One Last Rainy Day: The Legacy of a Prince(103)

But as of this morning, the three of us are commiserating together.

While Sean and my annihilations were swift, Tyler’s happiness will be stolen by the day.

Delphine’s last scan results came back, and her brief remission is over.

The stars have been generous in doling out more future, and I curse every one of those mother fuckers. For their unapologetic theft from Tyler and for allowing me a glimpse of heaven I can’t steal back. Tilting my bottle in defiance of them, I softly whisper, “fuck you.”

Pain spikes, and the consumed liquor attempts but fails to dissolve it in time as it spreads like the thrumming bass through the bay.

Getting swept in by the threatening burn, it’s the sudden thwack ringing out through the bay, cutting through the noise, that brings me somewhat back into the present. Tyler whips his head in our direction as all of us perk. It’s when the crash rings out again, the shatter of glass registering, that Tyler races into the lobby.




The music is cut abruptly, and all movement ceases as every bird in the garage postures up, their attention on the bay door just as Tyler announces the source from where he stands in the lobby. “It’s Cecelia . . . and she doesn’t fucking look happy.”

Another crash and shatter outside has Sean’s eyes darting to mine before he stalks toward the door, speaking up. “I’ve got it.”

Tyler joins him, and just as Sean lifts it, glass shatters inches from his face. He shields himself at the last second, expelling a “Jesus, fuck.”

Cecelia hurls more bottles toward us, and a few birds manage to dodge them as I flick my blunt. Sean takes a step toward her as her eyes dart from him to me—a flash of hurt flits through her livid gaze when she sweeps my whiskey-muted profile. Layla speaks up, caution in her voice, as she tries to reason with her while stunned by the state of her. “Cecelia . . . baby, what’s going on?”

Layla—who’s not in the know about any of what’s transpired in the last twenty-four hours—looks between Sean and me. “What did you fuckers do?”

The better question is, what haven’t we done to her?

The look of disgust in Cecelia’s expression, the wrath in her posture, says it all as she darts her focus around, betrayal and vengeance warring in her eyes.

I know the feeling, baby.

“Don’t bother,” she snaps in response to Layla’s gentle coaxing. “Don’t pretend to give a damn about me.”

“You know I didn’t have a choice,” Layla replies in a guilt-riddled tone.

“Oh bullshit,” Cecelia counters with a vicious bite, “you had a choice. You chose them. And guess what? You deserve them.”

“I’m sorry,” Layla offers in apology.

“Save it,” Cecelia refutes it, “you’ve all made your point. I think it’s time I made one of my own.” Lifting the gas can in her hand, she pours the rest of it into a large puddle in front of her, which serves as a barrier between us and the idling Jeep behind her. Between the beam of the headlights behind her and the light in the garage, I drink in every detail as the consumed whiskey fails to stifle the budding ache.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Sean snaps, surveying the damage to our lot as she lifts a bottle, rag soaked.

Tyler speaks up next, just as taken aback. “Jesus Christ, Cecelia, what the hell are you doing?!”

“Who did it?!” she demands as confusion sets in as to why Tobias went through with it—and apparently didn’t cop to it. Sean takes another step forward as she lifts the bottle in threat. “Take another step before I get my answer, and I’ll light this, and we’ll all see where it lands. Don’t fucking push me, Sean.”

“Put it down,” Sean orders, stunned by her wrath, but I know better.

Have known.

“Who did this to me?!” She shrieks.

Even as she declares war on us, inciting a one-person riot, tossing accusations, I know she’s barely scratched the surface of who she’ll eventually become. She looks so goddamned beautiful—even in her rage-induced state—that no amount of buzz can dull that. Pride floods me as she refuses to back down even as she hurls accusations and insults between Sean and me.

Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.

“. . . You want me. Here I fucking am!”

Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.

“. . . speak up, and you can come get your fucking prize!” With that, she strikes a Zippo in threat as Sean calls out to her in panic. “Cecelia, don’t!”

I can see it all over her. She has no intention of listening. Pushing off the wall, I start to move toward her, birds parting, a few of them tossing insults and ill-timed jokes at her expense.

“Bitch has lost her mind.”

“You must’ve dicked her good, Dom.”

Fixed on her, I steadily make my way toward her as they start to realize what she did before announcing her arrival.

“What the fuck? . . . She slashed our fucking tires!”

Raising a hand to shut them up, I keep my pace as she zeroes in on me with her threat. “I swear to God, Dominic. I’ll light this place up.”

Of that, I have no doubt, baby.

“Stop!” she orders, and I do.

“Why?” she looks between us, “Why?!” She turns then, giving us a view of her fresh ink. In my peripheral, I see Sean stiffen as the sight of it nauseates me, and she hurls more insults.