“Bullshit.”
I can’t decide if I love it or hate it that he knows me so well.
Unlike Vee, I’ve never been comfortable breathing Aunt Bea’s rarefied air, or rubbing elbows with her high-society friends. So I don a layer of armor before going into battle. Today’s armor includes a cinnamon-colored wrap dress, a forty-dollar blowout, and Mom’s diamond earrings that Vee let me borrow after ten minutes of badgering.
“Okay, so you got me,” I admit. “After ransacking three stores at the outlet mall, I scored this dress off the discount rack. But forget about me, what about you?” I step back to take him in. “I’ve never seen you in a suit before.”
He adjusts his cuffs. “Didn’t want to give Miss Bea another reason to dislike me. Figured I better bring my A game.”
“Aunt Bea likes you just fine.” I tug him toward the door. “As long as you’re not getting me fined by the National Park Service or fighting the school football star over my honor.”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wish I could reel them back in. I grimace when Cash’s expression falls.
The spring of my freshman year, Dean Sullivan decided to hate my guts. Every time he saw me in the hallway at school, he knocked my books and assignments out of my hands and called me terrible names.
I never told Cash or Luc what was happening, but somehow they got wind of it anyway. Before I could stop him, Cash caught Dean behind the gym and beat the living crap out of him.
Cash was always in scraps with someone, but it was usually a matter of self-defense. The hoity-toity kids at Braxton Academy didn’t take kindly to “his kind,” a Northerner who didn’t give a rat’s furry behind about their old money or their illustrious Southern families. More often than not, they attempted to put him in his place with their fists. But that thing with Dean wasn’t about self-defense. It was about punishment. It was about humiliation.
It was aboutme.
Some girls might’ve liked it. A big, strapping boy coming to their rescue is the stuff of all those over-the-top TV shows that are so popular on The CW. But it just turned my stomach.
I’ve never understood the fundamental nature of human beings that keeps us from getting along. There’s already so much violence in the world with things like earthquakes, hurricanes, and disease. Why the heck do we insist on sowing more discord and brutality?
But that’s neither here nor there. Long story short, despite Dean’s hulking stature, Cash came away from that fight with only a black eye. Dean came away with a bloody nose, three cracked teeth, a broken rib, and a grudge that ultimately came to a terrible end in a dark, dank bayou.
“You have no idea how many times I wished I’d handled that differently,” Cash says now. “If I hadn’t gone after Dean, he might not have—”
“Shush.” I cut him off, refusing to let my mind linger on that night. Anytime I do, I get sick to my stomach and break out in a cold sweat. Neither condition is suitable for one of Aunt Bea’s teas. “That’s all water over the dam. The only thing I regret is that you let him get in a good swipe. Then again, you always had to take a few punches from your opponents, didn’t you? I can’t remember a time when one or the other of your eyes wasn’t blackened or your lip wasn’t split. Oh, and don’t think I’ve forgotten that you never got around to telling me how you got this.” I point to the scar cutting through his eyebrow.
“Can’t a man have his secrets?” He offers me a crooked grin before throwing open the front door and gesturing for me to precede him.
I search his eyes. Doesn’t he know it’s a secret that’s keeping me from knowing how to be when I’m around him? From knowing where we go from here? But instead of asking these questions aloud, I prove I’m a coward and simply step inside.
Once my eyes have adjusted to the dimness, I squeal with delight. “Eva! I thought your London fashion shoot didn’t get over until tomorrow!”
My best childhood friend runs over and folds me into her fragrant embrace. “The designer had himself an old-fashioned conniption fit and decided to scrap the entire collection.” Her voice is low and sultry, soft in the consonants and long in the vowels.
Eva was born and raised here in the Crescent City—except for the handful of years she spent in Texas after Katrina—but her accent is straight out of Alabama. She claims she picked it up from her momma before the wretched woman ran off and left her to be raised by her paternal grandmother.
“Designers,” I say with disdain, as if I have any idea what I’m talking about. The closest I ever come to high fashion is Eva or Aunt Bea. Bon Temps Roulerallows me to make ends meet—and even put a little away each month into the IRA Aunt Bea helped me set up—but I definitely don’t have enough for Gucci or La Perla or Vera Wang.
Eva and I hold each other at arm’s length. She’s wearing a white halter dress that contrasts dramatically with her skin. The midcalf skirt accentuates her slimness. And she’s added to her nearly six feet of perfection with a pair of strappy, gold kitten heels. Whereas I’m petite and passable, Eva is tall and beautiful. Standing side by side, we must look like Mutt and Jeff.
“Thanks for watering my plants while I was gone.” She gives me the side-eye. “And I see you were busy with the vine in the kitchen.”
“It was starting to grow wild,” I tell her. “I thought I should give it a trim before it blocked your way to the sink.”
Ever since we were small, Eva has loved houseplants. But her hectic schedule as a much-sought-after fashion model means she has little time to look after her own. I try to check in on them when she’s off somewhere exciting and exotic.
“And the tub of La Mer skin cream on the counter?” She purses her lips.
“Sephora was having a sale, and I know how much you love that stuff.”
She folds me into another quick hug. “I’ll pay you back.”
“Nonsense,” I assure her. “Consider it a thank-you for that amazing leather jacket.”
