“She’s here. Thought you’d want to know.”
He doesn’t need to say her name for me to know to whom he’s referring. The realization doesn’t exactly ease my stress. After confirming Violet signed the lease on her new apartment, I refused to follow up on anything else. Besides, she’s not my problem. She has a place to stay. My hands are clean. So why the hell haven’t I been able to get her off my mind?
My phone buzzes seconds later. Like Annie pointed out, no one’s allowed to have them on the premises during a Harden Night. No one but us. Some would say it’s a bullshit rule, and we should be expected to follow it, too, even though we’re organizing this shit. But the truth is, it’s a necessity. A way for us to communicate if shit hits the fan, which it inevitably does in one way or another. I pull my phone out and read the message.
Roman
She’s here.
I scoff, typing my response.
Me
Hawke just told me. Thanks for the heads-up.
Turning my phone face down on my lap, I ask Hawke, “Who invited her?”
“I thought you did,” Hawke says.
“She shot me down before I really had the chance,” I admit. “But it would’ve been nice to know she was attending before we nailed down the activities.”
Hawke’s mouth twitches. He knows better than to showcase his amusement over the situation. “Think Ford planned that?”
“Planned what?” Ford interrupts. He takes the short set of stairs onto the platform and collapses into the third throne like he was made for it.
Once he’s settled, Hawke explains, “That Violet would be here for our first ladies’ night.”
A Cheshire grin spreads across his face as Ford leans around me to give Hawke his full attention. “Did she actually come?”
Hawke nods.
“Fuck.” With a laugh, Ford stretches out his hand, palm up and waits.
Hawke digs out a couple hundred dollar bills and hands them to Ford. “How’d you know she’d cave?”
“He cheated,” I announce. “Didn’t you, Ford.” It isn’t a question.
“Nowhere in the rules did anyone say I couldn’t extend my own invitation,” Ford defends.
Sly motherfucker. The man reminds me of a fox. Cunning. Wiley. Often underestimated. I learned not to bet against him years ago, but for some reason I don’t understand, Hawke still humors the bastard every now and then, though it’s usually only when Roman or I am the butt of the bet. My fingers dig into the arms of the chair. I fight the urge to throttle the bastard when my phone buzzes again.
Roman
Came with Morgan.
My eyes thin, and I type my response.
Me
Anyone else?
Roman
Her friend, Lexie. Morgan’s little sister.
Four of Morgan’s friends are with them. It doesn't look like they came together. Not officially.
Sitting up a little straighter, I search area from the stage but come up empty.
