Owned: A Mafia Menage Romance(81)
“Oh, yeah,” Declan agreed. “She’s got the dwarves, right?”
“No that’s Arwen,” I shot back, pleased with my nerdy knowledge of The Hobbit.
“She’s right,” Jackson declared with a friendly grin, raising his eyebrows at Declan. Apparently I had won some kind of clever game of wordplay, or at least won their respect by the looks of it.
“Eh, you’re just trying to win her over,” Declan sneered. I glanced at Jackson shyly, my cheeks sore from grinning so hard. Who knew hanging out with the rich and mysterious could be so much fun?
Declan checked out the LA skyline as it tipped into view, still all draped in its morning blanket of ochre smog.
“Can we drop you somewhere?”
“No, I’d rather land first,” I chuckled.
“Wow, you really are quick,” Jackson muttered admiringly.
“I’m a legend in my own mind,” I nodded.
“Well how about a ride to the gallery?” Declan offered.
“Actually I have a ride waiting for me,” I said with an apologetic chuckle. “Rain check.”
“Sure,” Jackson responded. It was tough getting used to their tag-team technique of each answering the questions as though they were each equally likely to have been asked. Turning my head back and forth between them was its own kind of exercise.
***
After we landed, I beat a hasty retreat and dodged into the nearest ladies room to relieve myself of the gallon of coffee I had just consumed. As I sat, I texted Bridget with caffeinated, quaking fingers.
Come get me.
Fuck you, came her instant, charming response.
No srsly, please come get me.
Wat?? Take a cab!
Can’t.
OMG I hate u.
I know. Thank you.
I seemed to pee forever, but I was happy to have a good reason for hiding out in the ladies room besides waiting for the Burkes to find their limo or matching Lamborghinis or whatever and go do their thing.
Eventually I emerged, joining the flow of foot traffic out the front door into the bright glare of the LA morning. At least a half-dozen women and men dressed like women hung out on the curb in brightly colored last-night’s-party dresses, and I felt blessedly inconspicuous.
Bridget came roaring up in her seventh-hand BMW with the windows down and the stereo blasting Missy Elliott. She screeched to a halt in front of me and I yanked the door open and leapt in, knowing from experience that if I hesitated, she would start rolling again whether I had safely gotten my arms and legs inside or not.
“Thanks,” I singsonged happily, then checked out her jawline for signs that she was gearing up to yell at me. Though her hands gripped the wheel like she was trying to choke it to death, that knot of muscle in her temple stayed unclenched so I knew I was safe. She was probably distracted from the show.
“Why am I driving you?” she finally snarled.
“I don’t have any money,” I answered immediately.
“Why don’t you have any money?”
“Because the show doesn’t open until tonight.”
I saw her nostrils flare at my answer. Not good.
“Why don’t you have any money?” she asked again, jamming on the brakes for a red light.
“Ehhhhhhhh,” I groaned. “Because I spent it on a plane ticket, Ma!”
“You spent it on a plane ticket to--”
“Because I spent it on a plane ticket to San Francisco to hook up with Kevin!”
“Right,” she nodded. “And did you hook up with Kevin?”
I sighed.
“What?” she persisted, weaving dangerously between electric cars that didn’t pick up fast enough when the light turned green.
“No I did not hook up with Kevin. Come on, Bridge. You already know this.”
“Well, I know this,” she shot back irritably. “But you don’t seem to let it sink in.”
“Yeah well…”
“Well what?” she asked, narrowly missing a woman on a bicycle with a multi-colored baby trailer behind it.
“Jesus, Bridge, slow down.”
“I can’t slow down, because now we’re late. I had to go pick up one of my artists from the airport because she blew her last penny on some balding real estate agent who dumped her months ago.”
“Fuck,” I responded.
“Exactly.”
“You look like a hooker,” she sneered, cutting her eyes toward me and blowing off the next yellow light by flooring it.
“How can you tell?” I retorted, checking out her leopard-print miniskirt and wide leather belt. Her breasts swayed heavily in her burgundy bra, clearly visible beneath the black sheer top she had cinched inside the belt.
“Whatever, fuck you,” she snarled.
“Your snappy comebacks are leaving something to be desired,” I observed. “I really don’t feel like you’re giving me your best this morning.”