Page 242 of Remy

“Let’s agree to disagree. But for now, you need to go get ready. You’ve got fifteen minutes.”

Nope.

Not going to happen.

Even if I didn’t have a million reasons not to attend, it would take longer than fifteen minutes to shave my way out of looking like a yeti.

The family can all go without me.

Her clutch vibrates from its discarded place on the floor.

“You’re running out of time.” Abri holds up her arm, showing her watch that’s illuminated with what I assume is a text. “Bishop just asked, ‘Is that cock stain getting ready or do I need to make an appearance?’” She lowers her arm. “How would you like to proceed?”

“I’m not going.” I’ll die on this hill.

“So you’re going to leave Ollie to handle Lorenzo and Salvatore on her own?”

Anger thrums through my limbs.

“My understanding was that she didn’t feel comfortable around those two?” Abri wields the question with subtle satisfaction. “You know just as well as I do that Salvo won’t be able to resist stirring the pot.”

I open my mouth about to claim he won’t, but there’s no fucking denying he will. “I hate you.”

She smiles. “Yes, and I’m sure I’ll have sleepless nights until you love me again. But while we wait for that to happen, you need to go get ready.”

I eye the whiskey bottle on the counter.

“Don’t even think about it.” She snatches at the alcohol and drags it behind her back. “I’ll text Bishop while you’re gone and let him know you’re following the script.”

I grind my molars as I stalk from the kitchen.

“Don’t forget that shaving is the most important part,” she calls after me. “Rugged looks more like homelessness on you.”

It takes more than fifteen minutes to create some semblance of respectability, the forced shave, shower, and dress routine leaving me with a permanently embedded scowl.

The car ride toward the suburbs is painful as Matthew and Abri take turns making fun of me, the childhood trauma response not seeming as therapeutic as it once was.

As soon as we arrive at the funeral home, I slide out of the car and disappear into the inky sea of morbidly dressed mourners.

I search for Ollie despite every effort not to, but neither her nor her friends are anywhere to be seen.

“She’s in her prep room.” Wesley approaches to stand beside me. “I assume you’re looking for Olivia.”

I suppress a cringe, not appreciating my easily read thoughts. “How is she?”

“Enviably composed despite looking dead on her feet. Ivy and Allison are adamant she still hasn’t cried, so they’re worried. Justifiably.”

That makes three of us.

If she’s not crying, she’s purging.

He steps closer. “I also don’t know if it’s cause for concern, but the guy I took over from—the one that left on bad terms—he’s here.”

I scan the crowd with more intent, trying to get eyes on Hugo. “Has he said anything to anyone?”

“No. He seems to be laying relatively low.”

“Let me know if he becomes an issue.”

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