Page 1 of A Very Rossi Christmas
1
SLOANE
DEVIL IN THE SUNLIGHT
"That's it, I'm never going home again."
"You and me both, sister," the voice immediately to my right muttered, sleepy with sunshine and more than a little bit slurred, thanks to the five or so margaritas we'd had since we arrived at the beach. "Though I think that might fall under the heading of 'be careful what you wish for.' Sounds like the sort of thing someone says right before they get chopped in the back by the designated villain."
She added this second statement with her eyes open and her voice sounding a bit sharper, and I glanced over at her, wondering what the hell she was getting at.
The picture I saw was, of course, a girl who looked like she should be fucking modeling rather than laying on the beach in Santa Monica with me, on Christmas break from law school. Brooks Peterson—short for Brooklyn, a name she hated with the heat of a million suns—had always been taller than me. More gorgeous than me. Sassier than me. Then we'd come west to go to UCLA for college and she'd gotten even sassier.
These days she was dying her used-to-be-blonde hair a bright fire engine red and wearing stark black eyeliner with a wing that made it look like a makeup artist lived in the same house as she did.
There was no makeup artist in her house. I knew, because I lived there too, and if there had been a makeup artist in residence, I would have been sporting the same winged liner.
As opposed to the hurried brush of blush and eye shadow I generally managed. With more mascara than anything else. Maybe some lipstick on days when I was feelingreallyfancy.
Brooks, who had watched me watching her this entire time, lifted one very elegant—and still fairly blond—eyebrow. "Take a picture, love, it'll last longer."
I stuck my tongue out at her. "Why would I need a picture when I see you every freaking day of my life?"
She just grinned and laid back down. "You and I both know you love it. Now, what were you saying about never going home?"
I laid back as well but kept myself propped up on my elbows so I could keep my gaze on the bright blue of the Pacific Ocean. Freaking 85 degrees in the middle of December, and as bright as the day was long. I mean, the day wasn't long. Not in December in California. But the brightness? The beauty?
Yeah, that was all in evidence.
Back home in New York, it was snowing right now. Snowing and freaking cold, with the power going all spotty and the sidewalks frozen and cars driving by at 50 MPH and splashing you with dirty slush.
I knew because my parents had told me so this morning when I called to tell them I wasn't coming home from law school for Christmas this year. Brooks and I were staying in LA rather than flying home.
And neither of us was all that sorry for it.
I glanced at the pier about a mile down the beach, took in the garland wound along the rails and the Christmas lights going up the struts that held the roller coaster, and grinned to myself. Christmas in LA meant a lot of decorations and almost no change in the weather, and I fucking loved it.
"I said I don't think I'm ever going home again," I repeated. "Why the hell would I leave all of this behind for the snow in the winter and the freaking heat in the summer?"
"And that humidity," she added. "And what it does to my hair."
"Your hair's not curly, even in the humidity," I noted.
Not like mine. I had the sort of hair that got bigger and curlier if there was an ounce of humidity in the air, and though LA's heat made it wavy and hard to control, New York's humidity...
A sharp poke in the ribs broke me out of my mental curses against my hair—which was also naturally auburn, unlike Brooks'—and back to the reality of the sunny Southern California beach.
"My hair is so curly," Brooks muttered on top of the finger jab.
I just snorted. It wasn't worth it to argue with her when it came to things like that. She decided years ago that she was going to have curly red hair—just like mine—and it was no use reminding her that her hair was red only thanks to her hairdresser, and the curl nonexistent.
Brooks had a way of disagreeing with reality so strongly that she often forced it to bend to her will, and it made her nearly impossible to argue with. It was also going to make her one hell of a lawyer. If she could keep it under control.
"So what are we going to do while we're never going home again?" she murmured, sliding her sunnies down her nose and glancing over at me.
I returned the glance, already knowing the answer.
I always knew the answer. It was one of the things that was going to makemea great lawyer.
