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I slump into the barstool and rub my head while glaring at him. “You went to that trendy shop around the corner from our apartment like every day for weeks.”
“I was trying to get into the barista's pants, and once I did,” he shrugs, “well, there was no more reason to go back.”
“You are a debased human being,” I accuse him, leaning my forehead against my palm.
Alistair clears his throat. “I’m not the one who got a girl fired so she would marry you,” he says in an accusatory tone.
I stand up, pushing the chair back roughly. “Fuck off, Alistair,” I spit, about to walk away when I see Evangeline standing in the doorway of the kitchen. She’s wearing my Georgetown t-shirt, and fuck if I don’t like the way it looks on her.
After I fucked her in my father’s office, we spent the evening eating takeout while standing in the kitchen, and I gave her my shirt to wear. I’m not a decent person – nobody knows this more than me, but in this instance, I do have the decency to look remorseful at the exchange she probably overheard.
Just when I thought maybe we were past that and on our way to some sort of civility…
Alistair looks at me with a petulant smile, and then, schooling his face, looks back at Evangeline.
“I wish I could say it was a pleasure seeing you again, Alistair, but it’s not,” she says, narrowing her eyes at him, and I can’t help but suppress a smirk.
“Fair enough,” Alistair concedes.
Evangeline walks into the kitchen with an espresso cup in hand. She saunters past and over to the espresso machine. Grabbing the grounds from a nearby cabinet she starts up the machine, pressing the beans, and goddammit if she makes fucking steam. When she’s finished, she turns around and brings the steaming cup to her mouth and I visibly salivate.
I look to see if, by a slim chance, she made two.
“You didn’t make me…”
“No,” she cuts me off.
“Well, can you at least show me…”
“No,” she cuts me off again, and Alistair, that motherfucker, starts laughing.
I turn and glare at him while Evangeline hops up on the counter, dangling those fucking perfect legs of hers while she drinks her coffee.
“Somebody fucking shoot me right now.”
“I don’t like guns, but I’d gladly smack you in the head if that’s what you want,” she says through the steam rising off her cup.
Alistair raises a hand. “Already taken care of,” he says with a smile, and Evangeline rolls her eyes.
“So, Alistair, use any more of your connections,” she uses air quotes, “to track down another hooker lately?”
I’m jealous that those eyes are directed at Alistair, the pale blues flaring with anger. Her anger should be reserved for me.
Alistair holds up his hands. “Look, I just came here to check on Dare,” he professes, “but it looks like you got everything handled,” he addresses me with a raised brow.
Evangeline scoffs, the sound more like a kitten than a lion. Alistair pushes off from the counter, pulls his phone out and holds it out to me.
“My parents got this,” he says, somberly.
I hold the phone in my hand and read the announcement regarding the funeral. There’s a service at the Congressional Cathedral for friends and family, and then a private burial at the National Cemetery.
I drop the phone back in Alistair's hand.
“I wasn’t sure if you got it,” he says, placing the phone back in his pocket, “seeing how you don’t like to check your phone.”
Rubbing the back of my neck, I turn away from him and face the window that looks out to my mother’s garden. I’m sure my father’s office has provided details about the service; I just haven’t wanted to see it. I have a couple of days to get myself together, though, because sooner rather than later, I will have to face this.
“Just call me if you need me,” Alistair says. “I’ll see you on Sunday.”
