“He’s grieving, Jace,” Ethan said, slinking out of the thick shadows behind us.
“And by the way, Faythe, you owe me.” His eyes were hard, his anger about far more than having to come between me and our mother. He was stil mad about my involvement with Jace.
“Bil me,” I snapped, wishing he’d mind his own business. Jace wasn’t mad, so why should he be?
“You’re lucky I haven’t taken it out of your hide.” He wasn’t smiling, and his voice was almost a growl.
I stepped away from the others, giving myself room to maneuver. “You’re welcome to try.” I could stil take him down, and now that he was grown, he’d fal even harder.
Ethan grinned, but not because he was happy. If he’d had real canines, he would have been flashing them at me. “Don’t tempt me.”
“Okay, boys and girls, that’s enough for now.” Parker put one heavy arm around my shoulders, and the other around Ethan’s, steering us toward the guesthouse at the edge of the tree line. Ethan and I would both be staying there, me on the couch and him on a pallet on the floor, because he’d given his bed to Michael for the night. My mother had fixed up Owen’s bed for Kyle.
Ethan shrugged Parker’s arm off. “I need a drink,” he muttered, taking off ahead of us at a fast walk.
“Me, too.” Jace jogged past me to catch up with Ethan, sparing only a short glance in my direction. Long shadows trailed behind them as they approached the light on the guesthouse porch.
“Yeah, I could use a drink,” I said. “Or two, or three.”
“Wel , we can certainly oblige.” Parker squeezed my shoulder, and I glanced up at him gratefully. “I think a little binge drinking may be in order tonight. There’s no better way to deal with tension and grief.”
I took issue with his concept of therapy, but I kept my mouth shut because I couldn’t think of any better way to cope, especial y considering the outcome of my hunt that morning. Besides, Parker was the world’s al -time best drinking buddy.
He’d had lots of practice.
Ahead of us, Jace and Ethan jogged up the porch steps and through the front door, clearly determined to claim a couple of bottles before Parker got near the kitchen island, which doubled as a fully stocked bar. The guys did quite a bit of drinking on their nights off, which wasn’t as bad as it sounded. It’s real y hard to get a cat drunk, possibly because of our accelerated metabolism, which also makes it difficult to sustain a buzz.
Out of habit, I paused with my hand on the old iron porch rail, looking up at the second floor. The light was on in Marc’s room; he was stil up. I’d never been able to pass the guesthouse without looking up at his window. Not once. It was an addiction. A pointless, self-destructive addiction. But real y, is there any other kind?
Parker, true gentleman that he was, opened the front door for me, then followed me into the living room. The guesthouse was smal but much warmer and more comfortable than the main house. And though the occupants sometimes changed—as older enforcers moved on, and younger ones came to replace them—the ambience stayed the same. The guys kept the fridge stocked with soda, squirt cheese, and frozen burritos, food my mother never served, and to my knowledge had never tasted. Ever since we were old enough to walk, my brothers and I had been welcome to make ourselves at home anytime we needed a junk-food fix.
A couple of years ago, the guys went in together on an obscenely large wide-screen television, which they kept tuned to sitcom reruns, action movies or ESPN. There were always empty glasses on every flat surface and discarded clothing on the floor. It was like going away to summer camp every time I walked through the door—until Marc and I broke up. I hadn’t been in the guesthouse since, in almost five years.
But one glance at the living room told me nothing had changed. The floors were stil scarred hardwood, because the guys couldn’t keep carpet in decent shape.
The walls were dingy white and almost completely bare, because they didn’t know what to hang up. Cheap miniblinds covered the windows, and the only plates in the cabinet were made of paper. Video-game controllers and DVD boxes littered the living-room floor. And the entire place smel ed like sweat and old pizza, scents I associated with some of the best times of my life.
I couldn’t help but smile.
Parker waved a hand at the couch against one wall. “Sit down. I’ll get you a drink.”
“You guys could use some new furniture,” I said, brushing off a crumb-crusted cushion before I sat. The couch was upholstered in 1980s brown-and-yel ow plaid, the cushions flattened to half their original thickness. When I sat, I sank deep enough to place my navel several inches lower than my knees.
“Nah,” Jace said from behind the makeshift bar, a bottle of tequila in one hand and a shot glass in the other. “It would take us years to break in anything new.”
I laughed. “That would sure be a shame.”
“What’s your pleasure?” Parker asked, lining up a series of bottles on the faded Formica countertop. If Marc or Jace had asked the same question, I might have raised an eyebrow at the choice of words, but not with Parker. His only vice was alcohol, and even under the influence he was the most polite man I knew. And the gentlest, other than Owen.
Before I could reply, wood groaned behind me, and my words died on my lips.
But someone else answered for me. “Margarita on the rocks, heavy on the salt.”
I whirled around and felt my hair swing out in an arc behind me. Marc stood at the bottom of the stairs, wearing only a snug pair of jeans with both knees worn through. Light from the bare bulb in the stairwel played on muscles I’d watched him develop years ago. He had one hand in his pocket and the other wrapped around the neck of an empty beer bottle.
“And by the way, Faythe, you owe me.” His eyes were hard, his anger about far more than having to come between me and our mother. He was stil mad about my involvement with Jace.
“Bil me,” I snapped, wishing he’d mind his own business. Jace wasn’t mad, so why should he be?
“You’re lucky I haven’t taken it out of your hide.” He wasn’t smiling, and his voice was almost a growl.
I stepped away from the others, giving myself room to maneuver. “You’re welcome to try.” I could stil take him down, and now that he was grown, he’d fal even harder.
Ethan grinned, but not because he was happy. If he’d had real canines, he would have been flashing them at me. “Don’t tempt me.”
“Okay, boys and girls, that’s enough for now.” Parker put one heavy arm around my shoulders, and the other around Ethan’s, steering us toward the guesthouse at the edge of the tree line. Ethan and I would both be staying there, me on the couch and him on a pallet on the floor, because he’d given his bed to Michael for the night. My mother had fixed up Owen’s bed for Kyle.
Ethan shrugged Parker’s arm off. “I need a drink,” he muttered, taking off ahead of us at a fast walk.
“Me, too.” Jace jogged past me to catch up with Ethan, sparing only a short glance in my direction. Long shadows trailed behind them as they approached the light on the guesthouse porch.
“Yeah, I could use a drink,” I said. “Or two, or three.”
“Wel , we can certainly oblige.” Parker squeezed my shoulder, and I glanced up at him gratefully. “I think a little binge drinking may be in order tonight. There’s no better way to deal with tension and grief.”
I took issue with his concept of therapy, but I kept my mouth shut because I couldn’t think of any better way to cope, especial y considering the outcome of my hunt that morning. Besides, Parker was the world’s al -time best drinking buddy.
He’d had lots of practice.
Ahead of us, Jace and Ethan jogged up the porch steps and through the front door, clearly determined to claim a couple of bottles before Parker got near the kitchen island, which doubled as a fully stocked bar. The guys did quite a bit of drinking on their nights off, which wasn’t as bad as it sounded. It’s real y hard to get a cat drunk, possibly because of our accelerated metabolism, which also makes it difficult to sustain a buzz.
Out of habit, I paused with my hand on the old iron porch rail, looking up at the second floor. The light was on in Marc’s room; he was stil up. I’d never been able to pass the guesthouse without looking up at his window. Not once. It was an addiction. A pointless, self-destructive addiction. But real y, is there any other kind?
Parker, true gentleman that he was, opened the front door for me, then followed me into the living room. The guesthouse was smal but much warmer and more comfortable than the main house. And though the occupants sometimes changed—as older enforcers moved on, and younger ones came to replace them—the ambience stayed the same. The guys kept the fridge stocked with soda, squirt cheese, and frozen burritos, food my mother never served, and to my knowledge had never tasted. Ever since we were old enough to walk, my brothers and I had been welcome to make ourselves at home anytime we needed a junk-food fix.
A couple of years ago, the guys went in together on an obscenely large wide-screen television, which they kept tuned to sitcom reruns, action movies or ESPN. There were always empty glasses on every flat surface and discarded clothing on the floor. It was like going away to summer camp every time I walked through the door—until Marc and I broke up. I hadn’t been in the guesthouse since, in almost five years.
But one glance at the living room told me nothing had changed. The floors were stil scarred hardwood, because the guys couldn’t keep carpet in decent shape.
The walls were dingy white and almost completely bare, because they didn’t know what to hang up. Cheap miniblinds covered the windows, and the only plates in the cabinet were made of paper. Video-game controllers and DVD boxes littered the living-room floor. And the entire place smel ed like sweat and old pizza, scents I associated with some of the best times of my life.
I couldn’t help but smile.
Parker waved a hand at the couch against one wall. “Sit down. I’ll get you a drink.”
“You guys could use some new furniture,” I said, brushing off a crumb-crusted cushion before I sat. The couch was upholstered in 1980s brown-and-yel ow plaid, the cushions flattened to half their original thickness. When I sat, I sank deep enough to place my navel several inches lower than my knees.
“Nah,” Jace said from behind the makeshift bar, a bottle of tequila in one hand and a shot glass in the other. “It would take us years to break in anything new.”
I laughed. “That would sure be a shame.”
“What’s your pleasure?” Parker asked, lining up a series of bottles on the faded Formica countertop. If Marc or Jace had asked the same question, I might have raised an eyebrow at the choice of words, but not with Parker. His only vice was alcohol, and even under the influence he was the most polite man I knew. And the gentlest, other than Owen.
Before I could reply, wood groaned behind me, and my words died on my lips.
But someone else answered for me. “Margarita on the rocks, heavy on the salt.”
I whirled around and felt my hair swing out in an arc behind me. Marc stood at the bottom of the stairs, wearing only a snug pair of jeans with both knees worn through. Light from the bare bulb in the stairwel played on muscles I’d watched him develop years ago. He had one hand in his pocket and the other wrapped around the neck of an empty beer bottle.
