Art peers around the doorframe. “There you two are.”
Genevieve tenses and I stay stock still as Art slips into that too-calm mode he learned from his father—the one he uses when he’s about to lie.
He’s a politician’s son, whether he wants to admit it or not.
“Benny’s gone already?” I ask.
Art gives a sharp nod and sinks down into a chair, the cheap metal creaking beneath his frame. He leans back and drums his fingers on the desk, his eyes locked on Genevieve.
“If you’re about to say that freak had any right to grab me…”
“No,” Art says. “But you shouldn’t have been in the bar still.”
“Technically, I wasn’t. I was in the kitchen.”
“Near enough.”
“Oh, so now I’m not allowed tobreatheunless it’s where you specifically tell me to be?”
He slams his hand on the table.
I straighten off the wall.
“Sorry, I’m just… I’m tired,” he says.
Genevieve blinks. “You’re never gonna let me in, are you? Do you even want me here, Art?”
“Gin, baby, of course I do. It’s not about that.” He sounds tired, like they’ve had this conversation a thousand times.
“Whatever, Art. Come find me when you take your head out of your ass.” Genevieve turns on her heel and stalks out of the room, the door slamming behind her.
The echo settles into the walls.
“We pretending everything’s fine still, or…”
Art shakes his head. “Lance… I need you to listen.”
My stomach tightens. I hate when he uses that voice, it reminds me of my father—of all the times he’s been in my ear barking commands.
Lance, listen to me and stand up straight.
Lance, stop scowling.
Lance, you’re such a disappointment.
My body shudders, and I shove the thought of my father down.
Art glances at the door Genevieve just stormed through. “Genevieve’s dad is potentially in some major shit, okay? And that causes problems for me.”
“Easy solution. Ditch the bitch and you’re home free.”
“Can you please let go of whatever grudge you have with the woman I love and try to understand my perspective?”
I throw up my hands. “Fine. Explain it to me, then.”
“Her dad’s on thin ice with Brutus.”
Brutus fucking Myrddin. The one who owns the Lye, who runs Badon Hill out of Boston, and who’s been in bed with myfather for years. He doesn’t show his face in Rosebrook unless something’s worth his attention, but his name lingers like a putrid smell.
