Page 95 of The Beast

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The pizza arrives at eight, and Harper tips the delivery guy with a twenty she pulls from my wallet.

“I’ll pay you back,” she says, dropping the box onto my coffee table and flipping it open. The smell of garlic and melted cheese fills my living room, mixing with the salt air that drifts in through the balcony doors I’d left cracked. From forty-seven floors up, the Atlantic is a dark ribbon beyond the boardwalk lights, and the distant crash of waves is just audible beneath the hum of the city.

“You won’t,” I say from my perch on the sofa. “And I don’t care.”

“Good. Because I definitely won’t.” She grabs a slice, ignoring the plates I’d set out, and folds it in half the way she’s done since we were kids. Grease drips onto her silk blouse. She doesn’t seem to notice.

“Eat something,” she tells me. “You look like you’re about to fall over.”

“I’m sitting down,” I say, “so falling isn’t an issue. And if you bring me a slice, I’ll eat it.”

She does, and my stomach growls the moment she puts the plate in my hand.

“See?” she says. “Don’t argue when I’m mothering you. Oh, good!” she adds, as David emerges from the kitchen with an open bottle of wine and three glasses.

I’m already settled in the middle of the sofa, and now they take a seat on either side of me. As they do, I say a silent thank you for the No Talking About Gabriel rule we’d laid down before we ordered the pizza.

“Anything else,” Harper had said. “But no Gabe. And,” she’d added, with a narrow stare aimed at both me and David, “no talking about running a casino. Some of us are only interested in the betting side of things.”

I’d met David’s eyes and we’d both shrugged. “No problem,” I’d said. “We can talk about Tarot cards. Anissa’s been teaching me.”

“Or we can just sit around and drink and watch TV,” David had countered.

Since that sounded both fun and easy—and required very few brain cells—David’s plan won, and just over two hours later, we’ve done significant damage to the pizza, watched a movie that was either a very bad comedy or a darkly comedic drama, and have moved on to a reality show about people buying tiny houses.

Harper’s moved to the recliner and is providing running commentary on the tiny house folk and how they must be better people than her, who thinks ten thousand square feet is really, really cramped.

By the time nine o’clock rolls around, I’ve polished off three slices of pizza and two glasses of wine and am nicely buzzed and comfortably settled long-ways on the couch with my feet in David’s lap as I sip wine and suck up the awesomeness of simply spending a non-productive evening at home with friends.

The knock at the door comes at nine-fifteen.

We all freeze. Harper’s hand tightens on mine, and David straightens in his seat, suddenly alert.

“Expecting anyone?” Harper asks.

“No.”

“Probably your father wanting another photo of our happy engagement,” David says.

For the first time ever, I hope he’s right, and it is my dad at the door.

The knock comes again. Louder this time. More insistent.

David stands. “I’ll get it.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.” He crosses to the door, then checks the peephole. His shoulders stiffen. When he turns back, his expression is carefully neutral.

“It’s Gabriel.”

Yeah. Father’s never around when I want him. Which, considering that’s pretty much never, works out well.

Except that now I have to deal with Gabriel.

“You don’t have to let him in,” Harper says. “You don’t owe him anything tonight.”