Busted (Stacked Deck Book 11)

by Emilia Finn

  “I’m not sure I can say the same in return,” I admit. “You’re a good picker too, so he’ll probably be fine. But I don’t know that I know how to like other guys around you.”

  “You’re territorial,” she murmurs. “We already knew that.”

  “I won’t stab him or anything. But I might invite him to train with me sometimes.”

  “So you can beat him up and call it sport?”

  “Uh-huh.” Chuckling, I rest heavier against her legs and let my hand dangle. She’s small, skinny and lanky, so my hand by her thigh looks huge. Like a man’s already. “It’s allowed, because it’s sport.”

  “Hey, Fart?”

  My lips pull up into a lazy smile. “Mm?”

  “I love you.”

  “Mm.” I sigh with contentment and relax into the next few hours of my perfect life. “I love you too, EmKat. Forever.”

  Emma

  PROM

  “Mom?” I stand in front of the full-length mirror in Mom and Daddy’s bedroom, and slide a hand over my hips. My gown is royal blue, my hair icy blonde and long enough to tickle the middle of my back. My nails are done, when they’re normally not. My makeup is professional, thanks to my makeup artist aunt. And my heels – well, they’re actually Rob’s mom’s.

  Casey “Tink” Hart has the most extensive heel collection of all the women on our estate, and though it doesn’t work out for my mom, since they wear different sizes, for now, while I’m still young, Tink and I are the same size. I won’t have this luxury for much longer, considering I’m growing taller with each day that passes, but for now, I have the pick of the bunch, so I chose sparkling silver pumps that give me an extra few inches in height.

  My date tonight is head and shoulders taller than me, so it works out.

  “Mom!”

  “I’m coming.”

  Katherine Kincaid – Kit – is a good mom. One of the best, and though I’m aware not all moms are great – her mom was a tool, and Rob’s paternal grandmother was a full-fledged twat – the one I got means I basically hit the genetic lottery. Kit Kincaid is smart and funny, sassy and silly, but she’s serious when I need to be slowed down, and she has a spine of steel for when I get my sass on and forget my place in this family.

  My mother is firm, but fair. She’s my friend, and there are many daughters in the world who can’t or won’t say that about their mother. Add in that my dad might be the original gentleman, the kindest, fairest, bravest, smartest, most chivalrous of all men on this planet, and I know how a smart, respectful relationship works.

  “Here, baby.” Mom finally rushes back into the room with a pin held between her teeth, and her hand overflowing with ribbon.

  She and I look similar. Not the same, but it’s easy to see the resemblance. The cheekbones and eyes, the hair and dimple. But tonight, there’s a stark contrast as she rushes up behind me, and I see us both in the mirror. She’s wearing jeans and a slouchy top. Her hair is tied up in a messy bun on the top of her head, and her face is bare of all makeup but for a little gloss on her lips, though I know she does that for the moisture, and not for the aesthetics.

  I, on the other hand, look like royalty. The dress. The heels. The hair and makeup.

  When you’re the daughter of the Kit Kincaid, and sister to Brooklyn the Beautiful, it’s hard to feel anything more than plain. It’s not like I’m bitter about that; I love my mom and sister with my whole heart, and I don’t begrudge them their beauty, but for this one moment in time, this night, I thrill at the feeling of being the most beautiful woman in the room.

  Mom fusses with my hair. It’s mostly all down, but she pulls a few pieces back and fastens them with the clip she brought in. “This is Grandma’s,” she murmurs as she works. Her eyes are on my hair. Her attention focused purely on what she’s doing. “She wanted you to wear it tonight, since the sapphires match your gown.” She smiles as she works, and when she’s done, she stops for a moment and stares. “Your blonde beside the clip… they complement each other really well.”

  “Is Grandma here?” I turn when Mom removes her hands from my hair, and now, thanks to my heels, she and I are almost the same height.

  I’ve been the baby my whole life, the guarded and protected – perhaps that’s why I insist on sneaking out and burning off my crazy with Rob – but right in this moment, I don’t feel like the baby. Looking the way I do… I feel like a woman.

  “Is she downstairs, Mom?”

  She nods and plays with my fingers. “She’s waiting in the living room. Fair warning, so is your dad, and Bry, and every other person in the world. They wanna see you.”

  I burst out in soft snickers. “Rob is attending prom tonight too. Is no one waiting to see his suit?”

  “Baby, he’s downstairs too.” She reaches up and fixes a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “He already picked up his date, and they’re waiting with everyone else. And that boy, Calvin Preston—”

  “Pratt.”

  She grins so her dimple pops. “I know. I was just making sure you were paying attention. He’s downstairs too.”

  My stomach tingles and dips. “That’s a lot of people waiting to see me fall down the stairs, Mom.”

  She snorts and turns me back to face the mirror. Selecting a piece of ivory ribbon, she reaches around my waist and pulls it back to create an almost belt. Except it’s not tight. It sits on my hips and breaks the long line of my gown into two pieces. “You’re not gonna fall, baby. You’ve spent your life running those stairs. And you know that if you start to stumble, you can just grab on to the banister and ride that sucker to the bottom.”

  “Classy.” I can’t believe that I’m nervous. That I’m sweating. This isn’t even my prom. “Walk down with me?” I ask as she fastens a bow at the small of my back. “Hold my hand the whole way down?”

  “Of course,” she leans forward and places a gentle kiss to the exposed skin of my left shoulder. “All the way down, baby. Always. Then I have to hand you over to that boxhead-looking kid, and I’m just saying… I don’t feel good about it.”

  I snort and turn away from the mirror when I deem myself done. If I remain staring at my reflection any longer, I might psyche myself out and run to my room in search of jeans and my Converse. They’re my comfort space. My relaxed clothes. And no matter how strong my urge to feel beautiful for a night, my hunger for comfort battles for dominance.

  “It’s gonna be fine.” I snatch up my clutch – Mom’s clutch – and automatically open it to take stock of its contents. Lipstick, a pencil for sketching, like every normal person carries, a tampon just in case, a credit card, again, just in case, a little cash, and keys to get back into the house – though it would be naïve of me to think Daddy won’t wait up. “Calvin is nice enough,” I tell Mom, though I don’t know if I’m convincing her, or me. “And he got a full-ride scholarship to college. He’s a pretty good football player.”

  “Mm.” She clicks her tongue, unimpressed by the varsity jock. “Good for him. Does he know I’m a pretty good fighter?”

  Just as she intended, I burst out laughing and swallow down the bubble of nerves that was threatening to make me sick. “I don’t know if he knows about your two-fight winning streak… from twenty years ago.”

  “Well, make sure you tell him. It’s important he knows what’s coming for him if he sends you home crying.”

  “Ha. Joke’s on you.” I flash a wicked grin and make my way to the door. “I don’t cry. You know that about me.”

  “Still.” She wraps her arm around mine and rests her other hand on the door handle. “Remind him, so he knows.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “You ready?”

  I draw a heady breath, and swallow it down like it was water, and not oxygen. “I’m actually considering calling in sick.”

  “Can’t.” She snickers and opens the door. “They’re already here. And you know Rob will climb up the drainpipe to get you out of your room if you hide away.”

  Be norm
al. Act normal! Do not, under any circumstances, admit to the drainpipe-shimmying secret.

  “I’m ready.” I fix my clutch between my arm and my ribs, and drawing one last breath, I let Mom lead me to the top of the ornate staircase.

  It’s the backdrop to my childhood, the stage for many family portraits. It’s made of wood, with fancy carvings scratched into the banister – though of course, much of the varnish has worn off over the years from my jeaned butt gliding along like I was always in a rush to get where I was going.

  Noise fills the space at the bottom of the stairs. Quiet, rhythmic chatter, soft laughter, Luke Hart’s obnoxious, honking guffaws. Mom and I round the first part of the staircase, and though I expect to see Daddy first, it’s actually Rob and Luke’s dad I see.

  Jon Hart stands in torn, worn-out jeans and a shirt that clings to his broad shoulders, and though his body is pointing one way, as though he’s part of a discussion with someone else – likely Daddy – his eyes lock onto mine, and his grin slowly creeps up.

  He’s one of the quieter adults. I guess, like Rob, he’s the quiet half of his pairing with his best friend. He holds a can of soda in his left hand, but when Mom clears her throat and calls attention to us, Jon sets his drink down, and presses a hand to his chest when Daddy steps around and glances up at us.

  Daddy’s eyes widen, then narrow. They harden, then soften. He works through a million emotions in the space of two or three steps, and though his jaw quivers with emotion, he keeps his shit together long enough for Mom and I to navigate the staircase.

  I let my gaze sweep around the crowd – my brother stands in the back, grinning and shaking his head like he knows I’m going to get myself into trouble tonight. He stands beside Brooke, who watches me with a smile. Grace Rissata is a girl I hardly know, and though I wouldn’t call her a friend, I also wouldn’t say I have a problem with her, except for the fact she thinks she gets to make out with my best friend tonight. She stands not so far from the door, but she’s alone, like Rob led her into my home, made himself comfortable, and forgot that she’s in strange territory.

  I catalogue her gown quickly – the V-neck that exposes a lot of her chest and stomach. Then her long hair, tied up in a severe ponytail on the top of her head, earrings that dangle all the way to the tops of her shoulders, and heels far, far taller than what I’m wearing.

  Though of course, she’s usually shorter than me, so when we’re side by side tonight, I doubt she and I will stand at different heights.

  I let my gaze shoot away from her, and stop on Calvin. The quarterback, the wanted and lusted-after football star who asked me to prom instead of one of the dozens of seniors who would have killed for the chance to be on his arm. He stands not so far from Daddy, in a midnight black suit: black vest, black jacket, black pants and shoes. The only things breaking up his color palette are the ivory buttons on his vest, and the sparkling cufflinks at his wrists.

  He’s fancy, his family aren’t hurting for cash, and though I’m certain he worked hard for that scholarship, I’m not entirely convinced he needs it. Somewhere, in some other town or city, there’s a guy who is working harder, who deserves the helping hand a little more.

  But alas, the decision has been made, and Calvin is going away to be a star.

  My stomach jumps with nervous energy. I’m not someone who cares about her looks. I’m the jeans and high-tops kinda girl. I’m a sitting-under-the-bleachers-while-the-twins-do-their-thing kind of girl, and when they’re done, we walk home… ride home… skateboard home. Whatever we do, and wherever we go, we do it loudly, and without worrying about how we look.

  But tonight, I wear this gown, I brushed my hair for more than two seconds, and my eyes shimmer.

  They shimmer!

  With ten or so steps to go, when Calvin steps forward to take my hand, and Daddy’s eyes fire with murder, since he considers it his job, his God-given right, Rob comes from left field and steps to the front of the line. It’s not like he’s making a show of it, he’s not pushing in, per se, but rather, his feet move without permission, and his eyes scour me from my heels, right to the top of my head, where Grandma’s sapphires glint from the lights above and cast shots of blue against the walls.

  He looks handsome, and not at all like he’s only fifteen years old, in a suit that looks very modern-day-James-Bond. But the way he slicks his hair back, the smirk, and sparkling eyes gives off a very sexy young-Marlon-Brando look.

  He stops at the bottom of the staircase with a smile that confirms what my brother already knew – we’re going to wreak havoc tonight – and, extending a hand, he waits, patiently but charged, while Mom sniggers beside me and makes a noise in the back of her throat like she’s partially impressed, partially ready to show off her fighting skills.

  The noise around us continues, but it’s on mute. The light still reflects off my hair clip, but it’s dulled as I await Mom to release my arm. The second she does, I place my hand in Rob’s and feel the electricity zing through my blood when our skin touches.

  “Holy shit, EmKat.” Rob pulls me in until our chests touch and he curls me into a hug that speaks legions about how protective he feels over me. He wraps both arms around my shoulders and tucks me in like we’re grown adults and not just a couple kids heading off to a school dance. “You look amazing,” he whispers in my ear. “Tell me you have flip flops on under that dress, and not heels.”

  “Heels,” I whisper right back. Only to end it with, “I know, right? Weird.”

  He chuckles. “Super weird. But it’s kinda cool, having you up here with me.” He pulls back, just far enough to still hold me close, but so he can see my face. “How’s the air quality up here?”

  “Not as great.” I free my hand from where it was resting on his shoulder, and reach up to smooth back a stray few strands of hair that fell over his forehead.

  His face is youthful, the way you’d expect of someone our age, but he’s already showing wear and tear. There’s a scar above his brow – I hit him with a plate three Christmases back, though I swore then, as I do now, that it was a rogue toss, and totally an accident. Another scar sits on the bridge of his nose – we were ice skating one winter, and I nearly chopped his head off with my blades. His teeth are perfect, white and straight, but for one that bears a hairline crack. The dentist fixed it, but the line is there, and I’m not sure anyone even knows about it except me.

  No one else pays such close attention to my best friend as I do.

  “You look so handsome, Fart. It makes me sick how handsome you look. And you’re escorting someone else tonight.”

  He chuckles, low and deep in the back of his throat. “It had to happen this way. Neither of us could go to prom this year unless a senior asked.”

  “And you just so happened to accept an invitation from a cheerleader.” I let my lips twist into a faux sneer. “I had no clue you were so cliché.”

  “Shut it, Football Head.”

  I snort, then glance to my left when Mom clears her throat. “I love you both. You know I do, but you need to move aside and take care of business.”

  Most would assume she means acknowledge our dates. Take their hands, accept and offer the little wrist-flowers. But not in this house. Not in this family. Rob releases me with a sly wink, then he turns to his mom, and I’m left facing Daddy when he shoves Calvin aside and takes his place at the front of the line.

  “I don’t like this one bit,” he grumbles. “Not one single bit.”

  “It’s just a dance, Daddy.” I step in when he pulls me close, and burrow into his broad chest the moment he wraps his arms around my shoulders. His breath feathers over my bare shoulder, his stubble scratches my cheek, but the way his heart races – nerves, heartache – makes me sigh. “It’ll be fine. I promise.”

  “Home by ten.”

  I laugh. “Midnight. And I won’t go anywhere without Rob.”

  “You make it sound like I trust him to keep you safe.” Daddy pulls back and holds my arms to keep
me from being swept away. “You think I don’t know about all the trouble he gets you guys into?”

  I bite my lips closed, lest I accept a decade and a half worth or groundings. “He will always keep me safe. You know he will.”

  Daddy nods. He’s not sure he believes it, not true, right-down-to-his-bones believes it. But we’re talking about his best friend’s son. He was in the hospital waiting room the day Rob and Luke were born. With me in his arms, a tiny baby waiting to meet the other half of her soul, he watched those boys begin their life, and he’s watched over them every single day since.

  Maybe he knows – or, well, assumes they’re trouble – but he also knows that when shit is going down, Rob will lay his life down for mine. It’s just the way it is.

  “Fine,” he relents. “Don’t go anywhere without him, and if he sneaks off with that chick, I want you to stay put and do the right thing.”

  “Daddy—”

  “Then when he comes back, knock him the fuck out for leaving you alone.”

  “Fine,” I repeat his word back, complete with the same sigh of defeat. “I really should go acknowledge Calvin now, huh? He’s been very patient.”

  “He’s way too fucking old for you,” Daddy growls. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  Rolling my eyes, I step around my father, grin when I catch sight of Rob hugging his mom, then I stop when Calvin steps forward and forces me to fold my neck back and look up.

  He’s a footballer, even by looks. Tall, thick, heavy. He’s eighteen already – barely, as in, days ago – and that makes him a man. He’ll go off to college soon, and I suspect he’ll dominate, because he’s not ugly, he’s not a total douchebag, and he really is gifted on the field… well, allegedly. I wouldn’t know, because I don’t watch for more than twenty seconds.

  “Emma.” He produces a pink and baby blue collection of flowers with an ivory ribbon, and when I offer my wrist, he ties it on with surprising gentleness. His hands are huge, his fingers thick, and shame on me for expecting him to be a fumbling caveman.