“I couldn’t either, at first, but they came around. They’re even kind of protective of me. It’s weird.”
“No fucking way.”
“I swear.”
“Liv, come on! The limo is leaving!” Sable shouts, her patience wearing thin.
“God, I don’t want to go.”
“Go where?”
“Dinner. They set up a small repast. The last thing I want to do is sit around a bunch of people and pretend to make nice.”
“Well, what would you rather do?”
“Honestly?” She peeks up at me.
“Yeah. I wouldn't have asked you if I didn't want to know.”
“I want to hide out in a hotel room and wallow in my misery with a bottle of tequila and bag of blow.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “I can definitely make that happen if you give me a few minutes.”
“I would be terrible company.”
“I can just be a shoulder to cry on. No pressure for anything else. We don't even have to talk.”
“You don’t have to do this.”
“I want to.”
“Why?” Liv is baffled.
“Because I know what you’re going through. And if I didn’t have people there for me, I don’t know where I would have ended up. Let me do this. Let me be there for you.” It's an earnest proposal. I really want to be here for Liv. Even if it’s just for one night. Even if I never see her again. At least I know I can bring her some sort of comfort, as short-lived as it may be. If I do one selfless thing for someone in my life, I want it to be for Liv.
She contemplates my offer as Sable stalks toward us.
I make the decision for her. “I got her. Go,” I call out to Sable, and she stops dead in her tracks. She regards us suspiciously, her dark, almond-shaped eyes slicing us both down the middle.
“I’m good,” Liv confirms. “I’ll catch up in a little bit.”
Well, that’s a total lie, ’cause if booze and blow are involved, we aren’t leaving that hotel room tonight.
“Okay, I’ll see you later.” It's not a statement; it’s an order. Sable and Shyla always were opinionated, pushy, and controlling. Their mom is from an upper-middle-class Armenian family who aren’t hurting for cash. Sable and Shyla have had everything handed to them on a silver platter, and it shows. How the Bowman ended up with a classy, snobby woman like that, I will never know.
We watch Sable stride back to the awaiting limo in her sharp high heels and skin-tight pencil skirt. Commanding, imposing, and statuesque. If Bone or Hawk think they have even the slightest chance, they are dead wrong.
Once the limo door shuts, I whip out my phone. Holding my finger up to Liv, I make a call.
“Hello?” a deep voice answers.
“Civ. It’s Breaker. I need you to do a few things.”
“Roger that.”
Civ is a prospect. He’s working his ass off to gain membership into the club. So that means whatever one of us needs, he delivers. No matter what. No matter when.
“Here’s what I need. A hotel room, and not a shithole either, a bag of blow, and two good bottles of tequila,” I rattle off my list. “And I need it in an hour.” No pressure.
