“Duuuudes,” Ellis draws the word out like only the sufficiently stoned can while offering Gage a complicated handshake that neither of them quite nails. “This party is freaking legendary. Dudley went all historical reenactment on us.”
That’s one way to look at it.
Logan nods our way. “I feel like I’m doing a reenactment myself.”
I clamp my lips together to keep from shedding a smile. Logan nailed it.
Gage glowers at him in response—probably because he assumes Logan’s talking about reenacting something with me, preferably with Cerberus there to cheer him on like some supernatural wingman.
“Where’s Drake?” I ask, more than happy to redirect the conversation before an Oliver battle royale breaks out.
“Last I saw, he was getting dragged into the garden by one of these—” Logan starts, but he’s cut off by a shriek from the back of the house, and I spot my redheaded bestie running out the back door. Bree’s hair color always changed with her moods. She’s blonde, she’s red, she’s blonde—she once went green after a nice swim in Demetri’s pool through no fault of her own, but she loved every verdant minute of it.
“And that’s Brielle taking back what’s hers,” I say, already moving toward the carnage. “I think I’d better supervise before she lands herself in handcuffs—and loves every minute of that, too.”
I weave through the crowd, dodging gyrating couples and a woman who keeps offering me something called a medicinal cordial from a suspicious-looking vial.
Outside, it’s dark, and the garden is less crowded but no less strange. Lanterns float through the air without visible support, casting creepy shadows across the manicured lawn and hedges. Marshall’s backyard is about the size of Canada.
I spot Bree near the fountain, trying to pluck the curls out of a redheaded courtesan who’s trying to break free from the carnage.Drake stands nearby, looking equal parts horrified and, well, turned on.
“You keep your disease-ridden hands off my man!” Brielle screeches into the Paragon night, giving the woman’s hair another yank that threatens to pluck out her tressesandher spine.
“Bloody hell, release me, you mad wench!” the courtesan yelps, her British accent thick and authentic, and I’ll admit, I can listen to it all day.
“Bree, stop!” I grab my bestie by the shoulders and pull her back. “You can’t assault the entertainment!”
“I can when the entertainment is about to entertain my boyfriend’s lap rocket!”
A groan evicts from me. I live with Drake. He’s my smelly, annoying stepbrother. And I sure as heck don’t want to think of him owning a lap rocket, let alone employing its uses.
The courtesan takes the opportunity to flee, shooting daggers at Brielle as she disappears back into the house.
“She was all over him!” Brielle sobs on cue as mascara runs down her cheeks in thick black rivers. “She said she was going to show him hersecret garden!”
Drake holds up his hands. “I swear I wasn’t going to go with her. I wasn’t even interested.”
“You looked pretty interested to me!” Brielle slings back.
Please, we all know he was plenty interested. Just because he’s into Bree doesn’t mean he didn’t have a wandering eye back in the day or in the future. Case in point, the fact that he had kids with Bree and Emily—while still in school.
I steer her away from my stepbrother, who has the equivalent of donkey balls for brains, and pull her toward a secluded bench partly hidden by a weeping willow. “Calm down, Bree. Trust me, this isn’t worth having a meltdown over.”
It’s quiet here, cooler, the din from the party escaping from the back of the house in short bursts of laughter and screams.
“You don’t understand,” she sniffles, collapsing onto me as if Iwere a life raft. “Drake is... He’s so wonderful. He’s like so awesome. I’ll never meet anyone like him. If I lose him?—”
“You’re not going to lose him,” I interrupt, the words slipping out before I can stop them. Although I’m not sure I wanted to. Bree needs all the spoilers she can get about the future if she plans on keeping her sanity intact. As it stands, it’s iffy at best on most days.
“How can you be so sure?” Her eyes are wide and desperate in the soft glow of those floating lanterns.
I take a deep breath. This probably violates about a hundred light driving rules, but seeing Brielle like this—so young and vulnerable and heartbroken over something that seems so trivial from my point of view—well, it breaks something inside me.
“Because I know you end up with Drake,” I say firmly. “You’re going to get married. You’re going to have kids. You’re going to make a ton of money, too.”
Brielle stares at me, her sobs hiccupping to a stop. “What?”
“It’s all going to work out, Bree. Trust me on this.”
