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"Don't even think about leavin' this bed, Songbird," Gideon says, making my brows climb. He's in bed with a woman? Scratch that. He's in bed with a woman he's calling Songbird?
Motherfucker. He's sleeping with our new client, the country musician!
"Don't tell me how to live my life, Gideon James Carmichael. I need to pee."
"Fine. Pee and come right back," he says, his voice muffled. And then he comes back on the line. "Why are you calling me? I've got shit to do."
"We're going to talk about this later."
"Yeah? Are we going to talk about your situation too?"
"I don't have a situation."
"Hey, Kenzie, is it?" he says, making every hair on my body stand upright.
"That's me."
"Zion was eleven before he could sleep without a—"
"Yes, we'll talk about it, you motherfucker," I growl, shutting that shit down now. I swear to Christ, Ma should have swallowed him. One brother is plenty.
"Thought you'd see it my way."
I can practically hear the smug bastard's smirk, so I do what any rational human being with an older brother would do. I hang up on his ass.
"That was Gideon?" Makenzie asks, trying—and failing—to contain her laughter.
"Ma dropped him on his head when he was a baby," I grouse.
"She did not."
"You're right. There's no excuse for him. He's just an idiot."
Makenzie cracks up. "He doesn't seem so annoying to me."
"Too bad. You're stuck with me."
"Fine." Her smile slips before it comes back even brighter than before. And that right there lets me know she's up to some bullshit I don't want to deal with. "Then I guess you get to come with me today."
"Where are we going?"
"How do you feel about parties?"
"Hate them."
"Excellent." She beams at me, clearly pleased with herself. And even though I want to tell her there's no fucking way we're going to a party that fucking smile knocks me flat on my ass and I swallow the denial.
I think I'd go just about anywhere if it meant going with her.
Shit. I think Gideon and I may need to have that talk sooner rather than later.
Chapter Four
Kenzie
Theworstpartofmy job is the number of parties I'm expected to attend. I'm a homebody, far more in my comfort zone when I'm cuddled up on the couch, watching junk TV or reading a good book. I know how to socialize. I get along with people. But so much of it just seems so fake. I hate that part of it.
I don't like when people pretend to love me to my face, only to start gossiping the moment my back is turned. Fake friends are the worst kind of friends. In this world, there are a lot of those. Everyone wants to be seen supporting the curvy girl because body positivity is all the rage right now. But no one actually wants to give her a seat at the table.
