“All set, miss?” Felix asked. I nodded, and he shut the door.
I gripped the steering wheel and sighed. I hadn’t started a car in seven years—since my driving test. I was sitting inside a vehicle I didn’t own, in front of a house I didn’t own, on land I didn’t own … wearing clothes my parents had bought. They owned me, and I let them because it was convenient. Not that I hadn’t tried to buck the system in high school, but arguing meant I wasn’t appreciative, whether or not I’d asked for the things I had.
I grit my teeth and put the car into drive. My bitter inner monologue was constant because I couldn’t say aloud what I was really thinking or feeling. Complaining was offensive to my father and everyone else. I had nothing to complain about. I was the girl with everything. The more money and material things my parents threw at me, the bigger the void became. But I couldn’t tell them that; I couldn’t tell anyone. To have everything and feel nothing was the worst kind of selfishness.
I pulled into the driveway, motoring slowly for a full mile until I reached the entrance of my parents’ chateau. At the press of a button, the copper gate obeyed, swinging toward me, slow and steady. My cell phone buzzed, and a picture of Finley appeared on my screen, her lips pursed in full duck face. She was looking up to fully display her turquoise eyes and thick, authentic mink lash extensions.
I pressed the phone button on the steering wheel, pulling forward through the open gate. “Hey, Fin.”
Finley’s voice surrounded me. “Tired, Elliebee?”
“A little.”
“Good. I hope you feel like shit, you spoiled bitch. Why didn’t you tell me you were having a party last night?”
“Uh, because you’re in Rio?”
“So?”
“I didn’t figure you’d want to waste your Brazilian wax on a random keg party in the mountains with the locals.”
“Is it cold?”
“Definitely not bikini weather.”
“Our hot tub has determined that is a lie. Did you get laid?” She had already forgotten about the mild offense and settled into sister mode.
Finley Edson was the eldest daughter of Edson Tech, and on a direct path to rule with an iron fist that happened to have perfectly manicured nails. We were heiresses, but unlike me, Finley embraced it. Finley was two years older, but she was my best friend, the only one left from our childhood who I could still stomach. The rest had become vapid clones of their mothers.
“I don’t kiss and tell,” I said, turning toward downtown.
“Yes, you do. Was it the local you were telling me about?”
“Paige? No. She’s sweet. Too fucked up for me to use.”
“I’m not sure I believe that person exists.”
“She does, and her name is Paige.”
“You’re getting soft in your old age, Ellie. If we were still at Berkeley, you’d have been all over that just to break her heart. So who was it?”
I cringed at her description, but only because she was right. I’d been the source of pain for most of the people I’d come into contact with, mostly because I didn’t care, but a small part of me enjoyed the temporary distraction from my own pain.
“Do you always have to remind me of my dysfunction?”
“Yes. Don’t change the subject.”
“He’s an Interagency Hotshot guy.”
“A firefighter? Ick.”
“No, not ick. He’s the elite. They deploy them like soldiers to the frontline.”
“That’s kind of hot,” she conceded.
“He was refreshing … let me wipe him off and send him on his way without blinking an eye. And he was hot. So, so hot. Maybe a ten.”
“A ten? Like a solid ten, or barely a ten?”
“Mid-ten. He missed the trashcan when he tossed the condom, but he can fight. Like really fight. He beat a guy’s ass twice his size in the middle of the gallery last night. He’s built like David Beckham. Maybe a little thicker. He’s covered in tattoos, and he smells like Marlboro Reds and copper.”
“Copper?”
“He had the other guy’s blood splattered on his clothes.”
“You let them fight in the gallery last night? Was anything broken?”
“The better question is what didn’t get broken.”
“Ellie.” Her tone turned serious. “Mother is going to flip.”
“Do not parent me from Brazil. I already have two absentee parents. I don’t need you.”
“Fine, it’s your funeral. Or rather, your trust fund’s funeral. I’m intrigued about the boy. I might get on a plane and cover up my wax and pedi with leggings and boots. Oh.” She paused. “Marco? I need flannel shirts!”
“Don’t bring Marco,” I warned.
“He comes with me everywhere. His speaking Portuguese has made the trip here a breeze.”
“He’s not coming here. You’re different when he’s around.”