TWENTY-FOUR
“The sugar content needs something a little drier, don’t you think?”
Harper and Isobel stared at Violet because she had just suggested the ideal wine pairing for . . . a Samoa. The Girl Scout cookie.
Perched on stools around the island in the kitchen—in what was increasingly becoming their kitchen—the Chase sisters were performing another bonding experiment. Tonight was Violet’s turn to choose, and she’d opted for a wine tasting. Not wholly expected, given her inclinations alcohol-wise so far had been mostly of the Pabst Blue Ribbon variety. Then she produced the cookies.
Apparently she had brought a suitcase’s worth from Reno and had been biding her time, i.e., scarfing them down solo, the greedy wench, until she deemed her sisters cookie-worthy.
Harper eyed the array of baked treats. “If sugar content is the deciding factor, then wouldn’t every cookie need something on the dry side?”
Violet shook her head. “There’s also the body.”
“Of the wine?”
“Of the cookie.” She held up one of Harper’s favorites. “Take your Thin Mint, for example.”
Isobel plucked it out of her hand and had it in her mouth before anyone could protest. Around her chewing she said, “You did say to take it.”
Violet rolled her eyes and raised another, careful to keep it and the entire box out of Isobel’s reach radius. “The Thin Mint, despite its contrary name, is one of the more robust cookies in the GSCU.”
“GSCU?”
“Girl Scout Cookie Universe,” Violet explained. “The chocolate and mint combo could never be compared to the delicacy of a Savannah Smile or even a Lemonade. So it needs something with more oomph.”
“Like a Pinot Noir?” Harper ventured, really because there was a bottle of Pinot on the counter.
“Exactly!” Violet seemed pleased with Harper’s stunning insight. She poured a measly splash of red—evidently taking the “tasting” aspect of this far too seriously—and nudged the glasses over with one Thin Mint apiece.
They sipped. They nibbled. They sipped again.
“You might be on to something here,” Harper said while Isobel chowed down after the initial nibble without any thought to tasting finesse.
“What?” she said when she caught the others staring at her. “Oh, right, the wine.” She downed it in one gulp.
“Heathen,” Harper and Violet said in unison, then giggled stupidly.
“So where’s everyone headed for the holiday?” Harper asked, sipping her wine to cover her unreasonable hope. After her blow-up with Remy at the Christkindlmarket two days ago, she was feeling a touch raw. Not that she expected the girls to change their plans for her—and she would never dream of asking them—but if they were feeling so inclined . . .
“Mom’s expecting me,” Isobel said. Isobel’s mom, Gerry, had moved to Scottsdale after her divorce from Clifford several years ago.
“Same here,” Violet replied. “Well, not Isobel’s mom, but my aunt and . . .” She paused before declaring emphatically, “My aunt.” She turned to Harper. “What are your plans? Kenny-boy expecting you?”
Not likely. She’d made a conscious effort to keep him at arm’s length while she was sleeping with Remy. Now that she and DuPre were kaput, using Kenneth as backup to stave off her loneliness wasn’t terribly classy.
“Nothing’s set in stone yet, but I expect that’s what I’ll do.” She kept her voice as light as air.
Violet studied her. “I bet Christmas in New Orleans is lovely.”
“That’s over.”
Both women stared at her.
“It is!”
Isobel twitched her nose. “I thought you were going to let it die a natural death with his trade out.”
“It just seemed like a good time to finish it. That way I don’t have to get him a gift for Christmas. Much less messy.” She popped a Samoa into her mouth to keep from elaborating.
“You mean less messy than when Stroger left?”
Harper stiffened at Isobel’s mention of his name. “It was awkward but . . .” She took a sip of her wine, then a gulp. Then she drained the entire glass.
“But . . .” Violet prompted.
“But nothing.” These girls’ nights in and out were supposed to be about getting to know each other, just enough to smooth over the cracks and make the next six months bearable. They weren’t supposed to be taking a crowbar to the fissures and prying the wounds apart.
“How about I start?” Violet said.
Isobel narrowed her eyes. “Start what?”
“The truth-telling. We all say something we’ve never told anyone before.”
Harper rolled her eyes. Violet threw a Thin Mint at her, and Isobel scooped it up like she was the family Labrador hunting down scraps.
Their youngest sister took a deep breath. “Okay.” She cupped her breasts, covered in a Bitch Please T-shirt, and displayed them. “These beauties before you? All fake.”
Harper and Isobel stared at Violet’s breasts. Nicely shaped, perky as shit, breasts any gal would be proud of.
Isobel slid a glance at Harper. “They’re lovely, but not all that . . . big?”
Valid point. Harper hadn’t given much—or any—thought to Violet’s rack before, but wasn’t it the rule that if you were going to go fake, you went bigger? Vi’s breasts were nice and all, but not anything worth paying for.
“I wanted them to be the same as . . . before.”
A slow flush creeped over Harper’s skin as realization dawned. “You had reconstructive breast surgery.”
“Yep. The big C.”
Isobel slapped a hand over her mouth in shock. “Oh, my God. When?”
“Eighteen months ago. When we met”—she raised her eyes to Harper—“when you came to see me in Reno, I’d just been diagnosed. I wasn’t ready to deal with you and that and everything to do with Cliff.”
The words struggled to be free of Harper’s throat. “But we could have helped. We could have been there for you.”
“I had friends. I had my mom and aunts. I didn’t need a couple of chicks I’d never met, whose only connection to me was a patch of DNA.”
Harper understood. If she’d been going through that, she would have clawed at anyone trying to get near her. Unhealthy, perhaps, but it was the Chase family way. That didn’t mean they couldn’t be there for Violet now.
“Are you okay? Is there anything we can do?”
Violet’s expression relaxed. “I’m okay, Harper. Since my diagnosis, I’ve tried to view my life as a second chance. Trying new things”—she smiled, that blinding grin so like their father’s—“new people, new adventures. Like Walter White in Breaking Bad, but with less meth dealing. The year of the V, chicas.”
So that was why she’d agreed so readily to the will’s stipulations. She was opening herself up to new possibilities. Harper hoped she’d look at life as a rosy opportunity if she came so close to buying the farm.
“What about you, middle child?” Violet asked. “Spill thy secrets.”
Isobel looked uncomfortable. “Harper should go first.”
“I already did. About DuPre.”
Isobel scoffed. “You just told us that something we already knew about was finished. Hardly a big reveal.” Realizing Harper was going to remain tight-lipped, she blew out a breath. “Okay. I haven’t had any man action in over two years.”
Violet looked less than impressed. “Not exactly earth-shattering. I guessed as much with your ceramic dick that looked nothing like a real, live penis.”
Isobel flicked a glance at Harper. “Well, since I got injured, I’ve been having a crisis of confidence with—well, a lot of things. But guys, mostly. Though it’s not as if I was knocking them dead before.”
It may have been subconscious, but Isobel’s hand touched her hairline. Anyone who didn’t know about her injury would barely notice the edge of the three-inch scar above her ear where a skate had sliced into her skull, ending her pro career.
“Is it bumpy?” Violet asked, squinting at Isobel’s head. “Your scar?”
“Um, no, it’s pretty smooth.”
“Can I?” Violet raised her hand. “I’ll show you my boob scars later.”
With a nervous giggle, Isobel inclined her head, inviting Violet for a closer look.
Vi pushed her hair back. “Wow, you’re one tough broad. Isn’t she, Harper?”
“She sure is.” Harper blinked back tears and reached for the wine bottle.
Iz flushed in embarrassment. “Yeah, well, my tough broad act isn’t getting me any action.”
Violet looked sympathetic. “I’m not exactly cleaning up myself. Especially as the only guys I meet are hot hockey players who I’m forbidden to fraternize with.”
“Believe me, I’m doing you a favor,” Harper said.
“Why? Are you saving me from a crapfest between the sheets? Though now you mention it, Isobel did say the guy who punched her V-card sucked.” She slapped the kitchen island. “I knew it! DuPre’s stick-handling skills are lacking.”
“No! That was never a problem,” she said. A touch smugly, if she was being honest.
Her reward was half a Samoa bounced off the side of her head.
Isobel pointed at Violet, who had thrown the baked-good missile. “Stop wasting the cookies!”
“Jesus wept, Harper,” Violet said with much more passion than the situation called for. “You have a sexalicious Cajun on the hook and you’re throwing it away for what? Because ‘sex and hockey don’t mix.’ ” She said that last part in a high voice that Harper assumed was a really bad impression.
“It’s not so simple.”
“Isn’t it? Think of the poor women starving for orgasms”—she gestured toward Isobel, who shrugged in agreement—“while you hog them all. You can’t even appreciate them or the hot piece of ass who’s doling them out!”
“Yeah, Harper,” Isobel piled on. “You’re so fucking greedy.”
Violet giggled, clearly pleased with herself. “So you know what this party needs?”
“More wine?” Harper offered, because they weren’t drinking nearly fast enough.
“The musical stylings of . . .” Violet opened up iTunes on her phone and the soft notes of a guitar were soon made sweeter by a witchy voice. “Miss Stevie Nicks.”
One hour, two bottles of Pinot, three boxes of Samoas, and the entire Rumours album later . . .
“I was once with a guy whose cock head was shaped like a cauliflower.”
Harper squinted at Violet, who had just unloaded that gem. “Dick pics or it didn’t happen.”
Violet tapped the screen of her phone.
Isobel screeched. “Are you kidding? You actually have a dick pic?”
Their youngest sister held up a hand. “I have never solicited a dick pic, but once it’s sent to me, it goes in the dicktabase.”
So much to unpack in that statement, and Harper was just a hairbreadth on this side of sober enough to do it.
“Dicktabase?”
“My Tumblr for dicks.” A couple of clicks later and Harper was gazing at a scandal in the making. Violet Vasquez, youngest daughter of Clifford Chase, one-third owner of the Chicago Rebels professional hockey team, cataloged pics—and GIFs—of penises.
“This—this—” Harper shook her head as Stevie begged Tom Petty to stop draggin’ her heart around. “If anyone ties this to you or the organization, have you the slightest idea how much trouble we’re in?”
“Don’t be such a prude, Harper. It’s just a gallery of cock, and my name is nowhere on the site. Besides, the act of sending it is the equivalent of signing a terms-and-conditions statement—that dick is now fair game.”
“Wow, there are a lot of pierced penises here.” Isobel had picked up the phone and was scrolling with the avid curiosity of a woman who had not been laid in a very long time.
“Pierced is the bomb. It really enhances the sensations for all involved.”
Isobel groaned. “I can’t believe my baby sister has so much more experience than me.”
Violet blushed, and Isobel grabbed her hand. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that! I think it’s awesome you’re so open about what you want and make no bones about getting it.”
“Or boners,” an increasingly drunken Harper interjected.
Violet squeezed Izzy’s hand back. “I didn’t think that’s what you meant. I just—never mind.” She caught Harper’s eye, and while Harper might be ten sheets to the wind, she understood Vi’s source of discomfort.
Isobel had called Violet her baby sister, and Violet was trying to decide if she liked that or not.
“So, I could really do with some dating advice,” Isobel said, still glued to Violet’s phone and the Cavalcade of Cock.
“Dating advice?” Violet exclaimed. “You need a dating intervention. Don’t worry, we’ll work something out, won’t we, Harper?”
“Of course we will. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t be cleaning up on the dating circuit, Iz. You’re a wealthy woman with a badass scar and thighs of steel.”
“No hockey players,” Isobel said morosely.
“No hockey players,” Harper agreed, equally morosely.
Violet chuckled. “This should be good.”