Savage Hearts (Queens & Monsters #3)(2)

Visit us?

Not only is she getting married, she’s obviously living with this guy, too. I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out.

“I know,” she says sheepishly. “It’s unexpected.”

“Thank you for having the decency to realize how weird this is.”

“It is weird. I know. For all the reasons. But…” She clears her throat again. “You’re my sister. I want you to meet the man I’m going to spend the rest of my life with.”

“Please hold. I’ll be right back after I’m finished with this stroke I’m having.”

“Don’t be mean.”

Oh, the things I could say to that. Ho ho ho, the things I could say. But I choose the higher road and ask the next obvious question. “What about Nat?”

“What about her?”

“Why aren’t you calling her about this guy?”

“She’s already met him.”

There’s something odd in her tone that makes me suspicious. “And she knows you’re going to marry him?”

“Yeah.”

“So what does she think about all this?”

“Probably the same things you do.” Her voice gains an edge. “Except she’s happy for me.”

Man, this conversation is a minefield. I’ll be lucky if I survive with all my limbs intact.

Trying to keep my tone civil, I say, “I’m not not happy for you, Sloane. I’m just in shock. Also confused, to be honest.”

“That I’m finally settling down?”

“No. Well, yes, but not mainly that.”

“What, then?”

“That you’re reaching out to me. That you’re telling me about it. That you’re inviting me to visit you. I mean, we haven’t exactly been close.”

“I know,” she says softly. “I think that’s probably my fault. And I’d really like to see if we can fix that.”

After a long pause, she says, “What are you doing right now?”

“Lying flat on my back on the floor, staring at the ceiling, wishing I’d never taken all that ecstasy at Burning Man last year.”

She says drily, “You’re not having a drug flashback.”

“I beg to differ.”

She runs out of the infinitesimal amount of patience she has, and snaps, “You’re coming to visit us. It’s settled. We’ll send the jet for you—”

“Excuse me. Jet?”

“—on Friday night.”

I sit up abruptly. The room starts to spin. She’s dislodged my brain with all this nonsense talk of matrimony. “Wait, do you mean this Friday? As in, three days from now?”

“Yes.”

“Sloane, I have a job! I can’t just jet off to… Where would I be going in this jet you’d send?”

She hesitates. “I can’t tell you that.”

I deadpan, “I see. How illuminating.”

“Quit being a pain in the ass, Riley, and say you’ll come! I’m trying to be a good sister, here! I want us to be closer. I know after Mom died, things were rough, and we’ve never really been, you know…”

“‘Friends’ is the word you’re looking for,” I say acidly.

She draws a quiet breath. “Okay. That’s fair. But I’d like to change that. Please give me a chance.”

Another “please.” I lie back down again, utterly confused.

Whoever this guy is that she’s marrying, he must really be something else to morph the world’s biggest ballbuster into such a softie.

I decide on a whim that I have to meet him. I bet he’s putting Valium into her morning coffee, the evil genius! He’s spiking her afternoon wine with Xanax!

God, why did I never think of that? “Okay, Sloane. I’m in. I’ll see you Friday.”

She squeals in excitement. I hold the phone away from my ear and stare at it.

I have no idea what’s happening, other than that aliens have obviously abducted my sister and replaced her with an insane wifebot.

If nothing else, this trip should be interesting.





Friday night, I’m sitting inside the VIP waiting area of the private jet terminal at San Francisco International Airport, looking around. I’m in total awe, but trying to be lowkey about it.

So far, I’ve had two celebrity sightings, drank as many Ketel One and OJs from the complimentary bar, accepted caviar and crème fraiche on blinis from a smiling lounge hostess, and enjoyed a full-body massage from this ridiculously huge leather chair I’m sitting in.

It vibrates all over at the touch of a button.

One more vodka OJ, and I’m liable to straddle the damn thing.

A limo picked me up at my apartment. When I arrived at the separate private jet building at the airport, I was whisked away into the VIP lounge by a pretty, uniformed young man.

There was no TSA, security line, or removal of shoes. My luggage was taken away and checked in for the flight without me having to do anything except give a nice lady behind a counter my name.

I’ve never been impressed by money, but I’m starting to think I might have been misguided.

The pretty young man returns and informs me with a dazzling smile that my flight has arrived. He gestures to a gleaming white jet taxiing to a stop in the middle of the tarmac outside.