He frowned. “I don’t have the energy to deal with you today.”
“Do you think you’re that much easier to endure?” I muttered.
Max stayed silent until Johnny was finished setting everything up. Then Johnny gave me the rundown on how the system worked and what the codes were, while Max gave him a dark look the entire time.
The codes were a bunch of numbers and letters that blurred together in my mind. Codes I wouldn’t remember even if my life depended on it—a fact I found strangelyironic.
Johnny finished his explanation, leaving the apartment with a whoosh as the door closed behind him. Max, however, seemed to have grown roots by the doorway. He stayed looming over me like a particularly annoying gargoyle.
“Shouldn’t you be ...” I started, unsure of how to phrase my question, “getting back to whatever you mobsters do?”
“Trying to get rid of me, are we?”
“Subtlety isn’t my strong suit.”
“Noted,” he drawled, taking a step closer, effectively trapping me between him and the door. “Though, for your information, most mobsters wouldn’t be caught dead babysitting a tech installation.”
What did that say about him?
“Protective, are we?” I teased.
“That might be putting it mildly.”
With that, Max slipped out the door, leaving just as I’d asked him to.
CHAPTER 8
ROSALIE
Sweat beaded on my forehead as I pushed open the heavy oak doors of the tennis pavilion. Stepping inside was like entering a walk-in freezer compared to the beating summer sun.
Every game with Daisy was an ordeal. Her competitive fire bordered on cruelty, leaving no room for enjoyment. It had been like that since we were kids. First it was ballet, where her need to be the star overshadowed every plié and pirouette. Then it was horseback riding, her relentless pursuit for the highest ribbon turning every show-jumping course into a desperate race. Now it was tennis.
I winced as I stretched my arm, already feeling the dull ache of a sore muscle. I was almost certain I’d have a row of bruises decorating my body tomorrow, each one a painful souvenir of Daisy’s laser-focused power and complete disregard for anything resembling elegance.
The door slammed behind me, the heavy thud echoing through the house. I walked to the kitchen with stiff legs to get a bottle of water. Reaching into the fridge, I took one out and twisted the cap off. I took a gulp, then many more after that.
Through the windows, I could see my mother and her friends chitchatting near the pool.
Margot was here.
Goody.
As I exited through the patio doors, the sun hit me again—only, this time it felt stronger somehow. Clutching the bottled water, I weaved through the poolside chairs, dodging discarded towels and overflowing ashtrays.
One woman was complaining about her husband’s “midlife crisis,” complete with a new sports car and, by the sounds of it, the woman who came with it.
I glanced at Margot, who was now settled on a lounge chair, balancing a book in her lap. She was laughing at something my Aunt Rita had said. It probably wasn’t funny.
“Long match?” Momma questioned. She tilted her wide-rimmed brown sunglasses down her narrow, sun-kissed nose, peering at me over them.
I hesitated, feeling the urge to unload all my thoughts about Daisy’s relentless intensity, only to settle for a shrug. “You know how she gets.”
“Uh-oh,” Momma chuckled. “Sounds like someone needs a margarita.”
I did.
My mother was going to turn me into an alcoholic.
