THIRTY
MIRABELLE
Sheets damp with sweat and orgasm twisted around Mirabelle’s legs. The insides of her thighs were sticky and numb, and the bedroom’s soupy air smelled like the swapping of body fluids. Not lovemaking. Not fucking. Just sex stripped of ornamental intimacy.
Beside her, Jack puffed a cigarette with an arm propped behind his head. The paper hissed with each drag, and smoke swirled in the haze of late morning. Unblinking and unsmiling, he stared at the ceiling fan whirling above them.
“You think Em’s fucking her?”
Mirabelle didn’t appreciate the question’s maniacal undercurrent or the callousness imbued in his gaze. Like some of the other men, Jack placed the blame for Gio’s death squarely at Amelia’s feet.
Amelia Havick wasn’t the problem, though. It was AmeliawithEmory that irked Jack the most. To him, she was an iron fist in a velvet glove he’d have to crush while still tender. It was too late. Amelia had already bloomed and, while her petals might still bruise, her thorns could draw blood.
Mirabelle folded an arm over her chest and examined a chip in her manicure. “Does it matter?”
“It does with her. People get nutty when they fall in love, and Em needs to keep his head.” Jack’s eyes shifted to Mirabelle with unusual weight. “He won’t love her, by the way. He’ll only think that he does.”
Jack dropped the cigarette into his coffee mug where it expired with a sizzle, and Mirabelle didn’t bother pointing out the fatal flaw in his logic. In love, perception was reality. To think you’re in love was to have already arrived in it.
“Amelia knows we’re together,” she told him. “She asked me about it.”
Mirabelle had meant to keep that a secret—it’d only upset him—but weaponized it now, not entirely sure why. The arm behind Jack’s head came free as he bolted upright.
“What did you tell her?”
“Nothing. I denied it.”
Jack scrutinized her through narrowed eyes. He didn’t believe her, and that didn’t matter. Mirabelle’s affection for him slipped away like a kite string surrendered to the breeze. She witnessed the escape but did nothing to stop it.
“What else did she ask?”
“Nothing big. Look, she’s different, you know?—”
“Oh, fucking hell, Miri! No, she’s not!” Jack’s palm slammed the bedside table as he felt for his cigarettes. “You think she’ll keep our secrets when Cal’s back in the picture? She’s not your goddamn friend.”
Mirabelle freed her legs from the sheets and jumped from the bed in a wretched huff. She’d tolerate Jack’s wandering eye long before she’d suffer whatever demon squatted inside and nourished the rage.
“Baby, stop,” Jack said as she yanked on her underwear and scooped her shirt from the floor.
With an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips, he crawled from bed and wrangled her by the waist. In the morning light, his limp dick looked ugly and tattoos faded. He pulled the cigarette from his mouth and pointed the filter at her.
“It’s my job to look out for Em, and right now he’s not seeingthe big picture. We brought Amelia here because we thought she knew something. She doesn’t, and now Gio is dead, and the men are wondering why we’re still sticking our neck out for her. And you know what? It’s a fair question. I need you to get through to him, Miri.” Jack lit the cigarette and took a drag. Smoke billowed from his serpentine smile. “For his sake, not mine.”
That part used to captivate her. From across the room, she’d watch Jack work his charm with wit coming out one side of his mouth and lies out the other.
“Don’t put me in the middle,” she cried. The kite string slipped again, lost to a clear blue sky.
Jack cradled her face with gentle hands but kissed her forehead hard. “Do what I say.”
Without another word, he got dressed and left Mirabelle to dry her own tears. A warm shower worked well enough to soothe, but the resolve conceived amongst suds and steam vanished as she donned her funeral dress and put herself together.
She gathered her nerve and headed down the hall to Emory’s room. Her heels clacked in purposeful rhythm, and she rapped at the door but marched inside. Dressed in black slacks and a pressed white shirt, Emory fiddled with his tie in the mirror and glanced at Mirabelle in the reflection.
“Barge in like that and you might see something you don’t like.”
Mirabelle sat stiffly at the end of the bed and caught sight of herself in the mirror. Her shoulders were taut and grief touched her face.Smile.
“You sleep okay last night?” she asked.
