The Harrison estate—unlikethe Landon estate, per Tad’s pretentious pipe dream—stands proud over on the ritzy side of town that is gated and guarded and happens to hoard the most expensive chunks of real estate this haunted island has to offer. Some of its residents include the dominating demon himself, Demetri, the Havers’ home where our Faction meetings have been routinely held until I kicked the Factions and their useless meetings on their angelic ears, the Kraggers—the family that has spawned a thousand forms of evil, Marshall, my rough around the sexy edges, refined around the crooked heart spirit husband, the Olivers, Gage and his new home—I refuse to have anything to do with him or the house he tricked me into buying. Good God, do not—I repeat,do notmake huge life decisions when every one of your hormones is out of whack. How I ever thought owning a home next door to Emma was a good idea I will neverknow.
The minivan comes to an abrupt stop as Drake uses his good judgment to block the entry to the enormous circular driveway, thus penning in the dozen or so vehicles already resting rubber on the Italian imported cobblestone. I have no clue whether or not the Harrisons are old money or new money—at this financially draining point in my life, I’d be honored to be either or both—but their taste for all things pricey is made clear by the almost disturbing visual of their not-so humble home. Ellis’ mother, Olivia, has undertaken an ongoing renovation, and each time I pop into their home, something newer and flashier than before assaults myattention.
“Time to get ripped!” Brielle whoops so loud she manages to saw each of my nerves in half before I ever get out of thecar.
The night air is crisp, but it feels good to my overheated body that stubbornly refuses to shed an ounce of the weight I packed on while incubating my two little olives. I thought for sure after I had them, and drained the swimming pool that formed inside me, I would have magically lost the seventy pounds I decided to pad myself with, but nope. I’m still as robust as can be and damn pissed about it, too. Chloe mentioned she gained twelve pounds—twelve fucking pounds—and got right back into her skinny jeans the night she booted Tobie from her vajayjay. I sneer at the thought as I stagger toward the Harrisons’ home like the zombie my sleep deprived self is slowly morphing into. Speaking of vajayjays, I force myself to do a quick rep of Kegels. My mother has convinced me that the vag-inspired move will stave off unwanted bladder malfunctions—which I’m embarrassed to say have occurred on the odd occasion—the odd occasion being a laugh or a sneeze. There’s no way I’m going to stock up on diapers right alongside the boys, so I’ve been doubling up on the Kegel routineinstead.
“Hey, chica.” Bree hooks her arm through mine in a seemingly friendly gesture, but I can tell by the way she’s pulling me she just wants to hustle to the open bar Ellis inevitably has flowing with all things lethal. “Do you think you and Logan will kiss and make uptonight?”
“You mean Gage.” I hate that she made me say his name. It sounds so normal coming from my lips, so vaguely benign. I’m afraid she might be trying to delude my outrage toward him, and that’s something I just can’t afford to lethappen.
“I mean Logan.” She struts us right past the gargantuan fountain lit up that eerie Countenance blue with its dozen or so life-sized stone lions roaming around the waterworks. Truthfully, that fountain has always jolted me a bit. At night, when the moon hits it just right, you would swear those lions were the real breathing, moving, hungry as hell deal. “Isn’t it about time you switched? I mean, Gage isn’t going to be up at bat forever, right? You told me so yourself. He gets booted off home plate by Logan, and then you hit the sheets with Dudley.” Brielle groans and quivers as if she just hit the big O thinking about her once wild romp with our ex-math teacher. God, he was such a perv, but then, Bree was no angel. Not in the sexual senseanyway.
“I don’t want to talk about it.” I certainly don’t want to entertain Candace Messenger’s supposed brilliant plan for my life or my vagina. Brielle isn’t entirely off. In fact, she’s spot-on, and it makes my stomach turn just thinking aboutit.
We head into the dark home, with a pulsating red light coming from the cavernous living room that can double as an airplane hangar, and the scent of weed is already thick in theair.
“Messenger!” Ellis beams as he comes my way, his eyes heavy and glossy, that goofy baked smile on his face. Ellis is handsome in a millionaire surfer-slash-derelict kind of way, and Giselle, Gage’s sweet baby sis, is completely smitten with Paragon’s resident stoner much to Emma’s chagrin—and that only makes me appreciate him that much more. “You left the STDs at home for once. Nice to see you out and aboutagain.”
“My children are not sexually transmitted diseases, Ellis.” Although, technically, they were sexuallytransmitted.
“What? No way.” His chest bucks with laughter. “What I meant wasstudley twin dudes.” He slaps me five, and I unaesthetically slap himback.
“Nice save.” Not. I tread deeper into the foyer until I have a bird’s eye view of the entire room in front of me. The music is so loud the backbeat pulsates from my chest, and my brain begins to rattle to the rhythm. Ellis remains dutifully by my side as we watch Bree hop up on a marble table and start shaking what her mama gave her. I can’t help but notice a brand new sparkling chandelier the size of an SUV floating from the expansive ceilingabove.
“Impressive,” I hiss as I continue to ogle at its sparklingglory.
“Eh.” Ellis shrugs off its magnificence. “It’s just a little antique the ’rents picked up from the Mother Country. My ma’s been hitting the back alleys of London, hard, scouring for shit to clutter this place up with. My dad’s cool with it,though.”
Ellis’ dad is cool with a lot of things, like wearing the crown as resident slumlord, no thanks to those crappy apartments he rents out to innocent college students on Host. Also, he openly sleeps around. I’ve met one or two of his adolescent—and I mean that in the literal sense—girlfriends. I could never keep it straight if his parents are exes, or simply spouses with sidebenefits.
“And that”—Ellis points to the corner of the room at a giant work of questionable art that looks like a stick drawing of a person come to life—“is a bronze statue she had shipped from France. It’s calledThe WalkingMan.”
“Awesome,” I muse. Dear God, if my mother shoved that in any part of our home I’d have nightmares for weeks. I still might, and I’ve only laid eyes on it for the last thirty seconds. Although, I’d actually have to fall asleep in order to have those blessedevents.
“Anyway”—Ellis slings an arm over my shoulder—“Bishop’s looking for you.” He cranes his neck for a moment before leaning in and squinting into the crowd. “Don’t get goofy on me, but I see something that might piss you off, straight ahead at twelveo’clock.”
My eyes snap to high noon, and I fully expect to find Bishop herself sucking off my future ex-husband like the tall drink of water he is, but it’s not Chloe siphoning off Gage. It’s a gyrating, turbo twerking, engaged in a demonic level of calisthenics looking redhead using Gage as a stripper pole. Granted he’s not joining in on the fun. He is still very much in the center of her skankyaffection.
“Nice,” I muse. “What’s Super Freak’s stage name? Let me guess—C U NextTuesday?”
A familiar scent comes from behind.Chloe. That perfume I gifted her works like a calling card alerting my senses to her demonic presence before that sourpuss everhits.
“What’s the matter, Skyla?” she shouts up over the seizure of a song. “Seeing your man engaging in a little cunt-punting getting you down?” She narrows her gaze in their direction. “She looks familiar. I’d know that booty shaking skankanywhere.”
Laken pops up and pulls me into a quick embrace. “It’s Melody Winters.” She beats Chloe to the punch. “She was dead, and now she’salive.”
“Well, hello”—I lean back and watch the freak show as it continues to dazzle the crowd—“is she ever thankful to my husband.” First time I’ve claimed him as such in over aweek.
“That’s our Mellie.” Chloe frowns over at the scene, clearly not enthused to have her obsession being accosted by yet another vagina to the face. “Mellie Winters.” Chloe ticks her head to the side as if curious of the cadaverous turn of events and wastes no time in heading over. Figures. Chloe isn’t about to stand for this shit—and normally neither wouldI.
Laken threads her arm through mine. “Come on, Skyla. We’re not missing the grandfinale.”
Mellie, or Melody, or Werkin’ Twerkin Winters springs into a handstand and lands her bare feet over Gage Oliver’s shoulders. His hands grip her ankles as if it were a reflex, and he takes a half-step back in an attempt not to fall over. But Mellie is relentless in her pursuit of him as her hips grind into his chest offering up a pussy platter for theevening.
“Wow—he’s free for a week, and it’s freaking rumspringa,” I growl to Laken, and shelaughs.
“He’s not free. Believe me. Coop says he’s downright miserable. Mellie’s just chosen the wrong boy. I’m sure she doesn’t mean her little hop on pop. Odd, though. She seemed so shy in all of myclasses.”
