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It isn’t that the drive feels long, it’s just that every single mile we seem to drive, I feel as though my throat is closing in. Preston pulls us up to a gated driveway, where a security guard stands with a walkie-talkie clipped to his shoulder. He rolls the driver’s window down and flashed him a white card. ID, probably.
“So.” Maya claps her hands. “Are you straight?”
I raise one perfectly—I’m not kidding, I spent a good long time perfecting these brows—arched eyebrow at her. “Tell me, oh Rapunzel, why must you know?” I keep my eyes locked on hers until she cowers and looks away when the car starts moving forward again. Her cheeks flash red, and I giggle under my breath. “I don’t put myself in any box. If I want to fuck you, I’ll fuck you. Woman or man. You could have asked Rose for that answer…”
“I heard about that!” Maya gasps, and I take my eyes out the window to watch the lines of manicured shrubs and fruit trees that align with the long road. It’s not until I see the bright lights of the wraparound porch that I realize just how big this place is. Preston directs the car around the circular driveway, stopping outside the grand staircase that leads up to a set of wooden doors with mystical carvings embedded over the surface.
“Good God, you guys have way too much money. Is this your main condo?” I ask, reaching for the door handle before Preston can get it. Gentlemen make me feel awkward. I can handle myself.
“This is the Nero condo, yeah, but we all have one. The only reason we’re staying at the hotel and not at the houses is because The Brothers have a problem with authority—this is also normal—once they take over as Fathers, they’ll come to the homes instead of the hotel for Kiznitch business.” Maya rolls her eyes as she steps out from behind me.
Music is playing from somewhere deep in the house, and it’s not until we trench up the giant marble stairs and through the doors that I realize a lot of their wealth is hidden. You see Midnight Mayhem and you know they have money, but this is something else.
This is rich rich.
The kind of rich that would have them on the Forbes list.
“Yes,” Saskia murmurs from behind me. “Number nine, I think?” She shrugs it off and shimmies her way through the grand foyer and toward the glass doors that lead out into the backyard.
“How?”
Maya hooks her arm in mine while pressing her other finger up to her lips and gesturing me down the same way Saskia bounced off through. “No more questions.”
We take three steps down into the sitting room, where an open fireplace is blazing. There are a few vintage-looking chairs placed perfectly around the area, with artwork that falls on the horror side more than the contemporary side, and candles blazing through the dark night. Stepping outside, I hold my breath for a few seconds as I adapt to the change of lighting. Solar LED lights droop above, leading the way down to where a firepit is built into the grass with one big bench chair circling it. The music is an interesting mix, noting that when we walked in, they were playing Metallica, and now it has changed to an acoustic version of the song “Layla” by Eric Clapton. People are seated down near the fire, and I don’t bother to seek out Kyrin or Eli, since I can most definitely feel them. There have to be around thirty or so people here tonight, but it seems comfortable. As if everyone can trust one another and be who they need to be.
I wonder how that feels, to be able to trust people so easily that you can extend that out to so many people. Trust isn’t something I’m familiar with, at least I don’t think. Maybe I trusted my father? A couple of weeks ago, if you had asked me that same question, I would have absolutely said yes. I did trust him. But now, standing in this ridiculous dress with these interesting people, I’m second-guessing that fact. It’s as though the longer I stay in this world, the more my eyes are opening to what’s considered normal, not normal, and downright criminal.
I’m not sure how I feel about that.
But I don’t think I like it.
Saskia’s fingers latch on to mine as we make our way toward the firepit. I can hear my heart in my chest beating erratically, as if it’s fighting to come out. It probably wants to run, truthfully…
Without realizing it, my eyes fall on Kyrin, and I instantly get that same whirlwind of pain twisting in my gut when I notice he’s already watching me. His legs are spread a little, his hand in his pocket while lying back against the chair. He’s not wearing a suit, though I’m not at all surprised. His hair is messy, his jaw tight. He’s glaring. That’s what he’s doing and probably why he has my stomach in fits. The orange flickering flames do nothing to dampen his classically good looks either, dammit.
