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“Uh, still working here.” I hold up the box of crepe paper I am packing to emphasize my point. Brian wrinkles his nose at the sight.
“Uh, I think your forced volunteering ended when the art table was packed up. We’re hitting up the nightclubs here.”
Colleen’s eyes widen, and she looks stricken. Ugh, assholes. I shake my head at her, trying to convey with my eyes that I don’t agree with the shit they are spouting, and I want to be here, helping her and Alice.
Turning back to Brian, I wrinkle my nose at him. He never takes no for an answer.
“I’m not dressed for a nightclub.”
“You’re dressed fine.” His eyes trail down my body, lingering on my bare thighs. Okay. I officially need to go home and spend twenty minutes in the shower scrubbing my body until it’s red and raw.
There’s only one way to make them leave and get out of Colleen and Alice’s hair. I hate doing it because it feels like I’m shirking my duties, but I no longer want to impose these assholes on either of them.
“Bye guys.”
Turning my back on the pack, I offer Colleen and Alice warm, apologetic smiles.
“Thank you so much for letting me be part of the stall. If at all possible, I’d love for my name to be down next year too.”
“Of course, dear.” Colleen beams, clutching my hands and squeezing, understanding in her eyes. “You drive home safe.”
Grabbing my purse, I duck out of the tent, studiously ignoring Merch and his friends where they are standing across from the stall and marching my ass back to my car.
Thankfully, the pack doesn’t follow me. I have no idea why, but clearly, it’s a gift, and I’m not going to question it. As long as they leave Colleen and Alice’s stall, they’re not my problem anymore.
The drive home is nice. I take the desert road, my windows down, sucking in the scent of the turpentine broom. Pinedale and San Remo are only half an hour apart, being sister cities. Eventually, I’m forced to leave the desert, entering Pinedale’s gleaming streets. They might only be half an hour away from San Remo, but they look completely different, with emerald green lawns rolling everywhere here, in direct opposition to San Remo’s scrubby dirt yards.
I turn onto our street, my parents' house looming above me in all its glory, screamingwe have money! Mom’s car is in the garage when I pull in, so she’s back from whatever she did to fill her day today.
Trailing through the house, I find her in the less formal lounge room, flicking through fashion magazines. At least she’s given up on refurbishing the house. Again.
Her eyes flicker up and down my figure when I walk in, and she sighs. I don’t even try to hide my eye roll. Dropping onto the couch across from her, I stare Mom down.
“Why did you tell them where I was?”
Mom sighs again, placing her magazine on the side table and picking up her glass of red wine, surveying me over the rim. She doesn’t need to ask who I’m talking about. Sheknows.
“I thought it would be a good opportunity for you to get to know some of them.”
Ugh. I couldn’t think of a worse response from her if I tried. No, thank you.
“I was helpingkids. I wasn’t there to get my flirt on with your friends' sons.”
“Kids can paint and draw without help. You were a glorified, unpaidbabysitter.” Undisguised horror and condescension drip off her final word. Mom wrinkles her nose and takes a sip of her wine. Her eyes lock on mine, sparking, and I don’t like their look. “Did you hit it off with anyone?”
Her comment is innocuous and innocent, thrown in there at the end.
Yeah, I did. The biker whose cock I sucked next to a van. My lips twitch as I consider Mom’s response if I saidthataloud. Honestly, I don’t know if she would be more horrified by my crude words, the biker or the van.
I settle for a bland smile and a shake of my head. “I sent them away so I could do the job I volunteered for.”
Mom’s lips tighten, and her left eye twitches like she’s trying hard not to roll it. Sighing, she plucks up her magazine again. I guess this conversation is over. Fine by me.
Shoving to my feet, I stride to the door, pausing and glancing over my shoulder when Mom speaks up.
“Don’t forget we have a luncheon for the Morgan Society tomorrow. I’ve laid out your outfit upstairs.”
My nose wrinkles as I keep walking out the door. Ugh. The Morgan Society. As their name suggests, they are named for pioneering women.
