Raw Deal (Larson Brothers #1)(58)
“You have no idea. I was the one who, when I got my ass beat in the schoolyard, was there ready for the rematch the next day until I finally won. Things happen so much slower now and it drives me nuts.”
She laughed. “You must have spent a lot of time in detention.”
“That or suspended.”
“Meyers has the belt now, doesn’t he?”
“Keeps me up at night sometimes. He’s defending in a couple of months and I hope he gets the shit kicked out of him.”
“I don’t know him, but from what I saw, I didn’t like him.”
“He was one of the main ones running his mouth to the press after Tommy died about the safety of the sport and how we couldn’t let a handful of accidents dictate its future. I mean, I don’t disagree. But he can’t let one damn opportunity go by without throwing his two cents in or taking cheap shots at me, when I doubt anyone who really knows this business gives a f*ck about his opinion.”
Yeah, as if she didn’t already have reason enough not to like him . . . “Wow. I didn’t know about that.”
“I’m glad. Don’t look it up, either; it won’t improve your feelings about the guy.”
She’d seen enough social media comments when she dared to pull up an article about the matter—Sad for the guy who died, but no reason to f*ck with the sport, or Must’ve never learned to take a punch, or Dugas sucked, can’t say I’m surprised he bought it in the cage—to know the human race could be pretty horrible when cloaked in the anonymity of the Internet, or untouchable because of their elevated positions. She didn’t need further proof.
“Don’t worry, I won’t.” She leaned back in her chair, bringing her knees to her chest. “Where are you now?”
“Home.” Something else she’d been imagining since leaving him—his beautiful apartment. And, of course, his mouth between her legs while the Houston cityscape sparkled beyond his windows. Rolling across his four-poster bed, making love on his kitchen floor.
“Wish I were there,” she said softly.
“You could be, you know, anytime you want.”
“Oh, don’t tell me that. You might open your door in the morning to find me standing there with all my luggage.” God, that sounded desperate, but it was so close to the truth.
He laughed, seemingly not put off by the idea at all. But he didn’t pursue it further. “Are things better with Rowan?”
And just like that, her mood dimmed to black. “I haven’t talked to her.”
“I know I told you I’d make him keep his distance, but Zane has been asking if he can talk to her. I didn’t like the idea, but I’m tempted to let him try. Not so much because she can think better of me, you know, but because you guys have to repair this. He thinks he can help.”
“I don’t know if anything can help.” Except calling this off between you and me . . . whatever it is.
“Maybe you should try showing up at her door with your luggage,” he joked. It was an idea. If Savannah knew Rowan, she had a ton of things to say, and getting the opportunity to say them all—screaming or crying or throwing things or whatever she needed to do—was sometimes all she needed. This was a little different, though.
“I don’t know about letting Zane talk to her,” Savannah admitted. “I know he’s your brother, but—It’s the whole rock star lifestyle thing, I guess. It would be so easy for her to get caught up in it. I still want to look out for her, you know.”
“Completely understood. I said the same thing.”
Then again, Rowan was a big girl. If Savannah wanted freedom to make her own choices without intruding family members looking over her shoulder, she had to afford her sister-in-law the same opportunities. “She would probably love it, though. Can’t deny that.”
“Well, if you want to give me her number, I’ll pass it on to him. With strict instructions to back off if she tells him to.”
Savannah chuckled. “Will he listen?”
“That’s what I’m worried about.”
She didn’t know what to expect when the text came from her mother the next night. No preamble, no explanation. You need to come over.
Groaning, Savannah tossed the phone down and rolled over in her bed, clutching Oscar the Ninth. It was only six thirty, but she was exhausted and already in her pajamas waiting on Mike to call. And this was the summons she had been dreading, having avoided her parents like the plague ever since getting back from Houston.
She didn’t doubt for a second that Rowan had finally ratted her out. Not that she could blame her—Rowan had to be as sad and confused and Savannah herself was, and she had no one else to confide in. Her primary confidante had betrayed her.
Well, this is it, she told herself. You’re cut off, disinherited, on your own. She could hear the words now. Either that, or there would be an ultimatum of some sort, and she could easily guess the terms.
Savannah would almost prefer the former, rather than being forced into a choice she didn’t think she could make right now. In absolutely no hurry, she dressed and made the too-short drive from her apartment to the Lakefront, where her parents had lived for the past fifteen years. The stately house they called home had been spared the brunt of the flooding from Hurricane Katrina despite sitting directly across from Lake Pontchartrain—had they lived farther south by a mere few streets, they might have been under ten feet of flood water from the Seventeenth Street Canal levee breach.