Page 95 of Savage

Too?

My brows furrow in confusion for a moment, but I catch myself and force my expression into something more neutral. I get an extra plate and bring it to the table, getting a large spoon. If it’s been done properly, the roast should break apart easily. If not, I’m going to be even more embarrassed than I already am.

I return to fuss with the bread, freezing when I realize the serrated knife I need is in the locked box on the counter with the rest of the sharp objects in the house.

Hunter seems to notice, because he says, “I’ll do the bread. You serve the roast.”

I swallow hard, not looking at the box, as if not looking at it will mean she doesn’t notice. “Yes, M-… S-” I stumble over the list of titles, instead settling on a more vague, “All right.”

Bethany lets out a sarcastic laugh. “Oh, you know how to help out, Hunter? That’s a change.”

“Did you get your university degree in bitchiness?” Hunter shoots back. “By the way, how’s your love life coming along? Mother says your cunt is probably growing dry by now.”

I stare at him, aghast, with the lid of the slow cooker in one hand and the spoon in the other while I try not to drop either one.

But Bethany laughs. “I would love to hear her actually say that. And anyway, big brother, shouldn’t you be well aware that those are just harmful stereotypes about women without any medical basis?”

I busy myself with the roast, scooping off the fat cap from the top of the picanha before starting to portion it out. To my utter relief, it comes apart easily enough to where trying to keep it together is more of a problem than anything. “Carrots? Potatoes?” I ask Bethany in a tiny voice.

“So she does speak.” Bethany’s attention focuses on me now, and I wish I hadn’t said anything at all. “Speaking of cunts, that must be one magical one if you’re still here. Either that or desperate.”

I blanch, and I can’t help but stare at her for a moment before looking to Hunter for guidance. My hands are trembling, and all I want to do is flee. But there’s a part of me that knows it would make her feel victorious, like she’d won something, and… I don’t want that.

I still don’t say anything else.

Hunter takes one of the full plates and sets it down in front of Bethany, glaring at her the entire time. “If you can’t shut your fucking trap, I am going to physically kick you out,” Hunter growls. “And I won’t give a fuck what you tell anyone, either.”

Bethany’s eyes widen, and for a moment she looks terrified.

For all that Hunter can be scary, it’s strange to see the look on his sister’s face. I look helplessly between them, wishing I could cut some of the tension with a clever remark, but that’s never been my strength.

I wordlessly dish out another plate for Hunter, barely putting any food on my own as I sit in the chair across from Bethany. I don’t know why I’m so upset that she’s taken “my” spot because I’m still next to Hunter, but I’ve grown to like the routine we have.

Bethany looks away from Hunter and takes a sip from her wine glass. “Fine, I’ll play nice.” She meets my eyes, and in a much more pleasant tone asks, “How are the auditions going?”

Auditions?

For a moment, my mind blanks out, and I have no idea what she’s talking about—then I remember that Hunter had said I was an aspiring actress. Fuck. “Oh, you know,” I say vaguely, taking a long sip of my water. “It’s not an easy industry to break into. But I’m staying optimistic.”

“I’m sure.” Bethany takes a bite of her food, and I can’t tell at all what she thinks of the taste. “Well, I have a few friends in the industry. I could pass along your information if you want.”

I freeze. I don’t have any contact information. I can’t use the emergency phone for anything but emergencies—and for calling Hunter—and it’s not like I have access to email or anything else.

And even if I did, I don’t want to stand on a stage and perform, waiting for people to judge me.

“That won’t be necessary,” Hunter says curtly. “By the way, Bethany, have you been to the Van Geersdorf gallery recently? We went the other day.”

“Oh, did you see the industrialist sculpture exhibit?” Bethany starts talking about art, completely distracted from the topic of… well, me.

It’s a relief, and I nibble on my food. I can’t get much down, even though the roast is surprisingly good. A little lacking on salt, maybe, but I’m not really a food aficionado to be judging it too harshly.

The bread, on the other hand, is perfect, and I eat more of that than the rest of the food on my plate.

I zone out of the conversation, thinking about what I can try next time. If I can regain Hunter’s trust—if I can regain my own faith in myself—maybe I can use knives and cook something more interesting than a pot roast.

“How much you want to bet that Jacob is going to sneak one of his mistresses to Hawaii with us?” Bethany asks, and I realize the topic of conversation has drifted.

Hunter snorts and shakes his head. “Of course he is. The question is, will Holly bring somebody too?”

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