As all eyes in the room jerked in my direction, I felt no heat in my cheeks from embarrassment, no remorse at letting the thoughts in my head come tumbling out in a public way. No, I only felt the shock and rage an only child would when she learned her parents were moving without so much as an "Oh, by the way." Because, seriously-who does that?
Even from across the room, the tic in my father's jaw was visible, but like that ever stopped me. Or should I say, stopped my mouth.
"Paris," I said again, and then shook my head in disbelief. "Were you going to leave a note for me with the butler?"
"Don't be silly, Paige," my mother said, smiling and waving me off with her hand. "We're taking him with us."
… Do you see what I have to deal with?
"Music," my father called out to the conductor before I could say more of what was on my mind. Which, at the moment, was nothing but expletives.
As the orchestra kicked up a rousing selection from Mozart's The Marriage of Figaro, a heavy arm went around my shoulders, yet again, and then Dawson's lazy drawl was in my ear.
"Cheer up, love. Just think-no more awkward family dinners to endure."
I crossed my arms as I watched the strangers I called my parents shake hands and receive cheerful congrats from their friends. "Unless they force me to attend by sending a private jet, you mean."
"Most people would be thrilled at that prospect. Paris, private jets, a whole country of untapped men … "
I shot a glare his way. "This is shitty, and you know it."
His hands went up in the surrender position, just as his parents came up beside us.
Mr. and Mrs. Dawson. If ever there were Leave It To Beaver parents made reality, it was these two. That was, if the Beavers were worth a few billion dollars, lived in Beverly Hills, and ran a conglomerate of entertainment venues and companies.
"Paige, it's so nice to see you," Dawson's mom, Gail, said, wrapping me in a hug. She was a small woman, and I had to bend down to her level, but her hugs had always felt like a safe place, and tonight's was no different. She rubbed the space between my shoulder blades, and some of the tension my parents' revelation had caused seemed to ease. "If I'd known you had no idea, I would've said something before," she said, giving me an extra squeeze before letting go.
"No, you shouldn't have to do that," I said, trying for a smile. It didn't work.
Gail squeezed my hand. "I'm sure with all the chaos surrounding the move and the party that it must've slipped their minds."
"You don't have to defend them anymore. I know how they work by now." Yeah, twenty-nine years and slipping down on that priority list one rung at a time.
Dawson's father, Charles, placed his hand on my shoulder, and his eyes were full of concern. "You know you're welcome at our home anytime. Don't let Richard here keep you away."
"Thanks, Mr. D," I said, lifting up on my toes to give him a hug. Dawson definitely got his height and strong build from his father, and if genetics were anything to go by, he'd also end up strikingly good-looking, like his dad, once he hit his sixties.
Guyliner notwithstanding.
"Can we get you anything?" Gail asked, eyeing my empty martini glass. "Some food? Water?"
I shook my head. "I'm good, thanks. I plan to get good and liquored up, maybe toilet-paper a few party guests. The usual."
Charles and Gail looked at Dawson with similar expressions that said don't you dare let her do any of that, and by the way he gave the smallest of nods, it looked like I'd have a babysitter this evening.
A babysitter. In Vegas.
Greaaaaaat.
"Good to see you both, but if you'll excuse me," I said, turning away and heading for the bar. I got about two steps before Dawson reached out and pulled me back to him.
"Oh, no you don't."
"Oh, yes I do. I've got an alcohol quota to fill, and I've never let my liver down. I don't plan on starting now."
"I'm not saying you can't. I'm saying not here."
"Why? Afraid I'll show my ass?"
A sly smile lifted the corners of Dawson's lips. "That, love, is nothing I'd be afraid of."
Something in the way he said that, and the way his gaze was steady on mine, caused my heartbeat to trip, like I'd stumbled into an unexpected pothole in the road. I opened my mouth to let loose a sassy retort, but when nothing came out, I frowned. And that only served to make Dawson's smile grow wider.
Wanker bastard.
"A word, if I may," came my father's thunderous voice behind us, and I flinched momentarily before squaring my shoulders. As I turned to face him, I noticed the way Dawson stayed close, his hand moving from my arm to the small of my back. No doubt he wished he had me on a leash right now in case I made any sudden moves, like gouging eyeballs and crushing nuts. Though that was probably more up Quinn's alley than mine, if she was the ninja assassin we all joked she was. Note to self: ask Quinn to give us all self-defense lessons.
I stared up at the man with the same cerulean eyes as mine and wondered if it could be remotely possible that he wasn't my father, but merely some animatronic replacement designed to look a lot like the real thing. That could be the only explanation for the heartless way he went about treating his only daughter, right?
I know, I know. It's too early for the daddy-doesn't-love-me spiel.
Giving him as fake a smile as I could muster, I said, "I suppose you may."
He crossed his arms and lowered his chin, assuming what I'd always called his "stern parental stance."
"You embarrassed your mother and me tonight," he said, inclining his head toward my mother, who was standing nearby, smiling and laughing freely with the L.A. mayor's wife. Yeah, she looked horrified, all right.
"Liles," he said, snapping his fingers, and when my mother looked up and caught his expression, she quickly joined his side.
"Oh, Paige, don't be upset. You'll love Paris," my mother said. "We've already been invited to dine with the prime minister, and his son is about your age. Perhaps we could arrange-"
I waved my hands and shook my head vehemently. They'd officially lost their minds. "No. Hell no. I'm not going to visit you, I'm not dining with prime ministers, and I'm sure as fuck not letting you arrange a date to further your interests."
"Paige," my mother said in surprise, just as my father hissed out, "That's quite enough."
Maybe it was what people refer to as a psychotic break. Maybe it'd just been twenty-nine years of neglected bullshit, or maybe, just maybe, there was more vodka swirling around in my bloodstream than I'd realized, because I lost control of all the fucks I had to give.
"Quite enough?" I echoed, and louder, "Quite enough? Hah! No, quite enough happened when I was six and you packed your dog instead of your daughter for the family vacation to Telluride and I had to spend two weeks with the housekeeper. Or when I was eight and you told me Santa wasn't real and handed me your credit card to, and I quote, 'buy my own damn presents from now on.'"
My father's face had gone tomato red. "Paige-"
"Oh, and let's not forget about the fact that you were so disappointed that I was a girl that when I was born, you handed me back to the nurse and offered to pay under the table to, and I quote, 'switch me for a son.'"
Dawson's hand went to my waist, pulling me back so I didn't go any further, and then he whispered my name in warning, an attempt to curb my mouth, but there was no way I was stopping now.
"Oh, Dawson, I can't go without reminding them about the time I caught Mom licking powdered sugar off the pool boy's abs." I feigned a big smile and gave my mom a nudge. "Not really sure if I'm dad's biological kid, are ya?"
Gasps echoed around the room.
"Aaand we're leaving," Dawson said, and before I knew he was going to do it, he had me over his shoulder, fireman-style, and was heading for the exit. I didn't even bother putting up a protest. I was ready to get the hell out of there.
"Have fun in Paris, everyone," I called out as Dawson picked up the pace. "I hope you all choke on escaaargooooot!"
"Jesus, Paige," Dawson said under his breath, as I bounced along his backside, my middle fingers raised high while we made our way through the crowd of gawking onlookers. The looks on their faces were priceless. It made me wish I could stick around to hear them talk about how "scandalous that Traynor-Ashcroft girl is."
What a bunch of kiss-ass prudes. KISS-ASS PRUDES, I SAY.
Once we were out the door, Dawson didn't stop, but kept going down the long hall that would eventually lead to the casino floor. "You know, this is a perfect example of why I call you Pita."
"Why? Because I stick up for myself? Because I call people out when they're assholes? Because I have fucking balls of steel?"
One of the bellhops we passed stopped in his tracks at my admission, and stared at me with wide eyes.
"What?" I asked. "You wanna see my steel balls? Dawson, put me down so I can show him."
Instead of doing what I asked, he delivered a firm slap to my ass in an effort to shut me up. Hmm. He gave a good ass slap. I wondered if he did the same in-
Whoaaaaa, buddy. Nope. Uh-uh. Not going there. I squeezed my eyes shut and pictured my celebrity crush, David Garrett, in an attempt to rid myself of that visual.