- CHAPTER SEVEN -
SCOTCH
Man. I was bummed out.
Not even pissed, just kind of . . . disappointed.
I tried to blame it on the fact that the jeans I was tugging myself into were just a hair too tight on my butt—did his sister wear a size negative five or something?—but really, I was just let down by Costello’s hiding things from me.
He thought I’d freak out if he told me we were fleeing to his brother’s wedding, I reminded myself. He thought he was making it easier on me by not telling the full story. Yanking the least garish top I could find—a blue sweater—over my head, I sighed. Well. He wasn’t wrong.
I was definitely freaking out.
“Are you okay in here?” he asked, tapping on the side of my private cabin. The jet had several curtained-off rooms. I was sure most people found them megafancy, but all they did was remind me of a cleaner and brighter version of the champagne rooms at the Dirty Dolls.
Tugging the curtain aside, I squinted up at him. “How come you get to look great and I don’t?”
He was wearing a fitted gray sweater under his leather jacket. I’d returned the jacket to him—reluctantly—but it looked better on him than on me. It matched the tight designer jeans clinging to his long legs and brought his whole outfit together.
Costello didn’t respond. Not verbally, anyway. Running his eyes over my body, he made my mouth dry up. I wanted so badly to quench myself on his serious lips—it felt like the only way to return moisture to anywhere but between my legs.
I forgot about being irritated with him. Nothing mattered but easing the pressure that kept building as we stared at each other. This waiting was torture, and surely it had to end with him kissing me . . . touching me . . . anything. I prepared for him to show me a hint of the man who’d pressed me down last night while his cock strained to reach me through his towel.
He shut his eyes and walked down the aisle. “You look fine,” he said as he went.
Ouch. That confirmed it, though. If he’s decided to put a wall up, it’s better if I let him. I was plenty used to walls; I’d created one between myself and every guy I’d ever dated in my life. Dated was too strong a word—I’d never gotten far enough along to label any of them my boyfriend. There was always a good reason, in spite of what Gina usually said while rolling her eyes. Maybe he was too quick to want to kiss, or too slow . . . or maybe he just didn’t like the same movies as me. Who could date a guy who hated The Lion King? Come on.
Costello just joins the array of imperfect men in my life, I told myself, following him into the jet’s aisle. He was standing by the open door. The sun lit him, his sleeves blowing gently like pine boughs in a spring storm. From this angle his scar was prominent. I never did get to feel it. I tightened my hands by my hips. Hey, hey, quit it. You’re being weird.
He turned enough to look at me, and every muscle in my body went taut. “They’re here,” he said, and it was a warning.
Moving closer to him until our shoulders touched, I scanned the tarmac. A limo had rolled up, black and glossy. The Badd family always rode in style—the private jet should have made that clear.
The driver, in his flat cap and silver gloves, rushed around to open the door. I expected movie-star levels of glamour. I kept looking around for the paparazzi; the scene felt wrong without a million clicking cameras.
A white and fluffy bullet exploded from the limo, barking as it stormed across the tarmac and right up the jet’s steps. “Mic!” a high-pitched voice squealed.
Costello might be quick, but he had nothing on this dog. It crashed into my ankles and threw me down in the aisle. I managed a less-than-heroic cry of “Sonofabitch!” before I landed with a wince.
“Mic!” that same voice from before scolded. “Oh my gawsh, I’m so sorry!”
Wincing, I lifted myself up on my elbows while the white picnic-basket-size dog scurried around me. Its tiny paws danced on my shoulder, its tongue doing its best to lick the skin from my cheek.
The woman who’d spoken had climbed up the steps. She had on ridiculous sunglasses—giant pink things that would have made more sense as flashlight lenses than as something you put on your face. At least they matched her neon-pink sweaterdress.
Her long hair was swept up in an “I just rolled out of bed” bun that I was positive had taken her hours to do. She leaned over me—well, into me, sort of. In her attempt to grab Mic, her boobs kept squishing into the top of my head.
“It’s okay, seriously,” I said between bouts of being smothered in doggy kisses.
She scooped up the white dog and waved a hand down at me with gold nails that rivaled Gina’s. “He’s just got a lot of energy! I swear, he’s a sweetie pie. Wouldn’t harm a fly.”
My sore ass didn’t agree, but I let her help me to my feet. “No harm done.”
“I’m Francesca,” she said, though she needed no introduction. Who hadn’t heard about the Badd Princess getting her wedding raided by police? The paparazzi had a field day with that one. The pictures were all over the news, making it impossible not to recognize her.
Fran’s bee-stung lips tightened as she looked me over more closely. “Huh. That’s a weird outfit for a stewardess.”
At least she didn’t recognize it as her own clothing. “Er,” I said, looking over her shoulder to Costello for help.
She leaned away from me with her drawn-on eyebrows sliding lower. “Wait. We don’t even have a stewardess for this flight. Who the hell are you?”
“She’s with me,” Costello said.
Fran grabbed her rounded hips, swaying so she could brace herself in the aisle between us both. “I’m not a fucking dummy, I figured she was with you, but who is she?” Suddenly she covered her mouth. “Oh gawd. Have you been sneaking women on to the jet and screwing them? Ugh! You know how Daddy feels about prostitutes!”
“I’m not a prostitute!” I sputtered.
“Prostitute?” another woman squealed, and I looked up to see a curvy figure standing at the top of the jet steps. She had on a boa that was surely fake fur, as it was a shade of orange you’d never find in nature. “My son, paying for sex?” Her fingers wrapped themselves in her multiple necklaces—she was literally clutching her pearls.
“That’s right, Mama!” Fran shouted. “A whore under our very own roof!”
I was almost regretting that Darien hadn’t killed me earlier.
Costello stepped forward, ignoring Francesca and scooping up his mother’s hands. “Mom, this is Heather. She’s my girlfriend.”
My biggest worry had been that when he finally lied to his family about me, I’d be trying not to laugh because of how silly it was. When Costello spoke my name, his tongue lingering on each letter, his seriousness unquestionable . . . my heart became a thousand butterflies.
He had the best poker face in existence. I was in on the ruse and I almost believed him.
His mother and Fran both gawked at me. “Girlfriend?” Fran scoffed. Then she was shoved aside by their mother, the imposing woman marching down the aisle to square off with me. Costello had none of the softness built into her cheeks and contours, but they did share that intense stare.
Gripping my fingers, she leaned closer. “I’m Carmina,” she said, giving my hands a little squeeze. I had the impression she could have crushed me if she’d desired to. “Welcome to the family, Heather.”
I knew I was turning red; the heat spread from my scalp to my toes. “Uuuhhhhh,” I said, never as eloquent as I needed to be in the moment. My smile was hesitant; a look from Costello made me force it wider. “Thanks for having me?”
Thorne popped up the steps, gripping the sides of the jet door. “What’s going on in here?” he asked, surveying the scene like he was as shocked as everyone else. This family was full of stone-cold liars.
His mother’s eyes narrowed, and she said, “Hawthorne! Did you know Costello was dating someone? Why didn’t you tell me, your sweet mother?”
Thorne shrugged. “It was a secret.”
“Why would he keep it a secret?” asked Fran, who was looking more pissed off the longer this farce went on. Could she sense it was all make-believe?
“Because he was terrified you’d all drive her away,” Thorne replied, flopping into one of the luxurious seats. He winked at me. “I mean, you are super scary, sis.”
Her hands flapped like she was trying to cool herself off. “I am not, gawd! Mama! Tell her I’m not scary!”
Okay. This was spiraling out of control fast.
“It’s all right,” I said, backing away from Carmina. I gave her shoulder a gentle pat, my eyes rocketing toward Costello. “My boyfriend here has only said good things about all of you. I’m flattered to finally meet you guys, and crazy flattered to be attending Kain’s wedding.”
Thorne flashed me a quick thumbs-up. His sister hugged Mic, the little dog nuzzling her cheek. She cast a look full of shade at me.
“Okay,” Carmina said, adjusting her boa. “I’ll tell the pilot we’re ready. We need to hurry if we want to make it in time to have our nails done with Sammy before the wedding tonight.” Clicking her tongue, she swished down the aisle, muttering to herself about whether pink and gold would work with her custom Ralph Lauren dress.
With the aisle emptying, Costello approached me. He was tall enough that his scalp scraped the roof. “Let’s go sit in the back.”
I let him guide me down the pale bronze interior toward a heavily curtained section. The seats were all the same thick, plush red and black that matched the jet’s paint job. Peering at Costello, I helplessly imagined the rich ink running beneath his clothes.
Because I couldn’t stand the awkward silence or the weird tension lurking between us, my brain made words in a desperate attempt at conversation. “Your family really likes that color combo, huh?” I asked, settling into a chair and buckling myself in.
Costello sat across from me. It was a roomy section, but even so, his knees were an inch from grinding on mine. “I don’t know if we all like it, but my father is certainly attached.” There was a tiny table beneath the wide windows. Tapping a panel on it, he revealed a collection of water bottles and green wine bottles inside. “Let me get you a drink, Heather.”
I set my elbow on the table, my chin on my fist. “Hm.”
His forehead crinkled. “Hm? Why hm?”
“I was just thinking how easy it was for you to start calling me something else. It reminds me of this girl I work with. She changes out her name tag constantly—Cindy one night, Serena the next. I always had to call her something else, and it was weird for me, but not for any of the guys who rolled in for a drink. They didn’t care what her name was.” I pursed my lips and chuckled. “Guess it’s good I don’t need to wear a name tag to remind you what to call me, huh?”
The blue of his eyes flashed. “I’m doing it for your own safety.”
“Easy there. I was only playing around.” Attempt at making conversation? Failed. Good job, Scotch.
He cocked his head; it was a small movement, but a pointed one. “You do enjoy playing with me, don’t you?” he whispered.
It was my turn to get flustered. “Hardly.”
“Then why push me like you do?”
“Please. You’re the one teasing me. What else do you call rolling on the bed, nearly kissing me, then not?” I’d said it—and I knew I’d said it—but I didn’t think about how much I’d given away until it was too late. Clapping a palm over my lips, I stared at him.
He was gripping the armrests with his long fingers, digging in as if to lock himself where he was. His voice was soft, but it still managed to slice through my belly. “Last night was an accident. What almost happened between us was a mistake I won’t make again.” Only his lips were moving. He was a statue made from polished marble; how could he be so beautiful and so cruel?
My heart was in my throat. I’d never realized how fragile it was. Why else would his words hurt so badly? The jet shifted, and the motion freed me from his stare. Looking out the window, I muttered, “I get it. It was a game for you. Just like me pretending to be your girlfriend is.”
Costello had no response. Well, good. What a jackass, I thought, digging my nails into my upper arms as I hugged myself. He doesn’t need to tell me it was an accident to flirt with me. I already figured that out.
But there was a tender part of me that kept saying he was wrong. He was lying. There’d never been any game; he’d wanted me the way I’d wanted him. No, he said it plainly. It won’t happen again, and he didn’t mean to go that far in the first place. My intuition that was never wrong clearly had been this time.
Glass clinked onto the table in front of me. He’d finally poured me that drink. Given how shriveled up I was inside, the cold water would be a godsend. His nearness was too painful; if I grabbed the glass, it would put us even closer.
Just as I was debating getting up and changing seats, a voice came over the speakers, telling us to stay where we were. The jet was leaving, time to buckle up. Time to sit tight and pretend that my life wasn’t tumbling around in a blender. So I stayed where I was . . .
And wished I was anywhere else.