Page 73 of Wild Eyes
West and Ford make their way to the guy, giggling like schoolgirls the entire way. They exchange a few shoulder punches, and I grin like a fool at their boyish interaction. It’s wholesome.
“Oh shit,” Rosie whispers from beside me. She’s close enough that I can smell the tequila on her breath.
“What?”
She flashes me a conspiratorial smile and I know she busted me staring at her brother with stars in my eyes. “Nothing.”
Relieved she doesn’t call me on it, I casually change the subject. “How long have they known each other?”
She shrugs. “A couple of decades.”
“Ford might be the only non-blood relative West has committed to,” Tabby says.
Rosie slings a soft hand at Tabby. “Quit picking on him. He’ll leave Neverland when the time is right. Plus, we need to talk about you more than him.”
She gets up and slides onto the stool on the other side of her friend, so we make a little Tabby sandwich.
“I’m not fun. I thought we were here to shit-talk Rhys.”
“What are we going to say to him?” I ask, trying to contain my laughter. “Your physique is too much like Jason Momoa, Rhys,” I mock-shout with a hand cupped by my mouth.
Rosie laughs.
Tabby does not.
Then Rosie follows suit. “The way you fill out those jeans is criminal, Rhys.”
Then me. “Your hands don’t need to be that big, Rhys.”
Then Rosie. “How dare you defend Tabby’s honor, Rhys? You piece of shit.”
Tabitha drops her head into her hands, rolling her head against her palms. “You guys are not helping. We hate him, remember?”
Rosie blinks her baby blues. “Why do we hate him again? Visually, I can think of no reason at all to hate the man. I mean, I know you were avoiding so much as glancing in his direction, but have youseenhim?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Didn’t you sign him up for the bowling team yourself?” Rosie prods.
“I needed him out of the house.”
We both stare at Tabby now, and I don’t know why my voice comes out as a whisper when I ask, “He’s livingwith you?”
Tabby groans and slaps a hand against the bar. “Frankie. I need more tequila.”
“Comin’ right up, babe,” the man with the belly calls back from his leaning position on the bar.
We watch silently as Rhys walks up to take his turn. He’s rigid and uncomfortable, and I get the sense he knows we’re watching him.
Perhaps it’s the pressure, but he throws the ball so hard and so crooked that it fires straight into the gutter. He does it with such force that I wonder if that’s where he meant to send it.
Rosie stands up on the rung of her barstool, pressing her palms onto the bar top. “Hey, Rhys,” she shouts across the small space. “You’re supposed to aim for the pins. Get this man some bumpers, Frankie.”
He turns his head and glares at her over his shoulder. While several of the men chuckle, he does not. His response only makes Rosie tip her head back and laugh, blond hair streaming down her back.
When she sits back down, Tabby smiles into the freshly filled shot glass. “Okay,” she murmurs. “NowI’m having fun.”
We then proceed to have a littletoomuch of it.
