Page 5 of Southpaw Slots

TWO

ARIANNA

Watching them makes my stomach twist into a knot, filling it with nausea, which hits the back of my throat. I try to keep my eyes from rolling, staring at the fruit bowl in front of me and willing the glass of water next to it to be champagne. It doesn’t work. No bother, I’ll just kiss Kroft’s ass today and she’ll sneak me a fresh bottle of bubbly.

Pulling my phone out under the tablecloth, I text:

Me

Wyd?

Wyatt

I’m working, Ari. Stay home.

My heart sinks. He’s still not talking to me. I’ve never had this happen before. Usually, getting my way is as easy as a few tears, some tits and ass, but not with him.

Maybe that’s what drew me to him. He always saw right through every trick I tried and sawme. Wyatt was the first person to treat me as more than a body. No matter how much I used it on him, he rejected me for weeks while teaching me to care for my bike. But that’s what made me fall in love with him.

“Lion, I’m good. I don’t need any more bacon. Thank you, though,” Livia says across the dining room table.

My brother hand feeds his wife as they make doe eyes at each other. Pushing the meat farther into her mouth, Livia finally opens and accepts it while Max puts on a victorious grin and chews his own food.

“Just trying to fatten my son up.” His large palm graces Livia’s pregnant belly as she gives him a come-hither look.

Now my eyes do hit the ceiling. Ever since Maggie told them it was a boy a few days ago, Maxi’s been unbearable. Un-bear-able. Talking about “legacy” and “tradition” and ancient things I don’t care about.

It doesn’t help that all I want is my own child, my own family, so desperately that I’d had a thought of stealing my nephew as my own. But apparently, it’s too much for me to ask for now that Wyatt is shunning me, and my husband doesn’t want to be married to me.

Whatever. It’ll just take some time and planning. I’ll get what I want.

I always do.

“I’m finished.” I shove my chair back andstand, slinking into the kitchen where Mrs. Kroft is busy with tea service pastries for later. Picking up a day-old scone, I roll it in my hands as she tries to ignore my presence while standing at the island.

“Yes?” She finally pauses in her rolling and eyes me suspiciously.

“Give me a bottle.”

Wiping her flour-covered hands on a towel, she spreads her arms across the marble top and stares me down like a gorilla ready to pounce. “Miss Arianna, it’s 10 a.m. and you don’tneedanother bottle. I’ll tell Master Freidenberg if you keep this up.”

A small sigh leaves my lips, but before I can whine, she returns to her kneading and twists her head slightly over her shoulder. “Besides, you can get one yourself.”

Dropping the crusts from the sweet on the counter, I stand and head to the wine cooler.

“Clean up this mess you left here!” she yells from the kitchen, but I keep walking until I’m in the back of the butler’s pantry.

I snag a blush green carafe from the fridge, pop the top and pour myself a crystal glass. A celebration… I’m having a wedding in a couple of days. It used to be that I mixed orange juice with it this early, like it was breakfast. Now, I don’t even pretend. Just give me the stuff that will make my head numb and tingly.

Waltzing past the ovens, I toss my hair over my shoulder before nodding at the crumbs on my bar stool. “Nah, you do it. Thanks for the champagne, love!”

By the time I reach my room, sneaking past my bear of a brother, half the bottle’s downed. From the glass. I’m not a heathen.

It’s just like summers in the Hamptons with Charlotte Mason’s family, where I had to stay in order to remainsafe,as Mama and Papa told me. Their staff would try to palm off jobs to me becauseIwas the guest. If I pick up after myself now, it will always be expected of me.

I’ll stay a disappointment.

In my closet, I undress, then stand and turn in slow circles, considering what I should wear. Using scissors, I cut up a vintage T-shirt, and after putting it over my bra, I tie it just under my full bosom, pushing up my girls to their fullest height, almost choking myself. Ripped, black, high-legged denim shorts go over my gold thong. Thigh-high black leather boots cover most of my legs. I’ll be on my Harley, after all.

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