No signature, no threats. Just a fact. I let the phone rest on my stomach and watch the fan blades turn above the bed, thinking about how every plan is always the same: gather, devour, move on.
I want somethingdifferent.I want somethinglasting.
By the time Eve wakes, the light is flat and gray. She blinks at the ceiling, disoriented, then at me before her mouth upturns in the cutest fucking smile. She studies my face for a long time before she says, “How long have you been watching me?”
“Hours.”
She laughs, then shakes her head. “Idiot.” She sits up, blanket sloughing off her body, and grabs for my shirt before pulling me in for a kiss. Her breath is demonic but I don’t care. She’s not shy anymore. She has my marks and I have hers, and there’s no going back from that. “What’s the plan today?”
“Bam’s. Noon.”
She doesn’t ask why. She just nods, stands, and heads to the shower. I listen to the water running while I scroll through the other messages.
A few from my father. One from Julian. One from the doc at the hospital asking if my shoulder is healing.
I’d say it’s fine. Stopped hurting a couple weeks after it was stitched back together. Pain has never really bothered me.
I throw on sweats and check the fridge for eggs. Issy stocked it with food, but none of it feels appealing. I want junk food. Like pizza. Eve returns, hair dripping down her back, wearing my shirt and nothing else.
“Anything decent to eat?” she asks.
“Not really.”
She drinks from my water bottle. “I’m not hungry anyway.” She wipes her mouth and says, “Let’s go to Bam’s.”
I grab my keys, my jacket, and we leave. The walk is short, down the steps, past the edge of the treeline, over a couple hundred feet of half-dead leaves that crunch under each step. It’s perfect outside. Not too cool and not warm enough to make you sweat.
At the cabin, smoke curls from the chimney and the porch is crowded with boots. I stomp mine beside them, watch as Eve tries to toe hers off without tipping over.
The smell inside is wild. Chili, beer, burnt toast. Someone is playing music on the battered kitchen radio. Bam is at the counter, chopping onions with a knife that looks like it was meant for hunting, not cooking. His arms ripple under a faded tank top, tattoos flexing with every move. He glances at us, grins, then points the knife at the table.
“Sit.”
Eve’s eyes scan the room. She stalls when she sees Isolde, belly round and tight beneath a stretched black t-shirt, sitting at the table with her bare feet propped up on another chair. Rhett is beside her, perched like a gargoyle, his hand never leaving her arm. His fingers tap out some rhythm on her skin.
Dahlia is in the kitchen, stirring a huge pot on the stove. She doesn’t turn, but I know she sees us. Her hair is up in a twist, the sharp angle of her jaw unsoftened by domesticity. She is mafia royalty, and even when she’s ladling soup she looks like she’s plotting how to poison someone.
Julian is in the corner, away from the light, sipping coffee and not speaking. His face is clean, hair slicked back, suit jacket hung over the chair. He’s out of place here, but then, so am I.
We are what is consideredthe true old money.
Eve hesitates. She needs an anchor, so I put my hand at the small of her back, pushing her gently to the table. She sits next to Isolde, who nods and then launches into some story about something called a mucus plug.
Bam slams a stack of bowls on the table, then drops spoons after them. “Soup’s almost ready,” he says. He wipes his hands on a towel and leans against the fridge, arms crossed, watching us like a referee at a dog fight. “Everyone at the table.”
“Weren’t we doing a grill?”
“Shut up, Colton,” Issy snaps. “The smell of meat was making me nauseous so we’re having chili soup and stuff that doesn’t make me want to hurl chunks. Deal with it.”
No one talks. The only sound is the bubbling of the chili and the slow click of the stove.
Rhett breaks first. “How’s the baby today?”
She shrugs. “Fine. Just heavy. Kicking all the time. Got a foot in my rib right now.”
He touches her face, tracing the line of her cheekbone. His gentleness is gross, but not unfamiliar. Isolde sighs, the tension leaving her body.
“Um, right. So ladies, you’ve all heard of Eve and I wanted to properly introduce her the other night, but here we go. Eve, this is Issy and Dahlia, ladies this is Eve.”
