“Need to get home; have shit to do.” Just the thought of spending a lot of time in this house with her gives me the sweats.
As if on cue, my eyes slide to the backdoor that leads to the pool. The sound of Rosie’s laughter rings through my head, and I pinch the bridge of my nose to push it back. Stay on your feet.
“I’ll be in touch.”
She smiles and sinks into the couch with her glass of wine and the remote. Her idea of quitting ended up being a switch from hard liquor to wine.
I quick walk my ass to the car, feeling like I’m being chased by ghosts from the past. Once in the car, I hit Eve’s contact info on my phone while backing out of the driveway. It goes straight to voicemail. Huh.
No text messages, but I have one missed call from Slade. I hit his contact info and wait for the ring.
“Cam,” Jonah answers sounding pissed, but that’s not unusual.
“You call?”
“Just dropped your woman off at your place. Your boy let her in.”
“Eve?” Fuck, stupid question.
“I certainly motherfuckin’ hope so, man.”
“You feel like tellin’ me why?”
“Girl’s drunk as shit.”
What? My dash says it’s only eight o’clock at night. She was working until late afternoon. “What the hell did she get up to?”
“Sat by the pool with my girl all day, hit the tequila girls-gone-wild-style. Fed her, hydrated her, but she’s still drunk as shit.”
This doesn’t sound like Eve. The night we met she was pulling from that Long Island and cringing as if she were drinking battery acid.
“Not all day.” I lay a little heavier on the gas. “She worked until this afternoon.”
“That’s not the story I’m hearin’. She showed up early.”
“Any clue why she’s feelin’ the need to get hammered hanging out with a pregnant woman all day?”
No answer.
Fuck me.
“Slade, what the fuck?”
“Think you need to talk to your woman.”
Shit. “Right.”
“Later.”
I hit End and point the Maserati toward home. Even if her day was filled with girl talk and booze, why would she want to be brought to my house?
This can’t good.
Twenty-Two
Eve
“I love this song! Turn it up!” I bob my head to “21st Century Digital Boy” by Bad Religion while lounging in a super comfy black beanbag chair in Ryder’s room.
As soon as Jonah dropped me off, Ryder let me in and dragged me to his room to check out his extensive music collection. I was expecting shelves lined with CDs, but this guy has a full-blown music database on his computer that’s hooked up to one of the most intricate sound systems I’ve ever seen.
Ryder drums to the beat on his bed with actual drumsticks while I’m slumped into a beanbag chair, foot tapping, and singing into my thumb. I haven’t been here long, but I’m slowly feeling my buzz recede and hope I’m sober by the time Cameron gets home to avoid making a complete ass out of myself.
“Do you like Alkaline Trio?” Ryder yells over the blaring music.
“Love them!”
He leans over and moves the mouse, clicks, and “I Wanna Be a Warhol” comes screaming through the speakers. I close my eyes, sing, and smile at how easy it is to get lost in a good song. I have a shitty voice, but damn if belting out the words to a song doesn’t make me feel like Celine Dion.
“Eve, guitar solo!” Ryder smiles big, his hair isn’t all spiked out today, and he’s not wearing any of the eyeliner that I’ve seen on him in the past. He looks a lot like his mom, almost pretty, but with a rugged edge that is all Cameron.
I roll out of my beanbag cocoon and jump to my feet, air guitar hands in place.
“Here it comes! You ready?”
“Yeah, dude!” I nod and motion to my invisible guitar. “Can’t you see?”
He laughs but doesn’t break the constant beat with the sticks. The guitar solo rings through the speakers and I shred it out on my air guitar. Knees bent, arms straight, and leaning back like I’m Flea from the Chili Peppers, I jump up on the bed, grateful that I’d slipped off my shoes earlier, and bounce while jamming out, air guitar flying, to finish off the song with everything I have left. As the last chord rings out, I drop to the bed, breathing hard and laughing my ass off.
Damn, that was fun.
“Good job, punk rock girl.”
I hold up one hand and bring my thumb to my lips. “You’ve been a great crowd, Las Vegas. Thank you and good night.” I swing my arm to dangle my fist off the bed then open my hand to mimic my dropping of the mic.
The deep sound of Ryder’s laugh fills the room but is abruptly cut off.
“What the fuck’s going on in here?”
I push up on my elbows to find Cameron standing in the doorway, his jaw hard, muscles bulging, fists clenched. I cringe away from his hard glare.
“Listening to some music.” Ryder drops his drumsticks, and now I can see there’s something else he’s inherited from his father. His scowl. And it’s pointed directly at his dad. “What did you think was going on?”