He. Is. Safe.
Jamie utters the words too. “Everything is okay, Reese.”
As my friend gingerly sits me onto the couch, I can hear my father returning home for the very last time in the background. C'mere, doll, he had said.
The shootout of terror off La Brea takes me back to the mansion I once lived in. The glamour and glitz came at a high price to a father who would do anything for his family, or should I say primarily for his love of money.
But the biggest problem of all? My father once was a cop too. Milo died crooked, but he was once revered on the police force. The very same symbol behind Evan’s head during the debriefing just now was the shield decal on my father’s badge.
As the tears begin to slither down my cheeks, I go through the motions. Evan and I have gotten entirely too close.
“Thank you, God, for keeping Evan safe. I swear on my life there will be no more sleeping with my stepbrother…”
15
Reese
It’s still shocking how Evan saved me from only God knows what at the hands of Mr. Big and Buff biker guy. Now, I have slipped into one of my all-time favorite outfits, the one I wore during the Flour Shoppe grand opening. Marc Jacobs graces my curves in a light-silver dress. It’s classy. Not too short and it leaves nothing to be desired in the boob department, I’m here for the drinks. I want to be shit-faced, because Evan and I have reached the end of the line and I’m afraid to tell him as much.
He'd called me once he had free time, which was a nanosecond during the chaos in the background. He'd said “everything was okay” just paperwork and, he tried to softly mention the gloom over the slain rookies. I'd given him a bit of encouragement, at least I attempted, my family hasn't fully succeeded in the “give a damn” department.
I sigh as the strobe lights make my dress look light-blue. I’m sitting VIP in Powerhouse, since Jamie’s Argentinian boyfriend would offer no less. Jamie, Sandra, Maria and I sit in a U-shaped leather booth. The back arches all the way to the ceiling; crystal studs give the seats an ultra-chic swag.
“Are you ready to get wasted?” Sandra shouts into my ear, but the words barely reach out to me over the pristine speakers. My faux energy has finally rubbed off on her. The blondie exudes the vigor that I used this afternoon to force them all to dress in their best and go out on a Wednesday night.
I try to reach for Maria’s shot glass. The server that keeps bringing a round of premium vodka must not have heard my friend decline the alcohol, saying she wasn’t drinking tonight. Or more than likely the waitress took Jamie’s boy toy–the club owner’s–words to heart when he told her to keep ‘em coming, and that she does. As I toss back Maria’s shot, I hate myself even more for the text I left Evan right before getting into the taxi tonight.
Chickening out is what I was made for. I was molded into a little punk the day my mom, her sister, and their tiny side of the family began to talk shit about my actually dead-deadbeat dad. The text message tactics places me on the same level as the ex-Suit. At least his email came with a customary business signature. All I had the nerve to do was add our parents to the equation to solidify my excuse.
The server comes by with another round of shots. Jamie starts to hold his up in ‘toast style’ just as I take my double shot to the head. “Cheers, bitches,” he shouts.
Jamie comes up with any old reason to salute the toxic drinks before us. The image of me impulsively writing the first message to Evan clanks around in my brain: “My mom looks happier than I’ve ever seen her… with your dad.” That part of the text was the truth.
Like some teenybopper attempting to rid herself of a mediocre one-night stand, I had hastily sent the next message. “We’ve gotta stop…”
“Damn, Reese,” Jamie scoffs, cutting into my self-torture. “It’s not water.”
My lips are plastered in a cheesy grin. “Well, as watered down as these shots are, could’ve fooled me,” I joke, not the slightest bit drunk. Oh, but I need to be. I’m safe since Jamie and I will catch an Uber. Though I don’t understand why Maria isn’t drinking. Her boyfriend will be off work, as a nightshift security guard, so he’ll pick her up. Sandra’s leaving lucky tonight. I’ve technically only had three one-night stands since the ex-Suit, but she’s flown through teddy-bear hugs.
“Oh shit, this is my song!” Maria pumps her fist to Pit Bull. Jamie gives me the eye, since he’s sitting at my left and at the exit of the U-shaped booth. He snatches up my hand. I, in return, grab Sandra’s hand and she grabs Maria.
Though we’re a tight-knit group, Maria thrusts those hips in her tiny sequined skirt as if she’s aiming for more than a man to warm her bed tonight. Maria and Sandra are like a beacon to every guy in a ten-yard radius. They all turn to watch the model-type blonde and hot Latina. I grind back against Jamie, who’s wearing black skin-tight jeans with sexy see-through lace patches that make him look like Queen B. A chandelier blouse allows the eye to play peek-a-boo with his shimmery nipples. As hot as Jamie looks, it all makes me wonder how his man could leave him at the club alone. And my friend’s on a perpetual roller coaster tonight as far as emotions go. We're one-in-the-same, at least emotions mirror on his face, while my heart does what it does best. Freezes over.
“Look at those two hoes,” he says into my ear.
“Stop hating,”
