Page 50 of Pawn

If we’re going to impress the Shays, we gotta look the part.

Jo looks at me over her shoulder, her hair falling over her face. “What? My clothes bother you now?”

That drunk sass again. “I’ll order you something.” Express delivery from Waldorfs never fails.

“So you can tell me what to wear too?” Fuck, she’s snippy. How long have they been drinking? “First the bodyguard, then the clothes and when the fuck did you start getting mad at your friends for day-drinking? It’s all you ever used to do.”

“If you’re in my house, Rowland, just do what I say, clean this shit up, and put on something nice for once.” I pause, hearing how that sounded.

When Jo stops picking up the bottles, I know she hears it too. Shiiiit.

“Fuck you, Damien.” Walking to the door, she grabs her jacket but she’s not reaching for pants.

She’s supposed to be by my side. My teammate. So what the fuck is she doing? “Get back here, Rowland.”

“Fuck you!”

SLAM!

“Fuck!” My fist crashes into the wall.

How the fuck did we get back here? Pulling my fist out, paint and drywall crumble to the floor.

And now I’ll have to explain that to Shay.

* * *

Jo

“Isaac?”

I’m talking to the figure leaned against the black Rover in the driveway, bottle in hand. His head lifts when I say his name but it takes him a second to look my way. “Oh.”

“You weren’t thinking about driving were you?” I point at the key in his hand. “And aren’t you cold? Shit, how fucked up are you?” I’m one to talk, out here in nothing but a t-shirt and boots but the anxiety keeps me warm.

Isaac looks at his hand as if he’s piecing together where he is. “Nah, I was just …” He spaces out, looking around.

“Passed out on your car.” I help him figure it out, crossing my arms. I shift my weight in my boots, it’s early spring but the air is still a chill, the evening bringing a bite to it. “You wanna get outta here? Still down to party? I’ll call an Uber.”

Sure, I’m a little drunk but Damien has no right trying to run my life. He thinks he gets to call the shots and get me to do whatever he wants. Not this time.

“You and King have it out?” Isaac wipes what I assume is drool off the side of his cheek.

“Something like that.” Selfish dickhead. I’m already tapping at my phone.

“Well then,” Isaac takes a deep breath, stretching out his arms. “Where to, baby?”

“You know a place?”

He smiles a lopsided smile. “I do.”

When our driver comes, Isaac directs him to his house and I guess without pants, this is the safest bet.

That cold nap helped him sober up but it’s not for long. Once we get to his place, he turns on the music, his speakers even better than Damien’s which isn’t surprising for the son of a musician. It’s slow and bass-heavy, filling the home before we collapse on the yellow sofa in the living room.

“Whiskey, right?” he asks, a bottle appearing in his lap. “Just like King?”

“Fuck King.” Grabbing the bottle I take a long hard sip.

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