I laugh, turning to look at the girls when their giddiness grows louder.
Cali beams at the mirror in a floor-length, chiffon gown, Jules clapping at her back, her wine spilling over her hand and making her laugh louder while the seamstresses appear about ready to have heart attacks.
So much for keeping the alcohol from her today—the girl brought her own bottle.
“We don’t get you next weekend since you’ll be playing royalty at the dance with your fake friends. Give us today, you know you want to.”
I take a deep breath, grabbing my clutch off the seat. “On my way.”
I say a quick goodbye and step into the hall, onto the elevator and hit the button for the bottom floor.
The doors begin to close, but a hand shoots out, and they reopen, Amy standing on the other side.
She stares, laughing as she tilts her head. “God, you must have serious daddy issues to be playing the game that you are.”
“And you must be mistaken if you think for a second anything that comes out of your mouth bothers me in the slightest.”
“Not a rebuttal, interesting.” Her smile surprises me, but I don’t show it. She steps back, waving her artificial fingernails at me. “Enjoy the scraps they’re willing to give, Jameson. I can’t wait to watch this blow up in your pretty little face.”
The doors finally close, erasing her from sight, and I bounce my knee as the elevator dings floor by floor until I’m stepping from the smothering box.
Not a second after I arrive in the lobby, into view through the large glass window, does a horn honk and hold.
Beretta stands outside the black convertible, the door held open as he crosses an arm over his chest, bowing to play chauffeur, Arsen perched high on the driver’s seat, grinning from him to me. The actual doorman is trying to get them to move, or to at least acknowledge his attempt, but they don’t, and the man turns to me.
I shrug, chuckle, and push out the door.
I take Beretta’s hand and climb into the back seat.
He doesn’t join me but falls into the front, and then we’re driving away.
Beretta catches my eye in the mirror and pointedly looks to the empty space beside me and back. “More of that family shit.”
I shrug because I didn’t ask.
Even if I sort of wanted to.
I’m laying across the plethora of blankets piled on the old mattress in the bed of the truck at Beretta’s house, laughing as he acts out a scene from some movie called The Night at The Roxbury that he swears is a ‘classic’ and almost had a fit when I told him I’d never heard of it.
He’s dancing like a fool on the open tailgate, his hands, arms, and legs flailing all around as he bumps his chest against Arsen’s, who laughs with me.
His tone is soft, but strong, maybe a little gruff, as his voice must be.
He doesn’t move but is fully entertained by Beretta’s antics.
Nobody I know would have the confidence or comfort to act so silly out in the open like this. I know I don’t.
It’s addicting, the freedom they walk with.
Beretta spins, his grin wide as he shouts, “Emilio!”
I laugh, shaking my head, but then he turns serious, straightens, and hops off the bed of the truck.
“This can’t be good,” he mumbles, taking a few steps.
Arsen hops down next, both walking around the truck.
I lift onto my elbow, looking over my shoulder through the back and front windshield to spot Ransom slipping through the gate on foot.
His hair is pulled at its ends and chaotic, his eyes dark underneath and shirt torn at the neckline.
“Hey man,” Beretta says cautiously, but cuts himself off.
Ransom darts forward, gripping the edge of the folding table set up next to the garage door and flips it.
He picks it up again, tossing it against the wall and it snaps in the center, the cheap plastic no match for his wrath.
He jumps on top of it, stomping, and picks up a nearby wrench off of the top of a small safe tucked in the corner, heaving it across the yard. It crashes into something, clanking hard as it falls to the ground.
“That motherfucker!” he bellows, growls, and spins. “That sorry piece of shit!” he shouts, then bows, screaming nothing into the air.
Ransom lifts a chair until it reaches the high point above his head. He prepares to send it flying, but as he lifts, his eyes lock onto mine.
His body turns to stone and whether he intended to or not, the chair falls behind him, nearly ripping his arms backward, his torso twisting and throwing him off balance.
I push up into a sitting position and offer a tight smile, because what else can I do? He came here to lose his shit in front of the people he trusts to help him pull himself together, something most people don’t have and here I am, the ‘plaything,’ invading the space he requires.