“Yes. And I won.”
Jazzy rolls her eyes and then she turns her attention back to Frankie. “Why were you there?”
“I was hoping to watch this asshole get his ass whooped. And I wanted to make money while it happened.” Frankie grins.
“Except you lost. A lot of fucking money,” I remind her.
“How much?” Jazzy asks.
“Five-hundred grand,” Frankie says. “I really had high hopes he’d lose.”
“How did you even pay that?”
“She couldn’t. I paid it for her,” I grunt.
“And how didyoupay it?”
“Papa has a joint account for us to access. He won’t care.” I shrug.
“Right. So, how did you both end up here?”
Frankie aims an accusatory finger at me. “He’s threatening to tell my dad.”
“You owe me five-hundred grand. You can’t pay it, but I’m sure your daddy can bail you out,” I tell her.
“He isn’t going to rat on you, Frankie. And you…” Jazzy points to me. “…should not be fighting. What would your mother think?”
Thatmakes me grimace. My mother would have a coronary if she knew half the shit I did. “She doesn’t need to know.”
“That’s what I thought. So if you rat her out, guess what she’s doing?”
“Telling my mother,” I groan.
“Exactly. You are both in the wrong. You really shouldn’t be fighting, and you certainly shouldn’t be spending money you don’t have. Especially betting.” Jazzy is always the voice of reason. She’s the oldest of all us cousins.
“Good chat, Jazzy. Love to stick around, but my dad’s been blowing up my phone for the past thirty minutes. If I don’t show my face soon, he’s going to send a search party.” I stand and walk out. I had no intention of asking Frankie’s old man for the money back. I just wanted to make her squirm.
Chapter Two
THREE YEARS AGO
When you turn eighteen something is supposed to change. At least that’s what I thought. I still feel the exact same, though. Maybe besides the fact I’ve finished high school and am now waiting for college to start. I think when I move to campus, things will feel different.
I won’t be as crowded by overprotective males. Like my brother, who is currently watching me like a damn hawk.
“You want a picture, Alfie? It’d last you longer.” I stick my tongue out at him. I’m eighteen. I never said I was mature.
“I’d love a picture of you, Frankie. You’re my favorite sibling.” The jerk smiles back at me.
“I’m right here.” Our other brother snorts.
“We know,” I tell Hudson. “Do me a favor and distract Grumps over there so I can sneak some champagne. Itismy birthday.”
“Yeah, that’s not happening. You can wait until you’re twenty-one,” Alfie tells me.
“You know, in a lot of other countries, the drinking age is eighteen,” I counter.
“That’s great. But you don’t live in those countries. You live here. Twenty-one, sissy. No ifs or butts.”