Delilah Green Doesn't Care(Bright Falls #1)
Ashley Herring Blake
For Rebecca Podos, who goes with me into every great unknown
Chapter One
DELILAH’S EYES FLIPPED open at the buzz on the nightstand. She blinked the unfamiliar room into focus, once . . . twice. It had to be at least two in the morning, maybe later. She fumbled for her phone, silky white sheets tangling around her naked thighs as she twisted to silence the vibrating, which seemed loud enough to wake up—
Oh shit.
She’d done it again. The name of the woman lying next to her slipped and slid in her memories from the previous night, the letters nearly impossible to grasp through the art show at the tiny Fitz gallery in the Village—a few of her photographs on the walls, a handful of patrons nodding and praising but never actually intrigued enough to buy anything, the champagne that never seemed to stop flowing— followed by that florid bar up on MacDougal Street and a whole hell of a lot of bourbon.
Delilah glanced over her shoulder at the sleeping white woman next to her. Dark blond pixie cut, creamy skin. Nice mouth, full thighs, phenomenal hands.
Lorna?
Lauren.
No. Lola. Her name was definitely Lola.
Maybe.
Delilah bit her lip and grabbed the still gyrating phone, squinting at the name flashing on the bright display in the dark.
Ass-trid
She barely had time to smirk at the way she’d spelled her stepsister’s name in her contacts before she hit Ignore. An instinct. In Delilah’s experience, a phone call at two in the morning was rarely a good thing, particularly when Astrid Parker was on the other end of the line. And who the hell even called anymore? Why couldn’t Astrid text like a normal human?
Okay, fine, there might have been several unanswered texts in Delilah’s messages, but in her defense, she was a useless sack of skin lately, with another month’s rent looming and preparing for the Fitz show, at which her work only appeared because she knew the owner, Rhea Fitz, a former fellow waitress whose dead grandmother left her enough money to open her own gallery. The past few weeks had been a scramble of waiting tables part-time at the River Café in Brooklyn and working freelance portrait jobs and weddings, all of which barely paid enough to cover her apartment and food. She was one catastrophe away from having to move to New Jersey, and if she ever wanted to break into the ruthless New York City art world, New Jersey wasn’t going to cut it. She’d sold a piece or two, sure, but her photography was niche, as one agent had told her while declining to represent her, and niche wasn’t an easy sell.
So, yeah, she’d been too busy busting her niche ass to talk to her stepsister. Plus, it wasn’t like Astrid even liked her all that much anyway. They hadn’t seen each other in five years.
Had it already been that long?
Hell, it was late. Delilah dropped the phone to her chest while Jax drifted into her thoughts for the first time in a while. Months. She squeezed her eyes closed tight, then opened them and stared up at the ceiling, which was covered with those glow-in-the-dark star stickers. She sat up, a cold panic shooting through her veins. Was she in a college dorm? God, please no. Delilah was nearly thirty years old, and college girls . . . well, she’d been there already, lived that part of her life. She preferred women her own age, always had, and was happy to leave behind all the fumbling and fluttering lashes she remembered from her early twenties.
She relaxed as the room came into focus, felt the softness of expensive sheets under her fingers. The bedroom was filled with modern furniture, all straight lines and cream-colored wood. Sophisticated art dappled the walls, expertly hung. An open door led into a living area, which Delilah now distinctly remembered as the scene where—Lana? Lily?—had pushed her onto a very posh white couch and slid Delilah’s underwear off, tossing it over her own bare shoulder.
Definitely not college-level kind of furnishings. Not even Delilah Green–level kind of furnishings, and she was a full grown-up. Also, what Lilith had proceeded to do with her mouth was definitely not a college-level kind of skill.
Delilah flopped back down onto the bed, boneless at the memory. Her eyes had just started to feel heavy enough to close when her phone buzzed again. She jolted fully awake, peering at that same unlikely name and pressing Ignore for the second time.
Layton stirred next to her, turning over and squinting at Delilah, mascara smeared under her eyes. “Oh. Hey. Everything okay?”
“Yeah, sure—”
Her phone went off again.
Ass-trid
“Should you get that?” Linda asked, tousled hair falling adorably over one blue eye. No way this sex goddess’s name was Linda.
“Maybe.”
“Then do it. When you’re done, I’ve got something I want to show you.”
Lydia—sure, why not—grinned, pulling down the linens to her hips for a split second before tucking the sheet back up to her chin. Delilah laughed as she tossed the covers back, slipping out of the bed completely naked. She very nearly answered the phone like that, but then grabbed a silk robe—definitely not a college-level kind of robe—that hung over a gray upholstered chair in the corner. She could not and would not talk to her stepsister in the buff.
Sliding on the robe, she went into the small living room-slash-open kitchen and climbed onto a stool, resting her elbows on the cool marble counter. She breathed in . . . out. She shook out her hands, rolled her neck. She had to prepare to talk to Astrid, like a boxer heading into a match. Gloves on, mouth guard in. On the counter, the phone stilled, Astrid’s name disappearing, only to pop back up like a greeting card from hell. Best get this over with, then. She slid her finger across the phone.