“The lad doth protest too much, or whatever the fuck Shakespeare said.”He picks at the label on his beer bottle, smirking all the while.
“I'm too sober for this shit,” I mutter before chugging half my beer in one go. “Should've stayed my ass at home.”
I mean it, too—I should have stayed home. Nights out used to be fun, but now that Atlas is practically wifed up and doing the dad thing, it’s not the same.
Not that I begrudge him his happiness. God knows he and Nora deserve it more than just about anybody after the hell his dad put them through, but everything's different now, and I’ve never been a big fan of change.
“She probably agrees,” Silas muses, and I swear I don’t know if I want to deck the guy or shake his hand. He’s bold, I’ll give him that—even if he is talking out of his ass. “Your presence seems to have derailed her plans.”
“Plans?” I ask, tipping my beer back, resigned for it to be my only drink of the night thanks to the jackass manning the bar. He said Chelsea would take my order, but something tells me he knows damn well she won’t..
“Your girl wants to get laid.”
An emotion a lot like rage bubbles to life just beneath my skin, but I shake it off before it can take root, because raging out over this—over her—implies I care. And I don’t… not even alittle. I don’t give a single fuck what Scarlet does, or who she does it with.
I bite my tongue, refusing to give Silas the reaction he’s so clearly after. How he’s known me for like five minutes and already has me clocked is a mystery. I’m a damn good profiler, but he may be better.
We fall quiet, me waiting on Scarlet to reappear to see what other tricks she has up her nonexistent sleeves, and Silas no doubt waiting to see what happens next on his personal live-action soap opera.
After a few more tense minutes, Scarlet struts back into the bar like she owns the place. I’d like to say I don’t track her every movement, but it’d be a damn lie. Not because I’m interested... I just don’t want her to be able to catch me off guard. She’s slippery like a damn snake.
But she doesn’t even spare me a glance as she beelines straight for the door.
I’d also like to say I don’t tense up when the bartender stops her on her way out, but it would be another a lie.
It’s pathetic the way he’s looking at her, like she hung the moon and he’s just happy to bask in her light. Poor sap doesn’t realize he’s flirting with Satan. Maybe I’ll warn him… or maybe I’ll just sit back and let him crash and burn.
God knows, she’s good at leaving wreckage in her rearview.
THREE
SCARLET
“Shit, I’m running late,”I mutter, stroking the fur of Fefe Fluffington, my spoiled floof ball of a ferret.
She tilts her head up at me as she arches into my touch, her deep brown eyes intent on mine, almost like she understands me.
“Up you go.” I open the door to her enclosure, and she scampers inside, darting into one of her tunnels. “Be a good girl while I’m gone.”
I rush to the front door, slipping on my flip flops as I go, before hauling ass to my car.
Thankfully, there’s no traffic, and I make it to Déjà Brew with a few minutes to spare. If there’s one thing my mama hates, it’s when people keep her waiting.
Unfortunately, she rarely extends the same courtesy to others. Such is life with Stacey Armstrong.
“Hey, Mama,” I say, sliding into the booth across from her. “How have you been?” I don’t bother asking how long she’s been waiting—because if it’s more than five minutes, I’ll definitely hear about it.
She looks down at her diamond-encrusted watch and back up at me, twirling a strand of her long, bottled blonde hairabsentmindedly around her finger. “I’ve been good, Sweetpea. You?”
I shrug. I don't really have any interesting updates in my life at the moment. “You know, the usual.”
Her eyes narrow as she flattens her lips. Clearly, she thinks I’m full of shit. Honestly, I wish I was. My mother has the most exciting life, and sometimes it feels like she’s disappointed with how dull mine is by comparison.
“I mean it. You know I'm boring.” I drum my fingers on the table between us. “Nothing to tell.”
She hums at me under her breath, but doesn't press, probably because she knows it’s a lost cause—I’m a lost cause.
“What about you? Are you excited for your cruise?”