by Hazel Grace
“How long are you staying?” Hardy inquires as I place my drink down with a thud.
I shrug. “Don’t know.”
“Can you stay for a little while?” Scarlett chimes in. “I was hoping to cook you my famous lasagna at least once.”
“Sounds good.” I flick my gaze to Hardy, feeling my muscles begin to tighten. “Now tell me what happened with you and Bubba.”
I watch both my brother and sister recoil back a bit, hinting that it’s not something they want to discuss either. If Hardy saw him, Bubba made himself known because it gets his dick hard.
“Well,” Hardy begins, strumming his fingers along the tabletop. “I was out taking the trash a few weeks back to the dumpster when…my ass almost got jumped.”
I almost scoff out loud. Leave it to Bubba Walters to come in like a straight bitch.
“By who?”
“Bubba and some white supremacist-looking motherfucker.” He lifts his shoulders. “That was…one time. Thankfully, they were old and slow. But I remember you telling me that if I saw him…to let you know.”
A few fucking weeks later.
I raise a well-versed brow. “That’s it?”
“Besides what I told you about him and his jackass friend shooting at me, yeah.” He steals a glance at our sister. “He ran into Scarlett at the grocery store, said some pretty fucked up shit.”
And when I wish I didn’t kill him just yet…
“Was he with someone?”
Scarlett shakes her head. “No.”
I roll my shoulders, already feeling them tense as I try to remain cool. “What else?”
“There was someone who tried to break in the other night at the trailer,” my brother continues. “I made a bunch of noise in there, and they took off.”
“How long have you been there?”
“About two months to be closer to Madelyn.”
I look at Scarlett. “And you?”
“A day before the accident.”
“And why are you here?” I look between the two of them, wanting answers from both. The silence is deafening for well over a minute before my sister decides to spill the beans.
“To visit.” Or not.
She begins fidgeting with her fingers and averts her eyes from me.
Something that Emmy does.
One way to get my little blonde bombshell to talk is to stare at her until she rats herself out. Though, as of late, Emmy has become somewhat immune to my trick and built a pesky tolerance.
My little sister, though, it’s been over two decades since she’s been in the same room with me. She’s only just scratching the surface.
“I’m getting away from my ex.”
“And why would you need to come states away to do that?” My tone is strained, already not fond of the idea that the nine-year-old sister that I remembered is now a grown woman of twenty-nine with a whole life.
Funny how I’ve spent days with her, and she failed to mention that little detail.
Scarlett’s face flushes the color of her name and pulls her focus away again. “Because he’s abusive and crazy, and…I need somewhere to crash.” I set my jaw, finding Hardy doing the same thing.
“Do you have kids with him?” I press, double-checking to be sure because I think I already know the answer to that.
“No.”
“Mortgages?”
“No.”
“Bank accounts?”
“No.”
“Life insurance policy?” Her brows furrow at my—to her—odd question. “No?”
She slowly shakes her head. “No.”
“Good—“ I bring my beverage back up to my lips. “—because he’s dead.”
Being at this charity gala brings forth so many flashbacks of working with Wade that I have to remind myself that those days are over. And while at the time I thought they were the hardest, I’d take them over the here and now.
I’d choose being overworked, stressed, and always babysitting Wade to make sure he was on his best behavior over this moment where I’ve been stood up by Bishop.
He was supposed to come with me tonight.
He made it sound like he didn’t want me to be alone, surrounded by rich men and stuffy conversations that sometimes subtly led into leaving with them.
But I should’ve known better.
He hates them just as much as I do, and I grew up in this environment.
However, Bishop made things fun. He’d find somewhere to kiss me senseless one minute, then allow me to go to watch Wade just for me to come back so he could make me come two more times.
All past tense.
I’m addicted to a man that won’t allow himself to see me or understand what I need.
Sitting at the overly crowded bar, Wade is slowly sipping on his usual, dry brandy, making conversation with who he needs to. Appearing bored out of his ever-loving mind while he does it. As long as I’ve known him, I could never get him to wear another expression.
I’ve already said my needed hello’s to people that I’ve worked with in the past, and I’m free as a bird to get slightly buzzed before I tell Wade we can leave.
Three hours, that’s always been our max.
It’s enough time for him to socialize, appear that he gives a shit, and keep his reputation of being approachable, connected, and kind.
Drinking my second scotch, I listen to the dense blur of chatter behind me when a male voice enters clearly and extremely too close to me.
“What is a woman wearing a dress like that doing at a bar by herself?” I roll my eyes without even giving him the courtesy of looking at him.
“That was by far the lamest thing I’ve heard all night, and that’s saying something when I’m in a room full of politicians.”
I hear a deep and amused chuckle, then notice a body plop into the stool next to me, interrupting my peace and quiet. “Normally, I’m not so forward, but—“
“That wasn’t forward. It was lame.” I force myself to glance over, fully not expecting what’s sitting at my right.
Immaculate white teeth smile at me, showing off two slight dimples as he does. He's dressed to the nines in a black and white ensemble and matching tie with hazel eyes and medium brown hair. His jawline is sharp and model-worthy and why the hell he’s speaking to me right now is beyond me.
Regardless, it doesn’t matter because his line was still stupid. Still, I’m appreciating the type of male that just invited himself into my bubble.
“And you’re obviously not a dumb blonde,” he states forwardly.
I perk a curious and challenging brow. “Did you have a bet with someone that I would be?”
“I have to admit—“ He gives a noncommittal shrug. “—I judged you before my ass hit this seat.”
“Ah.” I twirl my glass then decide to unladylike chug it all the way back as to wrap this lovely conversation up. “Well, I’d say it was a pleasure, but you fucked up my quiet corner alone so, thanks.”
Fiddling with my clutch, I pull some bills out of my wallet for a tip when his hand shoots out in front of me.
“I’m Alexander, and I’m an ass clown.”
“I hate clowns.” I toss my twenty on the bartop and ignore his gesture.
“Let me make it up to you.”
“Can’t.” I round my stool, pissed off more than I was before.
If Bishop were here, I wouldn’t have to worry about bachelors or men with wives coming up with shit just to speak with me. I wouldn’t be alone here. I could’ve called Mills, but stupid ass me held on to hope that Bishop would surprise me.
“Emmy.” My name off his lips halts me immediately in my tracks. I purposely never mentioned it and, with that small fact, I slowly turn around.
Alexander’s slight smirk never leaves his face, and I don’t know if it’s because he’s conceded as fuck or that confident.
Sometimes they’re one in the same.
“I may have asked Wade Lockwood who you were,” he offers. “I thought
you might have been his wife. I was happy to know that you’re not.”
“And if I was?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“If you’re content or not?”
I cross my arms along my chest. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
“Just flew in last week.”
“Then you’d definitely know that Reagan is a beautiful raven-haired goddess with violet eyes. Then you’d also realize that if Wade Lockwood told you to stay away from me, he meant it.” Alexander perks a broke because if I know Lockwood like I do the back of my hand, he said it.
“Something along those lines, yeah.” His hazel eyes slowly fall back to mine. “But I never was one to follow directions. I’m the youngest child, brat, always went my own way, takes unnecessary risks, and was constantly teased by my brothers. I’m the textbook definition of a guy who will live too fast and die young.”
“Hence your stupid approach to me.”
“You’re still talking to me, aren’t you?”
I scoff and push my cheek out with the tip of my tongue. “Touché.”
“Can I buy you a drink?”
“They’re free.”
“Right, I meant do you wanna leave this lifeless party and go somewhere with music and normal people?”
“Tempting,” I drone, not bothering to hide how unimpressed I am at this conversation. “But, no…thanks.” Alexander bobs his head, knowing that he’s out of cards to play with me.
He tried, failed but was brutally honest. I can somewhat respect that.
“Maybe some other time,” he remarks before holding out his hand for me to maybe shake this time. “It was nice meeting you, Emmy. I hope I see you soon. You’re the only person in here that hasn’t made me want to blow my own eardrums out.”
My lips quirk because facts. “Have a good night, Alexander.”
Pivoting, I stride to go find Wade, glancing down at my watch to see how much more time we have.
An hour.
I locate him with a young waitress with light brown hair, receiving another glass of brandy and getting his ear talked off by some bald guy that looks like Danny Devito.
“Dude likes to talk about the chandeliers in this place,” Alexander mutters behind me. “Allegedly, they’re pre-Civil War.”
“Oh my God. I thought I got rid of you.”
“I had to come this way,” he counters lightly. “Besides, you’re alone again.”
“I like it that way.” My eyes suddenly catch the determined marching of a tall brunette in a purple dress, glinting against the lighting in the room, her focus on me.
Or what’s behind me.
I would know that possessive, jealous, and entitled ass expression anywhere. I grew up in the fucking Hampton’s.
And I’m not about to go full-on B723 on her ass if she attempts to clap back at me for talking to her boyfriend, fiancé, husband, fuck buddy, or whatever label he has.
She should’ve babysat him better.
I could give her tips but, alas, my patience is thinning and I’m about to cut this supposed hour of being here short.
“Alexander,” she coos sweetly and loudly, receiving looks from people nearby and now on dummy and me. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
My eyes then connect with Wade’s, thanks to loudmouth, and I give him the look.
The come save me right now look.
“I will pay you a hundred dollars if you pretend to be my date,” Alexander mutters quickly in my ear. “All you have to do is walk out the door with me.”
“No—“
“Hello,” she quips, studying the closeness of the pest behind me. “Who’s your friend?”
“This is Emmy,” Alexander offers for me before I can get a word in. “My date.”
The small, jagged blade in my purse decides then to call out to me. It begs for me to use it against this idiot who believes he can rope me into whatever the hell this is.
“Date?” If the woman wasn’t too interested in me before, she definitely is now. She takes her time studying what I’m wearing and what my figure looks like as if to figure out how to take me down.
She’s got her work cut out for her if I was interested in her choice of men. My pretty-in-pink A-line cocktail dress and matching pumps contrast perfectly against my hair. And it would’ve been in Bishop’s benefit because it’s high on my thighs and cute on my butt.
“Nope,” I quip. “Not a date.”
Alexander chuckles, his hand dangerously finding the small dip of my back. “We just met.”
The brunette’s brows knit, then zig-zag between the two of us. Obviously not able to tell if we’re fucking with her or being serious. This is way too soap opera for me.
“I’m…confused.” A nervous chuckle comes off her lips. “Are you dating again or not?”
“Not,” he denies confidently, which wasn’t twenty seconds ago. “Which would conclude why I didn’t tell you I was coming after all, Tabitha.”
Her jaw descends, and—thank God Almighty—my savior, Wade Lockwood shows up to our small gathering, every inch of the word exasperated and sour at the man behind me.
I knew the guy was new.
“Anthony, I thought I told you to stay away from my assistant,” Wade imparts, his lips hovering over his glass. “Last time I checked, they spoke English in New York.”
“Oh, they do, but I didn’t take the threat seriously.” He matches Wade’s stare with a stupid one of his own. “And it’s Alexander.”
Wade slowly lowers his brandy regarding him and the ways he could destroy him by the end of the night. Unfortunately, that might involve me, and I’m not in the mood for any extra work tonight.
I only came to make sure Wade stayed and showed his face. And I want to go home to wallow in junk food, think of ways to make Bishop’s life a living hell, and watch Netflix.
Petty girl shit.
“Emmy, do you still have that guy’s number? The who published that story last year on the young, aspiring man who allegedly stalked women at parties then would non-stop call, text, and showed up at their homes?”
“Yep.” I let my last letter purposely pop.
Alexander doesn’t want to try this. Wade and I, we’ve always worked well together. I helped him become the most powerful man in the world when he was elected President of the United States. He’s always been overprotective of me and men but never wanted me to be alone. He’s torn between keeping me from heartache or letting me go out and get attached to a man with tattoos, long dark hair, and lucid blue eyes.
Not that he knows about Bishop and my history. He bitches at me enough as it is.
“Good. Anthony, I see you around my assistant again, I’m going to string you up by your balls and let every blogger and reporter hang you for making me repeat myself.” Wade glances over at me. “Ready to go? I think we’ve both had enough for the night.”
Again, my hero.
Glancing over my shoulder, I hold up two fingers for Alexander and literally peace out.
I left Scarlett tucked in on my couch with a mug of coffee at the house while I camped out inside my trailer, telling her I wanted to check the appliances since I haven’t been there for a while. She clearly didn’t buy my brand of bullshit but put up no argument either.
I don’t think she wants to know. I don’t want her to know.
Hardy, on the other hand, requested to be my sidekick for the last few days while I came up with every excuse under the fucking sun to be here.
And while he should be home with his daughter—whom I seem to avoid like the Bubonic plague—I let him play along.
Fuck it.
If he wants to do the brotherly bonding thing with me and see how screwed up I grew up to be, so be it. At least he won’t have to feel sorry for not sending me a Christmas card this year.
I set up a perimeter around the double-wide. Anything that trips the alarms or steps into its boundary will shoot to my phone. Hardy takes my be
droom while I take the lumpy and cheap couch that practically stabs me no matter what position I lie or sit in.
With my Glock on my chest, I stare up at the yellow and brown stains on the ceiling. The buzz of my cell goes off for the third time tonight in its annoying feat to get me to answer it.
Giving in, I power the screen to find the only person I’ll talk to that doesn’t drive me up a wall.
KYSON: How’s it going, bro? Did you handle it?
BISHOP: You’re joking, right? I’ve been waiting over two decades for Bubba’s ass to show back up.
KYSON: Atta boy. Took you, what three weeks?
BISHOP: Try three hours since I got back into Shitty Grove.
KYSON: But you’re not back yet, what’s up?
BISHOP: Hardy’s little girl got into a car accident. Mom died.
KYSON: Oh fuck…
KYSON: He good?
BISHOP: Seems to be. I guess he wasn’t with the mom. They broke up years ago.
KYSON: Spending family time then?
BISHOP: I guess so.
KYSON: That’s good, you need it.
BISHOP: And you need to get off my phone, but here you are.
KYSON: You can be a dickhead somewhere else. Your vague text messages weren’t warm and mind-easing of where you went.
BISHOP: Was busy.
KYSON: Yeah, thanks for that. I’ve been keeping the secret of the century over here with everyone. The least you could do is text them back, dickhead.
BISHOP: You got it.
KYSON: You’d be surprised.
BISHOP: I gotta handle some more things and get them settled in. I’ll be back soon. It’s not rocket science.
KYSON: I dunno. Let me carve you up into a thoughtful human being, so I don’t have to keep your dumbass reason for being out there a secret anymore.
