“Just an observation. You’re not exactly fitting in with that Chanel number.” Prischa looked her over and sniggered. “It’s cute, though.”
Giselle was impressed that she could name the designer, but she seemed to be trying to push her buttons.
“Is there a point to this conversation?” she questioned, bringing the Solo cup to her full lips and taking a gulp. “You put your big girl panties on to come all the way over here and address me… for what?”
She could tell Prischa wasn’t expecting her to be so forward, but Giselle had never been one for beating around the bush.
“Heavy is my best friend and my son’s godfather. He means something to me, and I don’t know you?—”
“No… you don’t,” Giselle reminded her. “Let’s keep it like that.”
“But I know him.” Prischa spoke with a little more spice.
“What does that have to do with me?” she asked with an inward shrug.
“You tell me.” Prischa forgot all about dessert and turned to her.
“Maybe the person you should be talking to is the one you know so well then, sweetie,” Giselle slurred. “Not me. He’s grown. I don’t know you, and I don’t have to tell you shit.”
“Hmm, seems like that courage in your cup got you feeling yourself.” Prischa looked into the almost half full cup of tequila.
Giselle was on her third in just a couple of hours.
“Oh, don’t worry, I’m even worse sober,” she replied, taking another sip. “You are awfully territorial over yourfriend.” She tilted her head and looked Prischa over.
Smooth, brown sugar skin, slanted oval shaped eyes, and a slim nose. She kind of reminded her of the model Eva Marcille, maybe a shade darker. Her hair was bob length, but she wore it in tight curls with a side part and a very light, natural beat.
“Hmm, it’s called loyalty. You might not know anything about that in the little world you come from. In Southwick, we look out for each other. Not for clout or personal gain, but because that’s how it is,” Prischa declared.
“In the world I come from? What exactly is it you think you know about me?” Giselle sneered, voice rising an octave or two. “Wait.” She held her hand up before Prischa could respond. “Don’t answer that. Let me tell you what I think I know about you instead. You grew up with him, always longed for him, pined for him, wished he would see you for his little ride or die, and you could flex in the town together all cute and shit. Maybe once he did, but it was flitting. A missed opportunity that leaves you up at night… alone… tossing and turning, wondering who he’s fucking tonight or if he’s thinking about it too. Every now and then, he does something sweet, and you think maybe he does care, but instead of speaking up, you keep sitting on the sidelines, watching the notches on his headboard go up.”
The tears pooling in Prischa’s eyes left Giselle entangled in her own emotions. This girl loved that man down to his sweaty socks, and from the way her fist balled at her side, she knew she’d struck a nerve. For a moment, the two of them glared at each other until a strong presence rattled them from their standoff.
“The fuck is wrong with you?” Heavy’s brows cinched, eyes fixed on Giselle.
Sniffling, Prischa flicked the tip of her nose and took a step back. The urge to swing on Giselle was strong at that moment.
“Why you talking to her like that?”
“It was an observation,” Giselle muttered.
“Wrong one, and damn sure the wrong time.” Heavy stepped in front of her, meeting her with a darkened glower that shifted his face into one she barely recognized.
For the most part, Heavy tried to be cool and not show emotion, but fucking with his people was the quickest way for his menacing side to surface. He recognized in that moment that Giselle had another side to her. Hearing how she spoke to Prischa, no matter how true the statement may have been, touched on something that nagged him regularly. He wasn’t slow. He knew Prischa wanted that happily ever after shit, and she wanted it with him. All this time, he told himself that life wasn’t for him, and being alone kept him shielded from the bullshit that came with relationships.
Prischa was his safety net. With her and Pierre, he knew he’d never be alone. He never considered what that might be doing to her until Giselle pointed it out just now. It was mean and spiteful. Judging from the broken expression on Prischa’s face, it was also the truth, or close enough to it.
“You don’t get to walk your pretentious ass in my city and come at her like that. Maybe you been gone too long or don’t remember what it’s like to have somebody give a fuck about you,” he emphasized, drawing attention from anybody within ten feet.
Giselle felt like she’d been punched in the gut and the wind knocked from her. There was no amusement in his eyes, only anger and resentment. He recognized the quick flicker of hurt in hers but pushed aside. Prischa was his only concern right then, and he didn’t play about her. He damn sure wasn’t about to let Giselle embarrass her in front of everybody.
“G.” Lou slid up behind her cousin and grabbed her upper arm. “Come on, let’s go for a walk.”
Without a word, Giselle pushed past Heavy and Prischa with Lou on her heels.
SIX
WHO CAN I RUN TO?
