Page 33 of Bedding Rose
I won’t let him.
I decide that this evening's upside to my sports knowledge is that it’s also very useful for having a discreet argument with a certain hulking, overbearing brute. He’s been breathing down my neck, trying to crowd my personal space for weeks. And despite the fact I may or may not have feelings for him, he hasn’t apologized. That’s unacceptable. The spine I was lamenting not having hardens the tiniest bit and gives me the courage to spout out my next words.
"You mean did I see the disgusting, cheap trick your team tried to pull—the one that was totallyillegal?" I shoot daggers from my eyes at him, because yeah—I'm not talking about football.
"You’re still upset about that? The Saints had to try something new. Their normal plays weren't working against the defense."
My fingers clamp around the map I hold and the paper dimples under my grip.
"Saints?" That arrogant bastard. Yeah, he definitely knows we're not talking football. His team is the Ravens, which makes no sense for a kid from New Mexico, but that sort of twisted logic also clearly applies to his real life, where he makes batshit choices with eerie casualness.
"Yeah, you know. The good guys." He gives me a shit-eating grin.
The most caustic laugh spills from my lips and I'm surprised it doesn't corrode his ears, the very sound eating through him like acid. "Good guys? I don't think so. I think they're nothing more than a pathetic, no-talent team—"
“Sorry, what game are we talking about?” Quique finally looks up from his phone to join the conversation.
I roll my eyes and move away, back to checking placards. “Nothing. A crappy one. We didn’t watch it. I just saw the highlight reel. The team’s manager owes the entire league an apology.” I flash a vicious gaze at Angelo before I walk off.
Behind me, I hear Quique exclaim, “Dude, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Rose get so pissed. I didn’t even think she liked football.”
“You know, I’ve found that women like a lot of things they pretend they don’t,” Angelo replies in a tone that doesnotsound repentant but pompous. He better not be talking about himself.
“Think that applies to ass sex?” My idiotic brother forgets to ask the question quietly and I overhear it even from twenty feet away.
“Quique, my ears are burning!” I call out. Gross.
“Least it’s not your ass,” Angelo replies with a chuckle.
My face heats. I’m going to kill him. Murder him. Take that tie from around his neck and yank on it until he can’t breathe. I’m not a violent person normally. Other than the outburst at Daisy’s, I haven’t yelled at anyone in years. Normally, I fold rage inward until it resembles some kind of sharp origami star that cuts me internally. No one has ever driven me to blazing fury like this before and it’s both worrying and strangely liberating to turn that wrath elsewhere.
Except, Angelo keeps poking at me, stoking that rage, and we’re in public—at an event where I absolutely cannot burst into screams and verbally whip him the way he deserves.
I stand there, staring blindly at the map in my hand without seeing it, trying to control my breathing, when I hear the chatter of a crowd start to drift in our direction. Fuck. Fuck my life. People are arriving early.
I suck in a deep breath full of chill January air and try to ignore the fact that my fingertips are getting icy. I need to go discard this seating layout so I can ‘shake hands and kiss babies.’
The lobby’s warm air envelopes me in a hug as soon as I step inside. I paste on a smile as I dart to the side and put the map away in a small meeting room that we reserved for Mom to practice her speech and for all our stuff. The auction paintings line the wall and I nod toward Debbie as I toss her map onto the closest table, then vigorously rub my hands together because now that I’m inside, the true extent of the chill that invaded my system is somewhat painful.
Emerging from that meeting room, my eyebrows shoot up in surprise when I spot Violet and Lily walking in through the massive glass front doors, Violet’s parents behind them. I completely forgot they were coming, even though we texted one another outfits this afternoon. Apparently, everything else flew out of my head the second I heard that Angelo was coming.
Violet’s blonde hair is a glossy waterfall down her back, and she wears a pale lavender gown that offsets her blue eyes. She’s dressed conservatively, like me, for similar reasons. Her family is Irish mafia and they fully intend to keep her pure and clean until they marry her off to the mob boss of their choosing. Her parent’s approval drags invisibly behind her, chaining and weighing down every step she takes—rather like Jacob Marley, the ghost who haunted Scrooge.
Lily, on the other hand, looks like she’s dressed for a night at a club rather than a fundraiser full of stuffy blue-hairs. She’s wearing a cream-colored silk dress that ends mid-thigh and cream-colored velvet high-heeled boots to match. A long string of pearls dangles nearly to her waist and her hair is pinned halfway up, spiral curls still spilling around her shoulders. Every eye in the lobby, male and female, turns to look at her. Santa Fe does get its share of movie stars, and she has the looks that could easily vault her into that category. She’s also got the gossipy, dramatic tendencies. But Lily’s always said she’d rather model than act and always half-joked that she’s too old for a modeling gig now anyway.
I rush over and hug the two of them, nodding politely at Violet’s parents as they walk on by, uninterested in our chatter, the same sort of thing they’ve heard almost weekly at their house for over a decade.
“You look so good! Sexy but subtle,” Violet gushes.
“Love that it’s backless. What’d you do for a bra? Did you use those pasties I gave you for your birthday?” Lily asks, reaching out and dragging a manicured finger down my spine. She’s never had much of a sense of personal space.
“Lily!” I gasp, wanting to smack her for using that word in public at my mother’s function.
“What? I told you they’re the best. They are, aren’t they? I think I can see the flower shape under your dress. You’re wearing them aren’t you?” She’s completely oblivious to the fact that my stomach just liquefied and sank in between the wooden floorboards in a puddle of embarrassment.
Violet notices and grabs Lily’s arm. “Shh. Geez, we talked about this shit, Lil.” Lily wasn’t raised the way Violet and I were, with expectations looming over her every moment.
“Sorry,” Lily gives a shrug and then taps her purse. She leans in quietly and tries to be more subtle when she whispers, “I brought us a flask to share.”
