“Let’s get the show on the road shall we,” he starts, shaking the ice in his glass and I don’t miss the way his lip curls at the sight of Wren’s arm around my chair. “As I explained earlier, this weekend will be an endeavor to find clues that reveal all our secrets. Tonight, we have the start of our murder mystery.” Heremoves his hand from his pocket and wiggles his fingers in a mocking jester. “You’ve all been naughty boys and girls, so it’s in your best interest to try and find all the secrets to keep your own. If you find someone else’s secret, you have to share it with the group. Find your own, keep it, well—a secret.” His smirk is nothing but cruel.
Lil lets out a breathy laugh and crosses a long leg over the other. “Brother, Darling. It’s quite untasteful to air other people's business.” She seems utterly unbothered, as he places his free hand on his chair and leans forward.
“Well dear Sister, if you have no dirty laundry to air, you’ll be golden then won’t you.”
Her hand becomes tight on her champagne glass for a brief second, her eyelashes fluttering before she becomes the poster child of collected. She just smiles back, as he finally sits down.
“You’ve all been given a character in the murder mystery, these are relevant to working out the secrets. Tonight the first murder will happen, and the storyline will continue this weekend. If anyone can figure out who did it, the game ends and I’ll remove the remaining secrets. You can all end your weekend peacefully.” He finishes, raising his whisky tumbler to which no one toasts.
I never gave it much thought, but what secret could he possibly have of mine?
Eerie silence floats in the air, no one wanting to be the first to speak. Maggie breaks the trance by starting to place the bowls of soup around the table. Our host doesn't lift a finger, but both Merle and Bran–who were clearly raised right–jump up to help her distribute the starters. They set down different rolls of bread, my own bowl of fragrant soup being placed before me. The scent hits and I see it’s chicken with rich veggies, herbs and I can smell a hint of spice. Waiting for everyone to receive their food, I pickup the soup spoon and dish a heap into my mouth. Flavours hit and the spice warms my throat, a groan escaping me.
“Mm, you should make that noise more often.” Wren whispers on my left and I wave him off as I ungracefully shovel more of the delicious soup into my mouth. I can’t let him always get a rise out of me, which still doesn’t stop me from blushing till I squirm in my seat.
Phin next to me has a soup full of veggies, which still looks and smells delicious. Like myself, my best friend is eating like he’s been starved, probably soaking up the alcohol he’s consumed already today. He nudges me with his elbow, breaking the spoon away from his lips, “You know, I can hear you both.”
Wren just shrugs without a care and swallows. I try not to look at his throat, or the snake tattoo that wraps around the side. “You’re not her Father. She’s already my wife.”
“We’re enemy gangsters, old sport. What if I steal her?”
“Fucking try.”
Phoenix pulls a fake plastic revolver out from the gun holster he’s been wearing, the toy looking tiny in his large hand. He pokes it into my side. “See here Missy, that husband of yours ain’t no good for ya.” He says in that terrible accent. I tear a piece of bread with my teeth and poke him back. “Give over, you goon. Let me eat.” Nothing comes between myself and good food.
A tattooed hand reaches across me and swipes the gun, tossing it onto the table. “Behave,Now. Let her eat.” He nearly growls over my head and the protectiveness in Wren's tone has the bread nearly falling from my mouth. I realise he never moved his arm from the back of my chair and his thigh is still pressed against mine, warm.
“She’s a big girl Wren.” Willow snides, her fingers returning to tugging at his sleeve like she’s fed up of not receiving his attention.
Like the peace keeper she is, Mavis leans forward. “Wil, what character did you get?” Her tone is polite but lacks interest, her smile also a little hollow. She's seemed quite distant all day actually, but we haven't had a proper chat since the festivities kicked off.
Willow tosses dark hair over her shoulder. “I’m a dancer. At Wren’s—I mean, Mr Wilson's club.” I can feel his muscles tighten as she touches him again, and it’s starting to piss me off. “We’re also having a not so secret affair.”
Whilst she rests her chin on her crossed hands, I hear Cardinal’s mocking scoff. Her smile drops, sharp eyes zone in on him—ready for a verbal onslaught.
“So Cardy,” I interrupt to stir the conversation back to neutral ground. “What character did you get?”
“I’m Mr Baker, a driver for the Buchanans.”
“Are you into cars?”
‘Not really.” His tone is unamused, but probably not because he knows Jordan Baker is a pro golfer, not a driver. He looks down to his soup and back up to me, like he’s fighting off ignoring me but doesn’t want to be impolite. “What character are you?”
“Mrs Wilson. I’m just a little gangster's wife.” Trying to lighten the mood, I want to joke around, but I feel a gaze burning into my skull from the opposite side of the table. I would love to look his way and return the glare, but it’s never smart to antagonise someone like him.
As chatter continues amongst the table and we all finish our appetiser, Willow attempts to talk to Wren two more times and through the uncomfortable pit in my gut from the constant visual interrogation, I’m getting more frustrated than I have any right to be. With great timing, Maggie returns with the trolley, empty this time and starts to collect everyone’s bowls. Some of the guys start to rise to help and she shakes them off, forcing arelentless Merle who insists on going to bring the mains for her. Our host never even looks in her direction, as he slouches back in his chair, still looking at me. Aya holds his left hand, but she’s deep in conversation with Phin.
His gold fingertips reach out to touch my shoulder. “A different kettle of fish, but Rob’s just had her debut novel published." He says, my body naturally leaning into the conversation.
“Yeah, I’m contracted for two more.”
“What do you write?”
“Crime—”
“She writes silly little detective stories.” Corbin interrupts me. I don’t know what annoys him more; that she's speaking to me, or the fact I’ve published one of those little stories. He always saw my writing as a hobby that would stop me from getting arealjob.A childish pipe dreamhe’d phrased it,guilt tripping me whenever I wasn’t free to trapse around on his arm. He would always remind me too that the money left to me in Mum’s will would be better spent in investments, than allowing me to be lazy.
I’m already exhausted from being in his company.
