‘Red?’
The memory of hot blood flashes in my head, hitting me with a tidal wave of nausea. ‘White. If that’s okay?’
I’d seen my sister slammingback the most vile concoctions of punch while we attended St Libertines—the university which trains up the next generation of criminals, both the illegal and the legal kind. Sons of US senators, the children of organised crime syndicates and the offspring of contract killers. It grooms them for the next generation of people who manipulate the world beneath the surface. She can handle some white wine.
Trying to catch the server’s attention at the bar takes far longer than I can handle with my already fraying nerves. Eventually, I return to the tiny table, clutching a condensation-covered wine bottle and two glasses.
‘Are people staring at us?’ I ask, pouring the wine with a tremble. ‘I feel like they know.’
‘Don’t be fucking ridiculous, Mags.’ Eliza takes a deep sip of her wine before sighing happily. ‘People look at other people all the time. You only try to derive meaning from it if you are horny or guilty.’
‘I think we know which one is bothering me.’
‘Both? Are you still a happy little humper these days?’
Heat invades my face. It’s not like I’m embarrassed to masturbate, but Eliza caught me on more than one occasion with my pillow beneath me and has ripped me a new one ever since. If it feels good, then what’s so wrong with it? What difference does it make if I grind against fingers or fabric? Still, her reaction let me know it might not be as normal to the outside world.
My pillow and I are happy enough with our dalliances.
‘Or does this new man of yours shag the stress right out of you?’
‘Eliza!’ I glance around, hoping that no one overheard her.
‘I’m joking. But you have to tell me something about him. Why are you so tight-lipped?’ Her suspicions should annoy me, but they aren’t exactly unwarranted. Truth be told, I remain a single pringle—miserable meals for one and pillow grinding before splitting a bottle with me, myself and I.
But she doesn’t know that.
‘It’s not like our family is normal. Dating someone who doesn’t know about our world is a bit of a risk. I want to enjoy it a little longer before you all get your blood-covered paws on him.’ There’s also the issue that he doesn’t know about our fictional romance. A minor hiccup.
‘Show me a picture at least. I need something to go on.’
I narrow my eyes. ‘Has Dad sent you to extract information?’
‘Do you think I’d ask you outright if he did? I’d be up to my armpits in your bins and breaking into your house with a camera if Dad was involved.’ A tendril of auburn slides over her cheek, and even the way she brushes it back into place screams poise and elegance. Honestly, I can only put it down to me being a test batch in the womb. All the mistakes it learned went into creating my perfect sister. I can’t even hate her for it because she’s amazing. I love the shit out of her.
‘Fine. I’ll show you a picture.’ I pull out my phone and go to my neighbour’s social media, finding theimage that most closely resembles one he might send me, and only partially showing his face.
God, Roman Ellis is nothing short of perfection. Looking through his pictures sends flutters right into my underpants, and it takes everything not to seek something to grind to relieve the pressure.
Eliza is right. I am a bloody weirdo.
Perfect, a gym shot where Roman is all lickable abs and shiny sweat. Damn it, the temptation to bottle him and spread him on my toast hits in a wave of pure, revolting desire.
Roman barely knows I exist. Sure, we pass the odd hello as we meet in the hallway, but he never looks at me. It’s always through me. Little does he know I knowexactlywho he is and what he’s hiding.
‘Here,’ I say, shutting off the app and pulling the photo up on the screen.
‘Damn, Mags. You’re railingthisguy?’
My hackles rise, the hair on the back of my neck standing to stiff attention. Is it so unbelievable that a guy like Roman would be into a woman like me?
‘I’m not just railing him. We’re dating.’
A devious glint shone in Eliza’s eyes. ‘Then you’d better bring him to Dad’s wedding.’
Fuck-a-duck.
Flustered, I chug down my wine, wincing at the bitter taste. ‘He’s not likeus. I can’t bring him home.’
