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I ruffle Zoe’s hair. She smacks my hand away with a fake snarl of irritation as I introduce her, “And this is my kid sister, Zoe.”
I smirk. “She’s a freshman this year.”
Star reaches my mother and gives her a kiss on each cheek, before stepping back and patiently awaiting the inspection. She knows the drill. Mama grabs her forearm, keeping her in place as she gives Star the once-over.
She squeezes Star’s arm, a gesture of welcome. “Are you hungry? Do you want anything to drink?”
Zoe gives a little snort. “It’s eleven o’clock in the morning, Mama. She can’t possibly be hungry yet.”
Mama frowns down at my little sister. “You never know. It’s always good to ask. Remember this, Zoe. You’ll want to be a good host when you’re in your own home.”
Zoe rolls her eyes and Star covers her mouth to muffle a little giggle. The sweet sound makes my heart skip a beat.
“No, no,” I quickly reply, cutting off the potential for any long, protracted interaction. “We’re only here to get schoolwork done. We’re going downstairs where it’s quiet.”
Star’s smile slides off her face. I feel a pang of remorse. Damn her for making me aware of her every expression and gesture.
“Oh, okay,” my mother replies, confusion written on her face.
I rarely bring people home through the front door, and now that I have, I shouldn’t cut their first introduction short. My mother just finished rebuking Zoe about how to be a good host. Truthfully, I don’t know why I brought Star in this way when there’s a perfectly good back entrance that goes straight into the basement. Maybe it’s because I only allow the women I fuck to come in through the back. Maybe it’s to relieve the guilt gnawing at me about yesterday. Maybe it’s my way of making restitution. Have her meet my family. Treat her with respect.
Feeling helpless after my abrupt interruption, I gesture downstairs to my domain and follow Star to the basement.
In the basement, I drop her backpack beside a worn, tufted sapphire-colored couch in the center of the room. My domain also doubles as a storage room for my mother’s castoffs, which explains the excess of chairs and other furniture. There are random decorative ornaments like a series of colorful peasant dishes on the walls, carved wood sculptures, and even a chipped gold-painted icon of Saint George that found refuge in an abandoned corner of the room. We like to snort cocaine off it in our most sacrilegious moments.
I kinda hate this room because it’s full of random objects that make no sense together, but not gonna lie, that part works well for hosting parties.
I leave her to get settled as I go to the back room to bring my laptop, notebook, and the paperback book for the essay.
On my way back in, I halt at the threshold. Star is standing rigidly near the base of the staircase, looking like she’s about to flee.
“Sit down,” I order dismissively, waving my hand across the numerous sitting options available.
She shakes her head. “Before I do, we need to get something straight.”
CHAPTER8
STAR
Lucian looks up at me sharply, his brows creased in confusion. Or is it irritation? Truly, I don’t care. I’m not budging one inch, not lifting one finger to help him, until we get a few things settled.
He’s not used to being spoken to the way I just spoke to him, but he sealed his own fate when he promised Cristo he would take care ofeverything—meaning me and the situation he’s done nothing to fix.
And if he thinks bringing me in through the front door instead of the back door like everyone else—his basement parties are notorious—and introducing me to his mom is some kind of apology, he’s sorely mistaken.
I’d like to think he sealed his fate when he left me out to dry, but that would be a lie. If it wasn’t for Cristo’s intervention, Lucian wouldn’t care about what he had done to me.
My nerves are on edge, but my anger is righteous. It burns deep, rooted in the humiliation I’ve suffered at his hands. And in case he thinks to share the blame with Roxie, I put it solely on his shoulders.
I breathe in the anger, draw from the bottomless well of it in my soul, and find the courage to say my piece. “I’m willing to help you, but I have one condition.”
He makes a noise full of scorn. “If you want an apology, you’re not getting it. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
A white-hot brand of pain and fury spears through me.
“You did me wrong, you prick,” I snarl as I charge into the room. “You should apologize to me. If you were a good man, if you were a decent man, you would.”
I wave my hand as if batting away a mosquito. “But I don’t expect that level of maturity from you. I don’t want your stupid apology, so don’t waste my time with one. There’s only one way you can make this worthwhile for me.”
