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“Kathleen’s,” I say to her back. “I’m spending Christmas at Kathleen’s.”
She stops, but she doesn’t say anything. I get a good view of her little, round bum.
“And you?” I can’t help myself. “Christmas with the future in-laws in England?”
She turns and gives me a serene smile.
“I, too, have no interest in being pleasant with you, Malachy Doherty. The difference between us? Unlike you, I stay true to my word.”
I lean back on the bannister and smile, watching her go.
All is fair in love and war, and I’m certainly prepared for battle.
A NOTE FROM JEFF RYNER
History and hysteria have more than a few letters in common.
These two? They definitely share a history, and what I saw on the balcony was nothing short of hysterical.
I’ve watched it happen time after time in this industry.
Exes working together, thinking they are mature, and moved on, and capable of being friends.
B.U.L.L.S.H.I.T.
I could’ve told them it would only get uglier from here on out. Warn them not to bother. That the money isn’t worth it, and babysitting an asshole like Ashton Richards is only going to put them under more pressure, break more rules, and push them over the edge.
I could…
But let’s be real. I’m a forty-something cokehead with a sex addiction, and I have absolutely zero doubt that’s how they view me and what they think of me. Seeing other people screwing up their lives is not painful at this point. It is even—dare I say it?—therapeutic. Like knitting.
Knitting a disaster.
That’s why people gossip, right? To get a kick out of other people’s problems. And when other people don’t have problems they can see or taste or judge, they create problems for them. Analyze their every move to try to make themselves feel better. Well, this has catastrophe written all over it. How could I prevent it from happening?
Plus, I’m genuinely interested to see how it pans out. Knowing Malachy Doherty’s story, I don’t know how he can bang up his miserable life more than he already has. Guy is so deep in shit, anything else thrown at him, even a scandal, would frankly be an upgrade.
I pop two pills of whatever my dealer gave me and make my way back to the party, knowing I look like a Eurovision set and not giving a fuck.
Because I don’t.
I really don’t.
Let people judge. They’re not much better. The only difference between us is that I know what Malachy and Rory think about me. They don’t know what I think about them.
Rory
“You’re home early.” Summer pokes her head up from behind the fluffy cushions of the couch before turning back to the TV and shoving another spoonful of Chunky Monkey into her mouth. Pretty Woman is playing.
She waggles the spoon at the TV, yelling at the screen, “I freaking loathe rom-coms. Falling in love with a billionaire and ending up marrying him is bullshit with a capital B, especially when you’re a working girl. You’re more likely to get murdered by him. You know, since working girls are often without relatives. This should have been Pretty Dead Woman: A Cautionary Tale.”
“Don’t wait for a call from Hollywood.”
I hang my coat by the door and kick my Toms off as I make a stop at the kitchen counter, which is actually inside our tiny living room, pouring both of us large glasses of cheap wine.
Callum wanted me to stay over, but I have an early morning tomorrow, and privately, I can admit that seeing Mal shook me to the core.
“Why the ice cream?” I place the empty wine bottle in the sink, my back to her. I’m trying to act nonchalant, mainly so I can convince myself I’m not having a mental breakdown of epic proportions. Which I’m not. Feeling my pulse pounding against my eyelids is totally normal, I’m sure.
“I was just thinking about the love of my life.” Summer lets out an exasperated sigh.
“Shouldn’t that be a good thing?” I quirk an eyebrow, turning around and plopping next to her. I hand her a glass of white wine.
“No, considering the fact I haven’t met him yet, and it’s very likely he’s sleeping with someone else as we speak, Rory. It’s Saturday evening, and the whole world is drunk and stumbling out of office Christmas parties. How could he do this to me?” Summer sniffs. “He’s probably screwing another girl right now. The hot girl from HR. Dirty bastard.”
I bite down on a smile, working out a way to explain her backward logic in my head. Summer’s sunshine blonde hair is tied up in a huge, messy bun, and she’s still wearing yesterday’s eyeliner. She’s clad in gray sweatpants and a black hoodie, a far cry from her usual glamorous, off-Broadway actress persona. Summer is in between projects now, rehearsing for her next show, which is due to start running mid-February. This was supposed to be our time together, but now I have to go to freaking Ireland and work alongside Mal, who had a personality transplant sometime in the last decade and died on the operating table, only to resurrect himself as Satan.
