“Tristian,” he starts, and from the sound of his voice, he’s got a lot to say about what’s going down tonight. I watch him start and stop, visibly piecing together all his grievances with this. In the end, all he says is, “What are you doing?”
“Pre-gaming.” I swallow the spicy liquid, catching his gaze in the mirror over the bar. He’s in a t-shirt and sweats, but I’m in a three-thousand dollar tuxedo, handpicked by the biggest Karen in town, my mother. I’d much rather be him for the night. “The Mercer Christmas party is a subtle form of torture. It’s best if I’m loosened up before I go.”
“And you’ve decided to drag Story into it?”
I place the glass on the bar and run my fingers through my hair—arranging it into the perfect mix of messy and styled. “She can handle it.”
“And your parents?”
He knows the answer to that. We all do. Although my mother played nice at the football game when they first met, that was just societal niceties. It’s the same way she pretends to accept Posey. It’s surface deep, artificial. At the game, Killian is the star, and it’s worth pretending the Paynes are acceptable company. But outside of that, their status drops. Significantly. The truth is that our blood and money are bluer than a priest’s balls. There are expectations and Story Austin doesn’t meet the criteria.
“They’ll survive,” I reply, not exactly believing it, but there’s a reason I’m bringing Story home with me. I’m making a point. One they’ll have to accept. When all he does is glare back at me, I try, “Jesus, Killer. I thought if anyone could understand the need to blow your life up a little, it’d be you.”
“She’s not a bomb, she’s our Lady.” He walks around the back of the bar and fixes me with a firm stare. “Don’t send her into your twisted family bullshit just to prove a point.”
I take in his narrowed eyes, the way that tendon in his neck is starting to pulse, and arch an eyebrow. “So only you’re allowed to do that?”
His brows crouch low. “Fuck you.”
“This would be so much easier if we could just have our Christmas party.” Rath pulls the earbuds out one at a time and looks up from his phone. “You could make whatever grand gesture you have planned there without sullying your perfect son status.”
“You think I’d declare my intentions for Story at the Lord’s Christmas party?”
It’s like these people don’t even know me.
Usually, the LDZ party is held on Christmas Eve and consumes a two-block radius around the brownstone. Since the Lords are South Side royalty, the two worlds often collide, making it wild enough that people are still talking about it come St. Patty’s Day. I barely even remember last year’s party, aside from absolutely demolishing the Barons in Jingle Bell Pong and Killian nailing a petite little brunette on the pool table downstairs. She had bells on her pigtails that jingled every time he thrusted inside. The year before that featured a casualty count; nine citations for indecent exposure, four cases of alcohol poisoning, three contributions to the delinquency of minors, two assaults with deadly weapons, and a partridge in a pear tree. The Lords’ Christmas bash is infamous enough to draw half the presence of the local police force.
But not this year.
Ted has forced us to lock the doors and shut ourselves up. We still have big things planned, but it’ll be smaller. Just the four of us. I refuse to let Ted take Christmas from us, too. The bastard has ruined enough this year.
“I think you’re a glutton for punishment,” Rath says, re-plugging his ears and going back to his phone. We may have downsized the party, but he’s still going to make a kick-ass playlist.
“This isn’t just about making a statement to them,” I tell Killer, straightening my bowtie. “She needs to know what she is.” Giving him a pointed look, I stress, “To us, and to me.”
I know he understands when he drops his arms, losing that bullying posture of his. “Christ, Tris.” He runs his fingers through his hair, for once looking at a loss. “If that’s what you want, can’t you just buy her fucking flowers or something?”
I bring my hand down on his shoulder, giving him a little shake. “Brother, you give me so little credit.”
We’re interrupted by the click-clack of heels approaching down the hall. I swallow the last bit of my drink just as Story enters the den, sweeping through the arched doorway like something out of a movie. A ball of fire burns in my chest and I know it’s not the whiskey. “Goddamn,” I mutter under my breath, abandoning the glass.