Once we’ve passed them, the twins power down the charm and go back to normal.
“What superpower would you have if you could choose any one you wanted?” Hazen asks.
“Teleportation,” Rath says.
“Telekinesis,” Connor answers.
“Shapeshifting,” I add.
“Telepathy,” Hazen says. “But specifically, mind control.”
We’ve had this conversation dozens of times over the years, and even after answering that exact question over and over again, our answers haven’t changed since the first time Connor brought it up when we were eight.
The three of them launch into an enthusiastic discussion about the advantages of their preferred powers, but I only half listen as we walk down the path together.
A Baxter House party is either exactly what I need right now or the last place I should be, considering the mood I’m in.
I’ve been feeling restless for the past few days, and there’s a low buzz of energy under my skin that I just can’t seem to shake. It’s like an awareness that just won’t go away, and my grip on my self-control, which is usually ironclad and locked in, is tenuous.
I don’t get like this often, but when I do, the only way to break myself free from it is to fuck something up, get fucked up, or fuck it out of my system.
Hopefully whatever waits for us at the Baxter House party scratches at least one of those itches, otherwise I’ll have to find another way to deal with this before I do something reckless.
2
WEST
Leaning backagainst the small mountain of decorative pillows I’ve arranged into a little nest around me, I watch as McKenna does a fit check, showcasing one of her new dresses in the trifold mirror in her dressing area.
My body tightens with appreciation as she hits several poses, each one as sexy and practiced as the last, as she checks all her angles.
“What do you think?” she asks, still scrutinizing herself in the mirror.
“It’s incredible,” I say honestly. “Ten out of ten.”
“Is it better than the red one?”
“I wouldn’t say better, but I think it fits the vibe of the party better.”
She tosses me a flirty smile over her shoulder. “You think so?”
“Hell yeah.” I wave at the pile of shoes next to the mirror. “Which ones are you wearing tonight?”
She picks up a towering heel covered in tiny white jewels and a strappy black heel with long gold ribbon laces.
“It’s between these two.” She holds them against the shimmery black material of her dress. “Which do you like better?”
“I’m not sure,” I tell her honestly. “The bejeweled one is saying ‘You think you can handle me? Think again,’ and the ribbon one is saying ‘Princess in the streets and goddess in the sheets.’”
“Bejeweled?” she asks, shooting me a flat look. “These are hand embellished with crystals, not covered in cheap rhinestones that have been glued on with contact cement.”
“My bad,” I say with a playful shrug. “You know me, I’m hopeless when it comes to fashion. I just know what looks good, not what it’s actually called.”
“I’m almost afraid to ask what you think of my new purse,” she says absently, lifting both shoes so she can look between them again.
I glance at the bag in question. Of all the things in McKenna’s latest fashion haul, the bag makes the least sense to me. The simple clutch is a black leather, half crescent-shaped seashell with a sparkly strap and gold accents.
I know it’s by one of her favorite designers, and it’s a limited release, so she’s one of only a handful of people on the planet who has that exact bag right now. Still, it’s kind of basic, and it’s giving me the biggest sense of déjà vu.
