Page 18 of The Killer Card

“Graham!” A petite body slams into my side, her raven pony-tail swinging wildly. “You finally made it!”

“Of course I did, Amipola.” I let my arm fall around her shoulders, kissing the top of her head. “I wouldn’t miss Eli fucking up his vows for all the money in the world.” Leaning down, I mock whisper loud enough for Elias to hear. “It’s not too late to run away with me instead—”

Eli yanks his giggling fiancée into his embrace, arms ensnaring her around her middle. “I’ll literally kill you, pendejo.”

"Language,” Cristian and I chorus. “Also,” I jab a thumb at the hall. “Why the fuck am I on the couch if there’s a spare room?”

Poppy’s brow furrows. “There isn’t a spare room.”

“Then who’s staying in there?!”

“I am.”

Time seems to lose all meaning, everything coming to a complete standstill at the mere whisper of a voice I haven’t heard in nearly two years. I turn in time to see Rowan duck his face into his wife’s curls and Clara avert her gaze. But I can’t. My eyes lock on the viciously cold eyes illuminated by the morning sun, nestled into the most sinfully beautiful face I’ve ever seen. That face haunts my fucking dreams- the sharp cheekbones, the plump lips, the threaded brows. Everything about it is immaculate, a testament to God’s craftsmanship.

Too bad it belongs to a self-serving fucking harpy.

“Dios mío…” I mutter.

“Good morning to you too.” Naomi holds up a heavy, brown paper bag. “Breakfast?”

4 Years Ago

Chapter Six

Naomi

Fuck Econ. Fuck Poli-Sci. Fuck this school. I am so beyond over college and what it has to offer. Let’s be totally for fucking real, I only attend because my dad is making me.

You are my daughter and you will be a successful, upstanding member of society, or whatever bullshit he spouts at me every time I threaten to drop out. It’s up to roughly three time a month, depending on the semester, the professors, the idiotic amount of coursework.

Walking into my apartment, I throw my bag onto the couch and immediately make a beeline for the kitchen. I’m flicking the top off a cheap bottle of wine when Clara and Nelly walk through the front door.

“Oooh, are we pregaming?” Clara asks, reaching for the bottle. I hold it high out of her tiny reach.

“You’re not.”

Stomping her foot, she glares up at me. It’s adorable how she thinks she’s at all intimidating. “I am not the DD tonight, Naomi!”

“You absolutely are,” Nelly smirks, managing to reach the bottle. She takes a sip, handing it back to me on her way toward her bedroom. “Next time don’t leave me alone with a horny stranger.”

“Yeah, he was the horny one.” She rolls her eyes, following Nelly down the hall.

I drink straight from the bottle, taking out my phone when it rings. “Hello?”

“Mimi!” My brother’s voice bursts down the line. “How’s my delightfully beautiful sister on this fine Friday afternoon—”

“What do you want, Nathan?” I take another drink from the bottle, as I enter my room.

“Why would I need something?” He asks, wind rushing behind his voice. He must be in the car. “Is a brother not allowed to call his fabulous sister at the start of a weekend?”

“Of course they are. You, however, are the kind who only ever calls for one of three reasons.” I kick my shoes off next to the door and begin sifting through my cocktail dresses, phone pressed between my cheek and my shoulder. “Because you need something, to complain about Dad, or because you want to commiserate about shitty men.”

“Men truly are shitty,” he sighs helplessly. “And yet we keep running back to them? Why is that?”

“Deeply rooted and undiagnosed maternal trauma?” I suggest, taking out a purple silk number. I hold it to my body in front of the floor mirror, turning this way and that.

Nathan snorts. “Yours might be deep, but I wear that shit on the surface, honey. It’s what keeps my skin so soft and supple.”