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“Yeah, he seems an all right kid. I’ll second the nomination,” Buster rumbles. Even Bruiser cracks a grin.
“Show of hands then, boys.”
Holton counts them around as we all raise them. Palmer has to nudge Viper, who jumps, quickly sticking his hand in the air. I think Viper’s still in a bit of shock.
“Unanimous,” Holton grunts, nodding to Killer. “You let the kid know.”
Killer nods and Holton turns his eyes back to Viper.
“Let’s get that new patch of yours sewn on.”
Viper vaults out of his seat, still clutching the patch between his fingers, and lets Holton lead him out of the room. The brothers start to trail them out as Palmer turns to me with a smirk.
“I guess Nance owes you one.”
An answering smirk tugs at my lips. I guess she does. Maybe I'll get her to make the groupies back the fuck off.
SHELLEY
“Nice jacket.”
Glancing around, I smirk at Mrs. Fernshaw. She’s the country club president’s wife. My hands smooth the lapels of my bright red tailored jacket. It’s one of the only things Mom has picked for me that I actually like. I approve less of the prim navy blue smock dress she paired it with or the navy blue court shoes with leather tassels. I’d be a full-blown Mary Sue if I had a little terrier.
“Thanks, it’s one of my favorites.”
I give her the name of the store, and she sashays away. Almost immediately, Mom appears, retaking her seat. Does the woman have a sixth sense for when I’m talking to someone she deemsimportant? She’s like a fucking ninja.
“What did Amelia Fernshaw want?”
Oh, god, Mom. Thirsty much?
“She wanted to know where I got my jacket from.”
“See, sweetheart. That’s because you wear it so well. And you look so much nicer in it than your usual attire.”
She misses the face I make at her when she turns to gesture to the waitress that we need another two flutes of champagne. I wonder if I could slip the woman a hundred to get her to bring me vodka and orange juice. I could totally pretend it wasjustorange juice. I know that’s what most of the alcoholic old biddies do.
They’re my heroes. The ones who maybe used to be like Mom but are now too old to give a fuck what society wants them to be. They’ve done their time, and paid their dues, so no one can kick them out. Living the dream.
“Don’t even think about it, Michelle.” Mom’s voice coldly cuts across my hoping as the waitress sets down two champagne flutes and walks away. Scowling, I snatch up my new drink.
“We have a deal,” Mom reminds me. Ugh. I know.
Some days, like today, I really regret making that deal. At least there are no social events planned tomorrow. I think I’ll take my car out to the desert and lie in the sand. Perfect hangover cure.
“Come on, Michelle.” Mom climbs to her feet, taking her clutch purse and champagne. Reluctantly, I rise to mine, also picking up my things. “I see Leslie Bearden. You remember her son, Jack.”
Sighing, I drag my feet and trail my mother across the room. Yeah, I remember Jack Bearden. He’s an insurance analyst. The last time I saw him was out at a nightclub. He was simulating sex acts on an unsuspecting bus girl as she cleared the table, pretending to fuck her from behind. A real keeper there.
Why does Mom keep trying to foist me on members of the Wolf Pack? Does she not know there are other rich, eligible young men in Pinedale? Therehaveto be, right? They can’t all be members of the douche brigade.
“Leslie!” Mom hails her, and they air kiss, both overly friendly and overacting. “You remember my daughter, Michelle?”
“Of course, Michelle! Howareyou?”
Bored out of my skull, thanks. And you?
“Enjoying the atmosphere, Mrs. Bearden.” My smile is almost rictus.
