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She nods that is true. "But you aren't hot."
"What happened to the objective measure of tattoos?" Zack asks.
Jackson lets out a tired sigh. Maybe he's not as good at ignoring them as he seems. "Can you two stop bullshitting for one minute? We need to discuss this?"
"We are discussing this," Laurel says.
Jackson does the only thing anyone can do—ignore them. He looks me dead in the eyes, and he asks with a clear, even voice, "Are you actually sleeping with Damon?" He projects the sort of authority he does in the courtroom or across the conference table, I guess. No bullshit, no games, just a willingness to do anything to get what he wants.
"Why do you say it like that?" Like I'm not sleeping with him. I could be. He would sleep with me. I mean, if Daphne wouldn't kill him. And I asked. I have no doubts about that. Not that it's really a mark of pride. Damon isn't known for his high standards.
"Cass." Jackson drops about ten percent of his firmness. Then twenty. Thirty. He looks to me with sympathy. "Do you really want me to list the reasons?"
"Oh yeah, list them. Please," Zack says.
Jackson doesn't even flinch. He doesn't so much as glance at Zack. He stays on his path. "You hate him, for one."
"I said that too," Zack says.
"No. Hate sex. It's hot," Laurel says.
"How would you know?" Zack asks. "You don't hate anyone."
Jackson continues ignoring him. "You don't sleep around, for two."
Zack shoots Jackson a look of triumph. "That too. Great minds, huh?"
Jackson groans the way he always does. At Zack for being ridiculous. At himself for indulging it.
"And these pictures do scream overcompensating." Zack looks to Laurel for backup.
She takes a long sip of her cosmo. "He is your best friend's brother. That would be like Jackson sleeping with Daphne."
For the first time all afternoon, Jackson loses his composure. He blushes. He stammers. "Why would you say that?"
Is my older brother actually uncomfortable? He never shows any sign of awkwardness.
He doesn't talk about his love life. There must be someone there. Or else…
No.
There's no way he likes Daphne.
Or is there?
They're similar in so many ways.
"Would you rather I say Zack?" Laurel doesn't notice Jackson's fluster. She moves right to disgust at the notion of anyone sleeping with Zack. "I could, but it's so much less plausible. Daphne has standards. She'd have to be drunk to even consider kissing Zack."
"Hey!" Zack pretends to throw something at her.
She pretends to catch and throw it back. They have a similar silliness. Dad's silliness.
"Do you three need me here for this?" I ask. "Or should I go and let you continue?"
Zack and Laurel continue their back and forth.
Jackson finds his composure and looks at me with concern. "What's really going on, Cassie? Are you and Damon seeing each other? Or is this some sort of game?"
Chapter Thirteen
Cassie
Are you and Damon seeing each other? Or is this some sort of game?
This is it. The start of my lie to my family. Sure, I'm telling them a part of the truth, but I know better than to call this honesty.
A lie of omission is still a lie.
It's also the only reasonable option. Loose lips sink ships. And siblings with secrets share said secrets to people who share them to people who share them with Frederick.
Or, worse, with the artist in question.
That's where I'm going to focus, on the work.
"We're working on a project together," I say. "For Bryce Bradey."
Jackson and Zack don't recognize the name. They love music too—we all do—but they're not up on the latest and greatest. Well, the latest and most popular.
Laurel is. Even if she didn't work in fashion, where she needs to know what's trendy in other creative mediums, she'd know. She loves to live on the cutting edge. "He's hot, as an artist. And a man." She takes a long sip and lets out a wistful sigh. "How have you surrounded yourself with so many attractive men?"
"Is it really that implausible?" I'm not a supermodel, but I'm not a troll either. I exercise, I dress well, I rock my winged eyeliner. And I'm a talented lyricist. That's why these guys are here, because of my brain, not my boobs.
"Nah, babe, you're hot too," Laurel shrugs. "You're just not usually driven by appearances."
I'm not. Well, I like to tell myself I'm not shallow, but I guess this is all for appearances. Appearances for a good reason—to get an amazing job I'm going to ace—but still, appearances.
"Can we focus on the main issue?" Jackson looks me dead in the eyes. "Is that all it is? A project?"
"We've been hanging out for a while," I say.
"Fucking?" Laurel asks.
"That's really none of your business." There. That's the truth. It is none of their business. It implies we are fucking, but it doesn't state it.
