Risky Business

I sit down, sinking into the bubbles up to my chin. This feels amazing, and my muscles begin to relax instantly. I lay my head back, lolling over to find Taya. She’s sitting backward in the vanity chair in the splash-free zone, her arms resting on the back as she watches me with an amused smirk.

“You look like your video,” I tell her.

It’s true. After she bought this property, she found an indie filmmaker with a cool style, invited him over, and they spent eight hours filming her singing in various places around the house. The filmmaker turned it into a private peek style music video with some cool overlay effects. Right now, the effects are coming courtesy of red wine, not digital processing, but Taya is sitting the same way she did in the video.

“Want me to sing for you?” she offers.

I shake my head, wincing at the movement.

“Good. Your turn then. Sing like a snitch and tell me everything.”

I make a sound of displeasure, thinking I should’ve told her to sing so she’d leave me alone in my misery. But the water is loosening my tongue too.

“The charity event was amazing. But Archer . . .” I sneer his name, even though it’s not his fault. It’s mine, all mine. I’m the one who stepped into family business when it wasn’t exactly warranted, or at least not yet. And I’m the one who didn’t tell Carson about my parents. That blame rests solely on my shoulders.

“He showed up. I could see from across the garden that it wasn’t going well. I didn’t want people to notice, to realize who he was, but he was getting loud.” My eyes drift closed, but I keep telling Taya what I remember. “Carson grabbed his arm, handling it himself, but Archer knows what buttons to push, where to aim for maximmm-mum-mum impact.”

I must go quiet because Taya prompts me. “So you stepped in?”

“Yeah, Carson can’t afford a scene like that, so I did what I do best. I handled it for him.” I snort out a bitter laugh. “Actually stepped between him and his brother and called Archer on his shit. Like I’m some white knight.”

I wave my hand around, slinging bubbles everywhere. Taya chose her seat well.

“What did he do?” Taya asks.

“Called me a slut . . . no, wait . . .” I point a finger, trying to remember. “A whore. Yeah, that’s it. He called me a whore. As if. My hourly rate is way too high for that.”

“He what?” Taya screeches. “I’ll kill Carson where he stands, slowly and painfully.”

I open my eyes, looking at her in confusion. “Why? Archer’s the one that called me a whore.”

“Oh,” she says, settling.

My eyes drift back closed. “Carson was mad, though. He kissed me. Goodbye.” I don’t have to be sober to feel the sharp stab of that pain again. The way he looked at me so seriously, like he couldn’t believe what I’d done. The passion of the kiss, like he wanted one last memory of something good before walking away. And then . . . “My parents came.”

“You finally told him. Good for you,” Taya surmises, completely incorrectly.

I shake my head. “Didn’t tell. Surprise!” I shout, holding my hands up wide.

Bubbles fling all the way across the room to hit Taya in the face. Taya makes a sound of surprise, and I open my eyes to see her mouth dropped open and her eyes wide, her skin covered with the white foam. I can’t help but laugh and hold my fingers up in a frame around her face. Closing one eye, I look through the frame. “Yeah, girl. That’s the money shot! Kaching-kaching-kaching!”

Taya laughs, wiping away the bubbles with a nearby towel. “I forgot what a fun drunk you are. But now that you’re reminding me, I also remember what an annoying hungover bitch you are.” After a minute, or maybe an hour—what do I know—she asks, “He didn’t take the parent thing well?”

“Actions speak louder than words. And I didn’t tell him. I didn’t tell him about my parents,” I mumble, drifting off.

I think I snore, or blow bubbles in my sleep, because suddenly, Taya and Carlo are helping me out of the water. I feel a soft robe wrap around me, and I burrow into it, wishing I could hide away from everything in its coziness.

“Bitch is a lightweight with the wine, but fuck if she don’t weigh a metric fuckton,” Taya grumbles.

I try to argue, but I’m just so tired. They must get me into the bed because the coziness of the robe becomes a cocoon of smushy softness. “I love you,” I slur.

“Yeah, yeah. I love you, too,” Taya says. If I could open my eyes, I think she’d be rolling hers.

“Not you,” I laugh, thinking she’s so silly. “Carson. I didn’t tell him ‘I love you.’ And now it’s too late.” I sigh, giving into sleep now that I’m in such a soft, comfy nest.