"Dean." Jaime grabbed my wrist as I turned to walk through the door to get my pants.
"Baby," I purred into his face, smirking. "I know I'm irresistible, but I'm sure Mel is more flexible, with that ballerina background and all." Jaime narrowed his eyes at me and threw my wrist like it was dirt.
"Jesus, can you un-creep yourself for a second? Listen, I'm the last person to lecture you about who to be with."
"Because you fucked my lit teacher when I was eighteen." I nodded on a laugh. "Married her, knocked her up, and almost gave your mom a heart attack in the process. Yeah, agreed. Neither you nor Vicious can tell me what to do."
"But." He raised his voice, and damn, Jaime Followhill had some authority in him, I'd almost forgotten. "I swear to God, Dean, if this is just another one-night stand, and you're going to screw around with the dynamics of our group-with our families and friends-for a quick bang … "
"It's not just a fuck," I gritted out. I needed to remind myself that Jaime had a good reason for poking the subject. I'd been known as the one to shove his dick into anything that has two legs and a dress, so what the fuck was I expecting? But I wasn't Vicious. I wasn't blind to what had been in front of me for years. I owned up to what I wanted from this girl from day one.
I never pursued anyone this hard, and with Rosie, I didn't even decide to do it. It was like Jimmy Fallon's career. It just kind of happened before anyone could stop it.
"What are your intentions?" Jaime asked, holding my gaze, serious as a fucking funeral. What are my intentions? Living in London made him sound like a British lord or some shit. Making fun of him should have been first priority, but a part of me wanted him-and other people-to stop fucking talking to me like I was a male hooker who refused to slow down until his dick fell off.
"Jaime," I snarled, nostrils flaring. I got in his face, feeling like a raging eighteen- year-old again. "I didn't ask you what the fuck your intentions were when you bent Mel over her desk and fucked the shit out of her in the classroom, so you don't get to ask me the same question. Rosie is a big girl. People need to stop acting like she's an old pet no one wants. What we have between us is ours. Not yours. Not Vicious's, and not Emilia's. Anyone who thinks differently is welcome to settle this with me. And, true to our brotherhood's fashion, I won't be nice, polite, or apologetic about it. Am I clear?"
I didn't wait for an answer. I turned around and walked away. I had a date to go to.
She just didn't know it yet.
What makes you feel alive?
Lusting after someone. So badly your center aches, your eyesight is blurry and your morals are thrown out the window.
MY SISTER WASN'T DRINKING.
That was the only thing that occupied my mind. Not the fact that we had a kick-ass time. Not the amazing Britney Spears show. Not the distorted, tall, radioactive-looking alcoholic drinks we carried with us all day. But the fact that Millie did not consume a drop of them, or any other type of alcohol.
We had French roots. For us, partying without wine or champagne was like dancing without limbs.
Glaring at her from the corner of a loud, crowded nightclub with neon lights and sweaty, half-naked bodies, I sucked on my straw, inhaling another cocktail.
"Your sister is sooo knocked up." Elle popped her big, pink gum while checking herself in the reflection of a shimmering piece of hale-shaped mirrors draping from the ceiling. We were all wearing the same type of dress-pink, Emilia's favorite color-with sweetheart neckline and ruffled layers of thin, soft-fabric. I found one at a thrift shop. It screamed Millie to the sky and back, so I purchased it, contacted the brand, and ordered four more for all of us.
"She's not," I insisted, but it was futile. Even I didn't believe myself. "I'm the closest person to her. She'd never hide it from me."
"She's not drinking, looks like crap, and she ate a cupcake with fried pickles on top for lunch. I rest my case, but if you need me to make her pee on a stick, I know a guy who makes things happen." Elle leaned on the wall beside me.
I glared at my sister. Millie shook her ass with Gladys and Sydney on the dance floor, flipping her sweaty hair back and forth and mouthing the words to "The Thong Song" by Sisqó. Maybe the DJ had lost a bet that night. No one knows. But I was in no mood to be a music snob.
Elle patted my shoulder. "There, there. You have a good buzz going on, and you don't want to venture into plastered territory. Put down the drink. Let's dance a little."