Defenseless (Salvation, #5)(14)

“You look gorgeous, darling,” my mother appraises as I enter the ballroom. I’m a little late, so I expect the zings to start very soon. It’s not within her to hold back.

“Not nearly as breathtaking as you.”

She pushes the orange satin between her palms. “It was your father’s favorite color.”

The one trait I share with my mother is her love of clothing—especially designer fashion. Priscilla Erickson doesn’t dress in anything cheap. Her purses are all coveted, and don’t even get me started on the shoes. I’ve requested all of them be left to me in her will. I could sleep in her closet and be happy.

My dress is a deep navy-blue silk ball gown. It has thin spaghetti straps and a plunging neckline, which I had to tape to ensure I don’t have a wardrobe malfunction. But the back is where the magic happens. The hemline has a small train—the entire reason I bought the dress—and there’s practically no material all the way down to my butt. It’s luxurious and sexy, yet it still appears classy. To finish it off, I wore my strappy gold heels.

“Your hair would’ve been better up.” Zing number one is out of the way.

“I thought it would be better down, but thanks for the suggestion.”

“I don’t see why you wouldn’t want to show off your neckline,” she continues. “You’d look so much prettier if we could see your blue eyes. But you keep them covered by your bangs.”

I sigh and close my eyes. I wish we could just stop. She’s all I have other than Dominic. We don’t have a large extended family. Both my parents were only children, and my grandparents passed away before I was old enough to remember them. But my mother insists on keeping me at arm’s length.

“Mother.” My knight in shining armor appears.

“Dominic!” she squeals in delight. “You look positively perfect. Unlike some people.”

Zing number two. I’ve got at least four more to go.

“As do you.” He smirks knowingly. Bastard. “Hello, my gorgeous sister. Kill anyone today?”

“Only you in my dreams,” I snicker playfully.

If looks could kill, Dominic would’ve never lived past his eighth birthday. He chose not to follow into the family business. Instead, he’s in politics, the equivalent to killing people to our father. He wanted to make a difference, a real one, he said. I believe he knew he couldn’t hack it in the CIA, which is unfounded, but it helps me tolerate his choices.

Dominic laughs and leans in to place a kiss on my cheek. “You owe me.”

“Put it on my tab.”

“Come,” Mother calls our attention. “Charisma, I expect you to behave like the antiquities dealer you are. None of your bullstuff tonight.”

“Shit, Mother. The word you’re looking for is shit.”

“Watch your mouth!” she chastises me. “And where is your date? I told you not to show up to this party alone.”

“I left him at the morgue.”

“You’re going to send me to my grave.”

It’s so easy. However, I earned myself some more zings.

Our mother gives us both a look, turns, and heads into the ballroom, which is the indicator that we should follow. Like the good, obedient children we are, we do. Dominic and I smirk at each other while we play the part we’ve been groomed for. Being socialites hasn’t always been easy, but together we created games to make it fun.

“Ten bucks each time someone tells you that you look like Dad.” I try to get him to bite. I’ll make at least a grand if he takes it.

“Five,” he counter offers. “And five each time someone tells you that you should really eat more.”

“Done.”

No one will ever say that to me. They don’t think women can ever be too skinny. If anything, they’ll tell me I should really start seeing their personal trainer, whom they’re probably screwing on the side.

“Be ready to pay up, sister.”

We enter through the double doors, and now I’m in awe. The décor is more lavish than anything she’s ever done. Crystal is everywhere. The lighting is low but catches every facet of glass in the space; the room sparkles. The tablecloths are burnt orange. It’s a far cry from her usual white and black style.

“Holy shit,” Dominic mutters.

“Did she hire a new party planner?”

“Or maybe she had a lobotomy and we didn’t know?”

“Would explain it,” I say before our mother spins and levels us both a death glare. “Nose goes,” I say with my finger on mine.

“Brat.”

“Loser.”

I love my brother. He accepts me for who I am, makes me smile, and keeps me human. With him, I never have to pretend. He stalks off toward the devil incarnate as I grab a flute of champagne off a passing tray.

“Keep these coming,” I say to the waiter. He nods with a knowing look on his face. Yup, it’s going to be an alcohol-required kind of night.

My natural instinct is to scan the room. It’s habit, and it truly comforts me. I gain a sense of control when I know the enemy is lurking. I see a few family friends and our nosy neighbor who attends everything so she can build her case that we’re into something illegal. I love that my mother indulges it, almost provoking her to try it.