Page 9 of Space Junk: Houston, We Have a Hottie
Shit.I shift in my seat. “That’s not the point I’m making, Rose. None of your friends are ugly.”
“Yeah, but this is the first time you’ve called any of them hot.”
“Rose. Focus.” I run my hand though my hair and blow out another breath. “Who arranged your birthday party? Who paid the tab last night?”
Rose looks down at her coffee mug.
“Damn it, Rose, it wasyourfucking birthday.”
“I know, but I didn’t have anyone else to go out with.” She sounds so small, it kills me.
“I know I yelled last night, but I was really just pissed off at myself for leaving before things apparently spiraled out of control.” I take a deep breath. “I thought Pam ordered a limo. Wasn’t she supposed to take you back to the condo downtown?”
Rose won’t meet my eyes. “Well, Pam said she was going to hook up with some guy…” She starts trailing her index finger on the counter. “… and she wanted the place to herself.”
For a minute I just sit there and blink. What Rose is saying doesn’t quite compute, but when it finally does all my anger rushes back. “You have got to be shitting me.” I slam my mug on the counter, some of the contents sloshing over. “She left you at a bar, on your birthday, after you footed the bill and barred you from your own goddamn home? To fuck some random?” With every question, Rose’s shoulders get higher and higher, like she’s trying to cave in on herself.
Fuck, I’m an ass.
“Rose.” I take a deep breath and lay my hand on her shoulder, waiting until she straightens and looks me in the eye. “I’m sorry. I should’ve sucked it up and called Holt to arrange a family birthday dinner instead of letting you go out with those ass hats. I should’ve stayed last night. I just...” I clear my throat. “I fucked up.”
Rose shakes her head and smiles before reaching up to put her hand on mine. “You didn’t fuck up, Flynn. You shouldn’t have to chaperone my twenty-first. It would’ve been even more of an epic fail if everyone around me was drooling over my big brothers.” She rolls her eyes.
There it is. One of the reasons I love my baby sister. She knows I’m feeling shitty, and even though Ishouldbe feeling shitty, she tries to lighten the mood. Growing up, when Holt was granted custody of us at eighteen, he did the ranch, and I tried helping raise Rose. Though half the time I’d felt like Rose had been raising me.
“And I did have fun being drunk in Jackie’s car.” She laughs, reminding me of one of the other reasons I love my sister. Ninety-nine percent of the world knows my sister as the badass, take no prisoners, foul-mouthed, confident young woman. Only a select few get to see her drop the act. Although, truthfully, I think my sister is pretty badass all the time, even when she’s sad.
Glad she’s feeling better, I give in to my curiosity. “So who’s Jackie? I’ve never seen her around before. She go to school with you or something?” I try for nonchalant, but even I can hear the awkwardness in my voice.
Rose tilts her head to the side. She’s too perceptive by half when she wants to be.
“Never mind,” I say, picking up my coffee cup. “Just another one of your hangers-on, I’m sure.” But as I grab a paper towel to mop up the mess I’ve made, the image of all that blond, wavy hair pulled up, exposing a long neck, and wide, unblinking, brown eyes behind thick, black frames comes crystal clear to the front of my mind.
“Not all women are Beth, Flynn.” Rose pats my back. “Or Mom.”
I pause mid-swipe. Rose and I have never talked about the woman who burned me. And yet, Beth was one of the reasons I left early last night. Rose’s friends, the high society ones that used to be mine, kept mentioning Beth, thinking I’d want to know what she’s been up to since I found her in my brother’s bed. But really, I don’t care. She did me a favor. Now she’s just the woman who fucked me for family money and then just fucked my family for good measure.
And Mom? She was just fucked up. Then she died.
* * *
Jackie
“What happened after you left?” Trish asks.
Trish called to go shopping as she said she would. We’re wandering around Cavender’s, a Western shop mid-afternoon. I’ve never been, even though this place is a staple among Texans.
See, in the dark of Big Texas Saloon I can pretend to fit in, even though I know I’m no cowgirl. But in the bright light of day, helped along with rows of fluorescent ceiling lights, I know there’s no way in hell I can pull off shopping here on my own. Floor-to-ceiling shelves grace the outer walls and chest-level shelves make up the aisles on the floor, all of which showcase various styles and colors of boots.
Then there are tables piled with jeans that have pockets so blinged-out, Liberace could go cowboy and still maintain his look. Don’t even get me started on the racks of shirts with pearl snaps and fringe, or the jewelry cases filled with brick-sized belt buckles.
Today, as I’m with Trish in her skinny jeans, complete with rhinestone pockets, and a leather purse so big that I figure a whole cow had been sacrificed in its making, I figure I fit in by association.
I answer Trish’s question with a question. “What do you mean?”
She pauses in her perusal of belt buckles. “I mean that I’ve been waiting, patiently I might add, to hear all about how you got Miss Birthday Girl home last night.”
“Oh, that.”
