The driver is quick to get my two bags from the trunk. The need to help him is an itch under my skin, but I do my best to ignore it, knowing the drivers are trained to not let anyone else handle luggage. Partially for that “white glove” experience that most who pay their service fees desire, but also so if something breaks, their liability insurance will actually do something about it. Not much is worse than a rich asshole who’s decided someonebarely making enough to get by is the problem. The thought has Sienna popping into my head, and I fight back a shudder.
Thinking about the woman who birthed me is absolutelynotthe move right now.
The man places both duffels on the curb, keeping the straps from touching the concrete, and then looks to me in silent question.
“Thank you,” I say again. And then I hand him a bit of the cash my fathers made sure I had before flying out here. Never mind that my trust is plenty for four families to live off of for the rest of their lives. Just one more way they’ve been trying to protect and care for me the last few years since I got sick.
The man pales as he realizes what bills I handed him, but he covers it after only a moment’s hesitation.
“Have a good day, Mr. Fallon,” he murmurs.
When I give him a smile and nod, he drops back into the driver’s seat and guides the nondescript car into the light traffic filling the street. I grab both duffels, fitting one cross body and holding the other, keeping my backpack haphazardly balanced on my open shoulder. My joints ache today, so it’s not exactly comfortable, but I do my best to ignore the dull pain.
The row homes here are dark gray brick and three stories in height, tall, narrow windows filling most of the facade facing the street. Toward the far end of the block, a building reminiscent of the fifties sits on the corner, a neon script sign announcing it as Mina’s Drinks. Across from it, another squat building with only an abstract logo that probably means more to a sub-sect of people I’m clearly not part of.
I focus on the townhomes, squinting to get my eyes to focus enough to read the house numbers. Theirs is maybe thirty feet back down the block, the parking immediately in front occupied. Its front stoop is five large concrete steps, each one decorated with a pot of overflowing flowers and vines. A half-heightwrought iron fence edges the sidewalk, spreading from each side of the steps.
My phone vibrates as I start toward it. There’s a new text from Dad when I manage to pull it from my pocket without dropping any of my bags.
You make it ok?
Just got here. Drive and flight were fine.
Good. Glad you’re safe.
And then there’s a text from Papa.
Johnathan’s too polite to ask, but we’ll be at the fundraising event with him on Sunday. We’d love to meet them if it’s not too soon.
Trust Papa to be the one to plan things around Dad’s society manners.
I’ll check with them this evening but it should be fine. You pick the place.
You sure?
Definitely.
Alright. Let us know timing if it works out.
Of course.
I tuck my phone away and head up the wide stoop, fingering the backpack’s strap, and then take three long, deep breaths thatalmost don’t hurt. A dull ache starts behind both eyes, the subtle headache I deal with most days finally making its presence known today. With a roll of my shoulders, I knock on the door twice.
It takes a minute for it to open, but then all three of them are standing in front of me. Megan’s in a knee-length, navy t-shirt dress that hides her curves. Her hair is pulled back in a single braid falling straight down her back. Charlotte’s hair is loose, cascading over one shoulder, nearly reaching the bit of stomach revealed by her boxy black crop top. Marcus is the most formal of them, wearing dark jeans and a dark green polo. His blue eyes are keen and bore into me the moment I lock my gaze with his.
All at once, his nervous excitement fills my chest, overwhelming after so many years keeping the connection suppressed.
“Hey,” I manage.
His lips tip up, showing off a single dimple that I want to kiss.
“You’re here!” Charlotte grabs my wrist and pulls me into the house, squealing with excitement. Her arm snakes around my waist the moment I’m across the threshold, her cheek rubbing against my sternum.
“How was your flight?” Megan asks, amusement in her voice.
When I focus on her, she’s smiling. She circles my wrist like she did in Seattle, running her thumb down the inside of my forearm—scent marking me with a subtlety I’ve never seen before. Even as she does it, Marcus closes the small distance and eases the duffel bag out of my grip.
“It was good,” I finally manage to say. My skin itches with the need for Marcus to touch me, for all of them to have their hands and scent on me. My throat dries out between one moment and the next as desire rips through my body.
