? ? ?
The next day, Stanton, Sofia, Presley, and I arrive at Chelsea’s house after work. She hasn’t told Riley about the concert yet, wanted it to be a surprise. And she said she didn’t want to risk Riley’s shattering the windows with her screams of excitement.
Oh—and Brent tagged along too. Because I’ve mentioned Chelsea and the kids at lunch and he wants to meet them. Also, because he has no life.
We gather in the foyer and I make the introductions. Chelsea greets each of my friends warmly. She’s wearing a casual, pale blue shirtdress that displays miles of smooth, succulent legs. And I fantasize about Stanton taking the girls on his own, and Sofia and Brent taking the rest of the rabble. Far, far away.
“Hi,” Regan says to Sofia, toddling into the room and holding a stuffed bear who looks like he’s seen better days.
“Hi,” Sofia replies, smiling.
“Hi!” Regan squeaks.
“Hi!” Sofia laughs.
And here we fucking go again.
For my own sanity, I’ve gotta teach this kid another word.
Stanton and Brent pick up their conversation from lunch—the ongoing “perfect murder” game. “Drowning,” Brent says insistently, ticking off his points on his fingers. “Chances are the body will be too decomposed to retain any useful evidence, and there’s a built-in alibi because the defendant can always claim the person slipped. It worked like a charm for Natalie Wood’s husband.”
Stanton shakes his blond head. “I’m still stickin’ with an allergic reaction.”
Raymond adjusts his glasses and jumps into the conversation. “Are you guys talking about the best way to off somebody?”
They nod and Raymond’s face turns eager. “I know a way. You make a high-powered bullet out of ice. And fire it from a sniper’s rifle. After it passes through the heart, it’ll melt. No fingerprints. No footprints.”
We’re silent. Shocked.
And kind of freaked out.
“I just got goose bumps.” Brent shivers. “Did anyone else get goose bumps?”
Rosaleen steps forward, her eyes focused on Brent. “Why do you walk like that?” she asks innocently.
“Rosaleen!” Chelsea chides. “That’s rude.”
But from experience, I know it’s fine and I tell her so.
Brent explains to the seven-year-old. “I got hit by a car when I was a kid, lost part of my leg.” He lifts his pant leg, showing off his titanium prosthetic. “So be careful riding your bike.”
She regards him with a tilted head. “So they gave you a fake leg?”
“Yep.”
“Can you take it off and show me?”
“No.” Brent shakes his head.
Rosaleen considers this. Then she asks, “You wanna come see my playhouse outside? It has curtains.”
“Sure.” Brent checks his watch. “I’ve got time.”
Riley comes down the stairs, her eyes taking us all in. I introduce her to everyone. She smiles at Presley with a friendly, “Hey.” And Presley waves.
“Sooo”—Chelsea grins—“Jake has a surprise for you, Riley.” She gives me a look, tilting her head toward Riley, nudging me on.
I clear my throat and stick the tickets in the teenager’s hands, trying not to make it a big deal.
“Oh my god!!!” Riley screams.
And Cousin It howls in response.
“These are One Direction tickets! Front-row One Direction tickets!” Huge blue eyes brimming with elation look up into mine. “Are you serious?”
“Unfortunately.”
The twittering, enthusiastic, unintelligible chattering between her and Presley begins. And goes on.
And on.
Rory smirks at me. “You have to go to a One Direction concert?”
I nod reluctantly.
“Ha!” He laughs, pointing his finger. “Sucker.”
I glower. “Shut up, kid.”
? ? ?
Four and a half hours of screaming girls later, I can’t hear jack shit. Even driving back in Stanton’s car everything is muffled—the shouting, singing girls in the backseat sound like they’re annoying me from underwater.
The four of us walk in the front door and find Brent, Sofia, and Chelsea having coffee in the den. Sofia holds Ronan, asleep in her arms, and a fierce, hungry look crosses Stanton’s face as he gazes at her.
“How was it?” Chelsea asks, grinning at me in a fuck-hot, teasing sort of way.
I hold up my hand. “Don’t make me relive it. I’m trying to block it out.”
But that cat’s already been sprung from the bag. Presley and Riley tell Sofia and Chelsea every single detail, talking together and over each other. They’re big on terms like “OMG” and “can’t believe,” “best ever,” and . . . “OMG.”
“And then . . . ,” Riley screeches, grabbing her aunt’s hand, “Harry looked right at me!”
I squint Stanton’s way. “Which one was Harry again?”
“The one who needs a haircut.”
I try to distinguish them in my mind, but they all need a haircut.
“Daddy,” Presley asks, “can Riley sleep over?”