My jaw tightens slightly as I track the way Wes’ hands settle more firmly on her hips, the way Ford leans in close, saying something that makes her laugh again.
I could change that. I should. I’m tired of being an observer. There’s no point in sitting this out– not anymore, and especially not tonight.
I toss back the last of my bourbon, letting the burn ground me before I push to my feet, setting the empty glass down on the side table.
Decision made.
I start for the stairs, already focused, already shifting gears. Except when I reach the bottom, I get cut off.
A guy steps into my path, sweat already soaking the collar of his red polo shirt. “Hey, uh, Raf?” he says nervously. “We have a situation at the door.”
“Define situation,” I growl, the coldness in my voice making his spine stiffen instantly.
He bobs his head, glancing back over his shoulder like he’s hoping the problem disappeared in the last three seconds. “Chelsea Carson,” he replies. “She’s, uh… insisting we let her in. Says you’ll vouch for her.”
Of course.
Of fucking course.
Chelsea has always been the most persistent leech in the pond, and now that she’s been publicly booted from the inner circle, she’ll do whatever it takes to crawl back in.
I flick the guy a look that says to lead the way, and he scurries ahead, the crowd parting for me on instinct. I’m tall enough to see over most people’s heads, and it doesn’t take long to spot Chelsea planted on the other side of the glass doors, her platinum hair glossy and perfect, black dress so tight it looks like it was painted on. She’s mid-rant, snapping at the guy blocking the door, face tinged red with fury and eyes sparkling with the high of a fresh argument.
That look used to do it for me.
Now, it just looks cheap.
When she sees me, the shift in her is so sharp it’s almost impressive. The anger disappears, replaced by a sugary smile that slips into place like a mask she’s worn too many times.
“Oh, thank god. Raf!” she calls, her voice pitched just high enough to slice through the music. “These assholes are acting like I’m some rando. Can you please explain to them that I’m a guest of the Kings?”
I step forward, shouldering the door guy aside and taking his place, arms folded. “You’re not a guest, Chels,” I reply coldly. “You’re a liability. Go home.”
She just stares at me for a second, stunned. I can see the moment she almost lets the mask slip all the way, but she catches herself, pulling it back together with a tight smile. “Come on, it’s me,” she says softly, like we’re sharing a private joke. “Don’t be a dick.” She leans in, her perfume wafting through the gap in the door, all synthetic florals and undertones of desperation. “I brought a bottle of Macallan,” she adds, lifting it between us like it’s leverage.
“Leave,” I say flatly.
She blinks, fingers tightening around the neck of the bottle. “You can’t be serious.”
I hold her gaze. “Do I look like I’m joking?”
Chelsea lets out a sharp little laugh, shaking her head. “You’re such a fucking asshole.”
I shrug.
She tries again, lowering her lashes, reaching for something that used to work. “This isn’t fair,” she hisses through clenched teeth. “We had a deal.”
“No, we didn’t,” I scoff. “You were fun for a while, but you’re fucking poison, Chels. Move on. I have.”
The words hit their target. Her lips thin, the gloss shining wet in the party lights. “You’re disgusting, you know that?” she spits. “She’s yoursister.”
“Step-sister,” I correct. “And this isn’t about her.”
She opens her mouth to fire back, but then she breaks. Tears start spilling instead, streaking her mascara before she whips around and bolts into the night.
I turn away, slapping the door guy on the shoulder. “She gets in, I take your skin,” I warn.
He nods so fast it’s almost comical.
