.

  “Just swallow without chewing,” I whisper, feeling green when she does, and the food slides down with a sickening gulp.

  At this point, not even the soft, clean scent of her is enough to distract me from the situation, but I try to enjoy being this close to her anyway, my needy side basking in the heat of her against my side, and the ease with which she leans closer to me, as if seeking my heat, too.

  “Oh, God. I don’t know what’s worse. Eating this poison, or watching the two of them making eyes at each other.”

  “Who?” I ask, in the process of sneakily sealing the bag in my pocket while I glance over at Adonis to figure out just how he’s getting rid of his and Cleo’s food.

  “Chilli and Alex. Cleo says that they’re swapping crotch sweat, but I just don’t see it. You see the way they’re ignoring each other?” she muses, snapping my attention to the specimens in question.

  It’s true that Achilles is blatantly ignoring Alex, but, from the looks of her scowl and the thunderous anger on her face, I’d say that that isn’t going down well with her at all. Rosetta doesn’t seem to notice this, which raises the question: is my eagle-eyed little attorney blind?

  “She seems peeved.”

  “Nah. Alex has resting homicidal maniac face. It’s like resting bitch face, only hers has more to do with torture and death than with actual bitchiness,” she giggles, her eyes dancing.

  “Well, whatever it is, she’s not happy. Maybe he pulled a Chilli on her, too. You know, darlin’, you had a close call with my brother. He’s great…” I say, pausing and wincing when I hear the crash of shattering glass and then glance over to see Achilles peering up at the table from the floor, some mishap having dumped him on his ass.

  Fighting the urge to chuckle along with everyone else, I shrug off my annoyance at Rose and take a really long look at my brother. His usual clumsiness sees him sporting messy hair and slightly disheveled clothes most of the time, but today he looks even more frazzled. His hair isn’t just messy; it’s standing on end, and his skin looks pale, something that I attributed to his seeing Rose or eating Honey’s food. But now that I really look, I see dark circles beneath his eyes, and something that looks like misery filling the dark gray orbs.

  “Sorry! Sorry, Honey!”

  “Oh, darlin’, don’t fuss yourself so. It’s just gravy.”

  Oh, thank God we don’t have to eat that concrete again, I think, watching Achilles reseat himself, this time with his chair a smidge closer to Alex. Huh. If I weren’t so used to the man’s clumsiness, I’d swear that he did that on purpose.

  The rest of dinner continues smoothly for the next forty minutes or so, with Ma getting progressively more unsteady as she washes down her food with wine. Pop is silently laughing his ass off and discussing tariff incentives with Jack, while everyone else pretends to eat, and we all somehow manage to clear the table. By the time Honey brings out a variety of desserts, I’m so hungry that I could eat someone’s legs off, and Rose is so quiet that I have to nudge her to gain her attention.

  It doesn’t work, though, because whatever bee has flown up her ass is buzzing hard. Hard enough that I see her fixate an unblinking stare on Alex for no less than three minutes. I know because I time it.

  Something’s up with Achilles and Alex.

  I just pity them if they think that they can pull one over on Rosetta.

  Chapter Three

  Rosetta

  Something is most definitely up with Alex, and I know this because I’ve called her thirty-seven times since eight this morning, texted her twenty-three times with messages that have gone unread and unanswered, and I have yet to hear a peep out of her.

  I’d for sure go marching over to her building and demand that she talk, except for the fact that I have a meeting with my boss in ten minutes, and I have a run in my stocking because Dad’s stupid dog, Trojan—I do not want to know why he named that dog after condoms; I just don’t—keeps clawing at me when I’m stupid enough to stop over there at breakfast time.

  I’ve chewed about six antacids to get rid of the sick feeling that Mom’s congealed eggs left in my gut, and my hair decided that today of all days was when it was finally going to fight the product that I use and start frizzing out around my head.

  In short, I look like a frazzled redhead with messed-up stockings, a suit that doesn’t match because I realized only after I got to work that I put on a cream jacket with a white skirt this morning, and…dammit, it’s a bad day that’s only going to get worse, because I just got dropped by a client who was friends with Cameron Black, the man who kidnapped and tried to kill my sister Cleo.

  The very same man I shot before he could hurt her.

  “Rosetta! Getcha ass in here,” Donald yells from his office, making me aware of the fact that I’m dragging my feet, something that I never do because I never have a reason to fear things.

  I’m always in control and always have been. Ever since I graduated from high school, flew through my law studies, and then passed the bar a year and a few months early, I have been on top of things. I follow schedules and prepare until I know so much about something that there’s no way I can lose an argument.

  Usually.

  The last few weeks for me have been bad, though, and not just because I’m having nightmares about Cameron Black, or because I feel guilty for killing him, but because I just can’t seem to get a handle on myself lately. Nothing interests me anymore, and if I had to be honest right now, I would admit that I haven’t exactly been myself for weeks. I’ve been cutting corners on my cases, handing over work to my assistant to do because I have no spunk, and outright ducking and diving work whenever I can manage it.

  The rest of my life is just as bad. I go out with Tee, Sin, or Alex, but only if they make such a big stink that I can’t avoid it. And I look like sh
it. My usually stick-straight, dark red hair is frizzy and dry, because the products I usually use are too much effort to apply at night. My appearance isn’t great, my attitude stinks, and even Cleo hasn’t been calling me very often—unless she wants advice about sex, which frankly sickens me, considering the dirty stuff that she and Adonis do to each other.

  “Sir,” I murmur as I step into Donald’s office, my chest going tight when I notice the other partners all seated on the sofas, where Don gestures for me to sit as well.

  I made partner a year after I passed the bar, and, to this day, I feel a sense of pride about the fact that I beat out all the old men and cocky young guys, making it to the top spot not just because I know Donald through my dad, but because I won so many cases and brought in so much new business that I became known as the hotshot rookie with the golden winning streak.

  I am awesome at what I do, with a focus on corporate law, though I am also a killer divorce attorney who is sought after by men and women alike. I could be humble about myself when it comes to my job, but it wouldn’t change the facts: that I am freaking awesome, and that I got that way by working harder than everyone else and busting my ass to prove myself.

  “Sit, Rosetta,” Gill Perez says softly, his face holding a spiteful smirk that makes my insides go liquid.

  I know that this man doesn’t like me, and that he fought the hardest when Donald and Donaldson, my firm, took me on as a partner. To Perez, women are nothing more than lackeys, little worker bees put on Earth to cook, clean, birth children, and do the grunt work that men are too good to do. I know this because he’s told me. To my face.

  “What is this about?” I ask Donald as I take a seat, cursing my appearance and lack of control when all four men face me, Donald’s expression one of the only ones that looks uncomfortable.

  “We’ve been reviewing your performance over the last two months, Rosetta, and I am sorry to say that you just aren’t making the grade as you usually do. You lost the Bertram case—”