Page 62 of Home to the Hollow

OJ wasn’t afraid of getting her hands dirty back then, and she hasn’t grown up a whit if you ask me.

“I can do that, Ophelia. I’ll need to put them in different age groups—which means they’ll have lessons on different days. If you need to check their current activities against the open lesson grid, you can use the website to request their day and time.”

My smile is sunny, but inside, I can’t wait to get this viper away from me. She glared at me hard when she saw Teddy with his arms around me. I’m not sure if she’s holding a torch from high school or if she’s acting in defense of a friend, but she’s been an icicle from the second she perched her malnourished bum in my chair.

“Outrageous! I’ve been waiting in this dump for over an hour while you climbed on every bachelor in town like a cat in heat. Now you tell me you can’t register my children tonight? Wasn’t that your line at Parent’s Night, too?”

I whip a piece of paper out of the file folder, planting a pen on it a bit more firmly than I need to. “Ophelia, if you have all the information on all three of your children’s activities memorized, please fill out the request now. Note the line that says all spots are final once claimed, and if the child can’t attend a class, you will get charged. My time is valuable, and I do not wait for students who cannot be on time and prepared to learn. There is also a non-refundable fifty percent down payment due at registration.”

Her eyes narrow. I can see the wheels turning in her brain, trying to figure out whether I’ve written my paperwork well enough to keep her from fighting it if she risks it. I bat my lashes at her, waiting patiently. Jackson drafted all of my forms and paperwork for the gallery, and this weekend, Edgar and the boys helped me ‘Hollow Proof’ it. They’re all aware of how the snooty assholes in this town wiggle out of contracts and paying their debts, so I’m confident OJ can’t find a loophole.

“Fine. I will consult my calendar, the nanny, and our staff. Once I’m certain, I assume I can sign them up without having to waste time coming here, yes?” she snarls, curling her lip.

“Yes. On the website, Ophelia. It’s listed on every page of every form you’re holding,” I reply sweetly. She’s not the first socialite I’ve had this conversation with tonight, but she’s the least brilliant. Like father, like daughter, I suppose. Aldous may be cunning, but that’s a survival instinct.

“If I have any issues with this ridiculous process, I will let Mayor Sykes know of my displeasure.”

“Say hello to your father, Ophelia. We were so hoping he’d attend this evening,” I reply, trying to look innocent as I call her bluff about the Mayor. She’s used to people knowing that Aldous has the Mayor’s ear, and her angry expression betrays her intentions. My dig prevented her from using that connection surreptitiously—good. If OJ wants to come at me, she’ll have to do it directly.

She’s not the Queen Bee I’m worried about... not anymore.

When she stomps away, I breathe a sigh of relief. Since I moved home, I’ve had to confront a lot of demons from my past. Starting with Edgar, I’ve been working my way through the elites one by one. The boys may have grown up, but the girls have not. I still haven’t seen Jillian Marie Remington, Reese Emily Barrington, or the head mean girl, Amy Matilda Behle. Since I’ve had to deal with their parents in town and the next generation at school, I’m not eager to remedy that situation.

“They’ve been rough, eh, Peanut?” Seer remarks, coming up beside me to hand me a glass of champagne.

I gulp it down in one swig, turning to give her a grateful look. “At least none of them has called me a whore yet. I know they all saw Edgar’s little show, and trust me, it wasn’t received well. I’ll make a tidy sum with lessons and classes, but it won’t come easily. These bitches will make certain of that.”

Her lips quirk, and she tilts her head at me, giving me a mischievous grin. “Good thing I’ve got a plan to make everything better, innit?”

Arching a brow, I frown. “No retaliation for the moment, Seer. As much as I’d love to botch someone’s Botox or whatever crazy revenge you’ve got planned, I don’t think it’s time for Def-Con Seer yet. They’re spiteful witches, but they have done nothing but remind me why I stayed away from this town for so long.”

“Ah, Peanut. You mistake the source of my excitement. There’ll be no arguments once I tell you, right?”

“That’s not a suspicious request atall,” I retort. “But I trust you. What do you have planned?”

Her grin widens, and she vibrates with excitement. “I’ve already told your lads to shove off because we’re driving to the city to have a girls’ night. I have all the shite to take off in an hour, and they’re going home to man the animals. It’s you, me, alcohol, and the dance floor tonight, just like old times.”

My bestie is so excited about her plan; I can’t tell her I’d rather go home, down a couple of milkshakes, and let the boys coddle me until I fall asleep. It’s not a school night, and I’m not scheduled for the farm tomorrow. I don’t have even a hint of an excuse to pawn her off. She’s clearly had this plan in motion for most of the evening, and I’ll hurt her feelings if I refuse. So I muster up as much enthusiasm as I can and give her a bright smile.

“The Terror Twins of Tripoli ride again!”

Seer whoops loud enough to turn more than a few heads our way, which she silences with a glare that could freeze a flame in place. “Aye, that’s my girl! Now, get these women settled, and we can shut this down on time. I can’t wait for you to see what I’ve got planned for our entrance.”

Oh, sweet baby Hercules and the minions of Hades. I gave her another reason to dress me up.

* * *

“Seer!My ass is hanging out of this. I have enough dudes clogging up my kitchen in the morning!”

Her laughter is contagious, despite the insanity she has me strapped into. She insisted we drive into the city to go dancing at a club she found online, and if what I’m wearing is any sign, the boys are gonna bepissedwe didn’t invite them. I tug on the bottom of the tux jacket a bit as we walk, finally understanding why she insisted on leaving it a shade longer than I would have preferred.

She intended the damned thing to be a mini-dress for this outing.

Saoirse O’ Flanagan could have built her own fashion house from the ground up, even without her family name, but she chose the avant garde route as a personal costumer instead. The fashion world should both weep and be glad she decided her talents were better used for individual designs rather than the mass market.

I watch her stride up to the bouncer in the white corset with a fluffy bustle that trails over her matching fishnets to the heels of her knee-high raver boots. His eyes widen at the shock of flaming hair, wild fairy makeup, and leather accessories on her thighs, wrists, and neck. She could be the bait in a bondage themed paranormal romance, and she knows it.

The dude rakes his eyes over me as well and I glare, holding up the cuffed wrist with a haughty smirk. “Sorry, bud. Not on the menu.”

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