The bubbles on the screen jumped around as I waited for her response. Heat flushed through my body as I thought about the hurt look in her eyes the last time he’d stood her up.
Demi:At my hotel getting ready to eat dinner.
I didn’t need to ask which hotel. She always stayed at the Loews Atlanta.
Me:Hit me up when you’re done.
I set my phone down and noticed Skye staring at me curiously. “What, Skye?”
“Are you jealous that Tristan is here with Sasha? Because you look pissed.”
“I’m fine.”
“Should we go say hello?”
“Hell no.”
She bit down on her bottom lip. “I don’t like this.”
“Like what?”
“I wish you’d talk to your brother. Y’all are family.”
“Skye,” I warned. The last thing I wanted to do was talk to Tristan. Our last few interactions had ended with fists. “Don’t.”
“Okay, okay.” She held up her hands in surrender. “I’ll drop it. I’m worried about you, though.”
“I’m fine,” I repeated. “Finish eating.”
Later, I dropped Skye off at her house and headed toward my place, only to veer off in the opposite direction. The lobby of the hotel was quiet, which I expected on a Tuesday. I greeted a front desk attendant as I headed toward the restaurant. An acquaintance of mine stopped me at the entrance. I talked to him for a few seconds, then excused myself to find Demi. Scanning the dining room, I spotted her in a corner booth near the back of the place.
On my way to her table, I stopped at the bar and ordered two drinks—an old-fashioned for her and Bulleit neat for me. Demi was looking at her phone when I approached the table. I set the glass down in front of her and slid into the booth across from her.
She frowned. “Duke? What are you doing here?”
“He’s not coming,” I told her.
“How do you—?”
“I just know.”
“I knew it,” she breathed. “I should’ve never…” Her shoulders fell on a heavy sigh. “Never mind.”
I pushed the glass closer to her. “Drink. And then I’ll order you another.”
“Thank you.”
“You know I got you.”Always.
ChapterTwo
FAIRY TALES
Demi
The Past
Everything was so loud. The rain against the hood of the car, the whistling of the wind, the jazz booming through the speakers… and my father. He’d been yelling for twenty minutes straight about the weather, my schoolwork, dinner, my choice of outfit, the holiday, my attitude, traffic, my performance during the swim meet. The rampage had started at the event and—actually, it started the day my mother moved out six years ago. That was the day he’d mademyexistencehisproblem.
