Savage Hearts （Queens & Monsters #3）
J.T. Geissinger
To Jay, my reason for everything.
And though she be but little, she is fierce.
—— William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream
1
Riley
When my phone rings, I’m in the middle of editing a manuscript I’m behind on, so I ignore it and let the machine pick up.
Answering machines and land lines are old-school, I know, but I don’t own a cell phone. I hate the idea of my every movement being trackable. And that Siri thing is just straight-up creepy, if you ask me.
A phone that’s smarter than I am? No, thank you.
After my outgoing message informs the caller that I’m currently on another astral plane and they should leave a message I’ll return when I manifest into flesh again, there’s a beep. It’s followed by a heavy sigh.
“Riley. It’s your sister.”
I send the answering machine on my dresser across the room a look of shock. “Sister?” I think for a moment. “Nope. Pretty sure I don’t have one of those.”
Sloane’s voice turns bossy. “I know you’re listening, because you’re the only person in the world who still owns an answering machine. Plus, you never leave the house. Pick up.”
It’s amazing she thinks barking insults and orders at me would work. It’s like she doesn’t even know me.
Oh, wait. Now I remember! She doesn’t know me. Which is totally not my fault, but leave it to Sloane to call out of the blue and act like I owe her money.
Shaking my head in disgust, I turn back to the computer screen and get back to work.
“Riley. Seriously. This is important. I need to talk to you.” There’s a heavy pause, then her voice drops. “Please.”
My fingers freeze over the keyboard.
Please? Sloane doesn’t say please. I didn’t think she knew the word. Divas don’t have it in their vocabularies.
Something must be terribly wrong.
“Oh, shit,” I say, panicking. “Dad.”
I rush over to the phone and yank the receiver up to my ear. “What’s happened?” I shout. “What’s wrong? Is it Dad? Which hospital is he in? How bad is it?”
After a short pause, Sloane says, “Gee, overreact much?”
I can tell by her tone that there’s nothing wrong with our father. I’m relieved for half a second, then pissed.
I don’t have time for her bullshit right now.
“I’m sorry, you’ve reached a disconnected number. Please hang up and try again.”
“Ah, sarcasm. The last resort of the witless.”
“Speaking of witless, I’m not in the mood to have a battle of wits with an unarmed opponent. Call me back when you grow a brain.”
“Why do you insist on pretending I’m not a genius?”
“An idiot savant isn’t the same thing as a genius.”
“Just because you graduated summa cum laude from an Ivy League college doesn’t mean you’re smarter than me.”
“This from a person who once asked me how many quarters there are in a dollar.”
“If you’re so smart, tell me again why you’re a freelance editor with no health insurance, job security, or retirement savings?”
“Wow. Straight to money. It must be convenient, having no soul. Makes all those poor men you chew up and spit out that much easier to deal with, huh?”
We sit in tense silence for a while. Finally, Sloane clears her throat and says, “Actually, that’s what I’m calling about.”
“Money?”
“Men. One in particular.”
I wait for an explanation. When it doesn’t come, I say, “Are we going to play twenty questions, or are you going to tell me what the hell you’re talking about?”
Sloane takes a deep breath. She blows it out. Then, in a tone like she almost can’t believe it herself, she says, “I’m getting married.”
I blink an unnecessary amount of times. It doesn’t help clarify anything. “I’m sorry, I thought I just heard you say you’re getting married.”
“You did. I am.”
I huff out a disbelieving laugh. “You. The cockaholic. Married.”
“Yes.”
I say flatly, “Impossible.”
Unexpectedly, she laughs. “I know, right? But it’s true. Pinky swear. I’m getting married to the most wonderful man in the world.”
Her sigh is soft, satisfied, and totally fucking ridiculous.
“Are you high right now?”