Savage Hearts (Queens & Monsters #3)(12)
I’m almost thrown back onto the mattress. Despite my total shock and the force of her embrace, I manage to stay upright. Then she bursts into tears, leaving me at a complete loss.
I say tentatively, “Um. What’s happening now?”
She wails, “I’m sorry is what’s happening! I’ve been a terrible sister, and you’re being so nice, and I can’t believe we haven’t seen each other since your birthday a few years ago!”
Three years ago, to be precise.
Not that I’ll ever be able to forget it.
My boyfriend at the time took one look at Sloane and pronounced he was dating the wrong sister. He broke up with me on the spot.
In the middle of my friggin’ birthday party.
When I heard through a friend a few weeks later that they’d been seen together and called her to find out if it was true, she scoffed and said, “Who? Oh my god, that loser’s already in the rearview mirror.”
That “loser” she could barely remember had been my boyfriend for more than a year. He took my virginity. I thought we were madly in love.
After that, I started telling my dates I was an only child.
I haven’t seen Sloane since.
I pat her awkwardly on the back. “Okay, Hollywood. C’mon now. You’ll ruin your mascara.”
She pulls away, sniffling and gripping my upper arms like she’s planning on holding me hostage. “Say you forgive me,” she demands vehemently. “Please. Let’s make this a new beginning. We’ll start over from scratch.”
I frown at her. Who is this person?
When her big pleading eyes get to be too much, I relent.
“Fine. It’s a new beginning. But I’m withholding forgiveness until after I see what you’ve got planned for my hair.”
She bites her lower lip, tears spill over the edge of her bottom lids, and what the fuck has happened to my sister?
Daddy Declan must be laying some serious pipe to have turned this stone cold savage into such a sweetheart.
Lucky bitch.
6
Riley
I should’ve known it was going to be really bad when Sloane called up for booze.
A new hot Irishman arrived with a pitcher of skinny margaritas sweetened with monk fruit and infused with the juice of limes and jalape?os grown from the garden outside. The glasses were rimmed with a fine dusting of pink Himalayan sea salt and garnished with a spiral curl of lime peel so long and perfectly formed, it must’ve taken extreme concentration and probably like ten tries to get it right.
Because yeah, that’s totally something one does.
The hot Irishman also brought warm tortilla chips and a delicious pineapple-mango salsa he said he made himself.
I was highly dubious of the claim and told him so. Imagine my surprise when he whipped out his cell phone and showed me a video as proof.
“Where do you find these guys?” I asked Sloane when he left.
She waved me off like I was being silly. “It’s a gift. Now go sit in the chair I put in front of the sink in the bathroom and be quiet. I’ll need to concentrate while I work.”
Red flag number two: she needed to “concentrate.” The last time that happened, a hole was ripped in the space-time continuum that still hasn’t been repaired.
But I was starving, and the salsa was delicious, so I was an obedient subject and allowed her to paint some kind of foul-smelling goop onto my head that I wrongly assumed was deep conditioner. I sat as docile as a lamb as she washed, cut, and styled my hair, urging me to drink another of the tasty margaritas every so often.
When she finally spun me around in the chair to face the mirror, I saw why she was trying to get me drunk.
I cried in horror, “What the fuck have you done?”
She actually had the nerve to say smugly, “Saved you from that tragedy you called a hairstyle. You’re welcome.”
Then she sauntered out of the bathroom, leaving me to have my mental breakdown all by myself.
“I am not wearing that.”
“Just put it on. You’ll thank me later.”
I stare indignantly at the tiny scrap of fabric Sloane is trying to pass off as the dress I should wear out to dinner. I’ve blown my nose into tissues with more substance than that.
“I’ll thank you to stop trying to make me look like a sex worker. You’ve already done enough damage with the platinum catastrophe on top of my head.”
“Are you kidding? Your hair is amazing!”
I say acidly, “Yes, if it’s three o’clock in the morning, and I’m working in a Reno cabaret as a Marilyn Monroe impersonator old enough to have gone on tour with Frank Sinatra, and everyone in the audience is sight impaired or drunk, it’s amazing. But in this dimension of reality, it’s not.”
Ignoring me, she turns to rummage deeper into the vault she calls a closet. “Do you still wear a size six shoe?”
I roll my eyes to the ceiling. “No. I wear a twelve now. I have this weird disease that causes massive foot growth.”
Ignoring my sarcasm, she says, “Good. These will go perfectly with the dress.”
She turns and tosses a pair of high heels at me. I refuse to catch them, so they bounce off my stomach and land onto the carpet near my feet. Next, she throws the dress. It lands on top of my head and hangs down in front of my face like a veil.