by Meghan March
“I know. I don’t know how it happened, but it was amazing. No. Awesome. He’s . . . he’s . . . I like him, Kelsey. Like, like him. A lot. I think . . . I’m falling for him.”
“Oh fuck. I’ll be right over. Don’t leave your place. I’ll bring food. And wine. Give me forty-five minutes.” Kelsey hangs up, and I stare down at my phone.
Oh fuck?
That wasn’t the response I expected.
My bell rings an hour later, and I open the back door of my apartment to find Kelsey and Harlow in the doorway.
“You told her?” I shoot Kelsey some major side-eye.
“I needed reinforcements for this conversation. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you first, Scar. This is serious shit.” Kelsey squeezes by me with two massive bags of takeout, leaving Harlow holding two bottles of wine.
“I tried Monroe, but Nate’s home, and she said she’s getting dicked down tonight and can’t leave.”
“Why does this feel like an emergency meeting to prevent Scarlett from making a major mistake?”
Harlow leans forward to air kiss both my cheeks. “It’s not an intervention, so don’t get dramatic. This is a planning session. We’re in uncharted Scarlett territory here, which means we need all the dirty details so we can come up with a strategy for how to move forward.”
“Why?”
“Because if my girl wants her some Gabriel Legend, she’s getting her some Gabriel Legend.”
Forty-Nine
Legend
I’ve written and deleted a half dozen texts.
I’m really glad Bump kidnapped you . . . The fuck?
Your lips are a fucking gift . . . Totally true.
Holding your hand was better than sex. Well, as far as I know. We haven’t gotten there. Yet.
I really want to see you again. Soon. And for longer than a few hours.
Are you busy right now? Lame.
God, get it together, asshole. Keep it simple. Don’t fucking creep her out or sound like you’ve never fucking done this before.
Keep. It. Together. Act like a fucking adult.
I finally settle on something simple.
* * *
Legend: It was great to see you smile today. I’m looking forward to Saturday night.
* * *
When her reply doesn’t come immediately, I force myself to drop my phone and get the fuck out of my apartment. I don’t have any destination in mind, but when I hit the hallway with Roux beside me, Bump is holding two bags of Cheetos and a six-pack of beer and heading for the stairs.
“Wanna watch Monday night football at Big Mike’s?”
Q’s dad is one of the biggest NFL fans on the planet. For the first Monday-night game of the season, he pulls out all the stops, which means Q’s ma has probably been cooking up a storm.
My stomach growls in response.
“Sounds like you’re coming, even if it’s just for Ms. Joanie’s food.”
“Fuck it, yeah. I’ll come. Let me go grab my phone.” I should leave it upstairs, but if I’m going to be gone for hours, I need people to be able to reach me.
Bullshit. You just can’t wait that long to see if she replies. The voice in my head is a dick to call me out.
It’s also right.
I jog back up to grab the phone, glance down to see there’s been no response, and shove it in my pocket.
“Where’d you go today, Gabe? Q told me I was on Roux duty and not to bother you. He gave me a ride home too, but he was in a shitty mood.”
I remember the look Q gave me when he saw me bring Roux back to the club with Scarlett beside me. It was one of those I sure as fuck hope you know what you’re doing, but I’m pretty fucking sure you don’t expressions that also promised we’d be talking about it later.
I was in no hurry to have the conversation, but now I’m walking right into it. Maybe it’s for the best. Maybe Q can talk some sense into me, because I sure as fuck don’t know what I’m doing breaking every one of my goddamned rules.
Bump and I walk the stretch of grass, bordered on one side by a long green fence that blocks the scrapyard from the road, and head up the stairs of the big white house on the other side.
Q’s granddad started the scrapyard when he first came up from Puerto Rico. He passed away a few years back, six months after his wife, but Big Mike has kept running it in his father’s tradition—sometimes shady, but mostly straight, because no one wants to go to prison.
Still, Q grew up chopping cars when cash was tight and the mortgage needed to get paid to keep the bank from taking the yard. When Bump and I ran from Biloxi, we had nowhere else to go. I knew about the scrapyard from Jorie. She’d met a girl at a music camp she got a scholarship to one summer. Q’s cousin, Anita. She’d told Jorie to come visit anytime she made it up to Jersey, and they traded cards at least once a year, keeping in touch until Jorie died.
I took a chance. I didn’t know what else to do. I wasn’t even sure Bump was going to make it. The drunk of a doctor I paid to patch him up in Mississippi told me I’d be better off letting him die, because his quality of life would never be the same.
But I couldn’t let that happen.
I showed up on the Quinterros’ doorstep, homeless, bloodstained, and on the run with Bump. They would have been justified in calling the cops, but instead, they took one look at us and invited us in. That’s how we ended up living above the service station Big Mike used to run for his dad, and I’ve never had a reason to leave. The Quinterros are the closest thing Bump and I have ever had to a family. They know everything, because I wasn’t going to keep secrets from the people who gave us a home. A second chance.
I knock on the door, although it’s unnecessary, and Joanie yells, “Come on in! Soup’s on!” Just like always.
“Is that Bump?” Big Mike hollers from his ancient La-Z-Boy.
My sidekick answers, “And Gabe and Roux.”
“No shit. Come on in, boys! Game’s getting ready to start, and you do not want to miss this fucking seven-layer dip. Actually, forget I said anything. I don’t want to share.”
Bump and Roux bound inside, and I close the door carefully behind me. When I look up, Q looms like an all-knowing gargoyle.
“Hope you knew what the fuck you were doing today, man. Because this is a dangerous road to walk.” Even though he keeps his voice down, Joanie overhears him.
“You better not be doing anything dangerous, Gabriel. I’m not sure my heart can handle it.”
“What’s Gabriel doing?” Q’s second oldest sister asks.
“Nothing,” I tell her with a chin lift. “Good to see you, Carrie.”
“It’s not nothing if Q’s worked up about it. You fighting again?” Carrie pops a carrot stick in her mouth and chews while she waits for me to answer.
Both Q and I are silent for a long moment, and I wonder if he’s going to tell his whole family what’s going on.
“He’s not fighting. Don’t worry about it, Carrie.”
Joanie comes out of the kitchen holding a massive pan of dip. “Thank God. Now, come get some of this before Mike eats it all. He doesn’t need two pounds of seven-layer dip, despite what he thinks.”
I take a step to follow her and Carrie down the hallway to the living room, but Q blocks me.
“Seriously, man, what the fuck are you doing? You know this can’t go anywhere. She’s so fucking far out of your league, it isn’t even worth thinking about.”
Q’s not telling me anything I don’t already know, but I don’t want to hear it.
“She’s coming back to the club Saturday. If everything goes right, we’ll be making our payments to the investors with no problems.”
“And then you’re done with her.” It’s not a question.
“I haven’t decided yet.”
He shakes his head, and those black eyes of his drill into me. “We have a plan, and the plan doesn’t include her. Unless you’ve decided that everything you’ve worked for in the last fifteen years doesn’t matte
r anymore.”
I glare at my best friend. “Don’t fucking question me. You know it matters. The plan hasn’t changed.”
He shakes his head. “Pussy’s a hell of a drug, man. That’s all I’m saying. Be smart and be fucking careful.”
We lock eyes, and I lie to Q’s face. “I know what I’m doing, Marcus.”
The skepticism on his features tells me he doesn’t believe a word I’m saying.
“I sure as hell hope so, Gabriel, because this has disaster written all over it.”
Fifty
Scarlett
“So, this is how it’s going to go,” Harlow says from her reclined position on the divan in my bedroom, a glass of white wine dangling from between her fingertips.
We left the remnants of the takeout in my kitchen, which we devoured while I told them everything that happened this afternoon.
“We’re going to pick out something drop-dead sexy for you to wear, then we’re going to invite the troops for Saturday night. When we get to the club, you’re going to look so unbelievably amazing, you won’t be able to help catching everyone’s attention.”
“Agreed. We definitely need to figure out what she’s wearing,” Kelsey says, setting her wineglass on a coaster on the side table before heading to my closet. “I know there are some gorgeous dresses in here that you’ve collected and never worn because you thought they were too risqué for your appearances.”
From my position on my bed, a pillow tucked under my chin while I lie on my belly, I take another sip of wine. “There are definitely a few. There’s a gold one—”
“Not gold,” Harlow says quickly, interrupting. “No offense, but gold isn’t going to get the job done.”
“Well, she already wore red, so that’s out too. And black isn’t attention-grabbing enough.” Kelsey sounds muffled from her position in the closet.
“Green?” Harlow tilts her head and looks at me. “It would be stunning with your coloring. Or blue . . .”
“Oh no . . . no. I have it. Right here.” Kelsey’s tone takes on a new level of excitement as she pokes her head through the doorway, a dress bag hidden behind her back.
“Let’s see it. Don’t hold out on us, ho.”
With a grin on her face broader than I’ve seen in ages, Kelsey whips out a clear plastic garment bag and dangles it in front of her.
“Ohhh. White. Yesss. I love where you’re going with this. Innocent. Practically virginal. But oh-so-classy and sexy.” Harlow is a man-eater from way back, and it’s showing.
I stare at the dress, remembering trying it on and knowing that I had absolutely nowhere to wear it, but it was too gorgeous not to buy.
“You gotta try it on, Scarlett. It looks sheer enough that I’m afraid you’re going to look completely naked in it, but I know you wouldn’t have bought it if that was the case.”
Kelsey holds it out to me, and I carefully roll to my side to get off the bed without spilling my wine.
“I don’t know,” I reply, setting the glass down to take the dress bag from her. “But you’re right. I love this dress . . . it just never seemed to perfectly suit an occasion.”
“That’s because the occasion hadn’t come yet,” Kelsey says with a smile.
“Go. Go.” Harlow shoos me off into the bathroom, and I follow orders and strip.
A few minutes later, I’m staring at myself in the mirror with a smile on my face. This is definitely the dress I’m going to wear to seduce Gabriel Legend.
I don’t need approval from Kelsey and Harlow, because they’re going to lose their minds.
The hem of the white fabric stops high on my thigh, but is just long enough I won’t have to worry about whether I’m showing my ass to everyone all night. The sleeves are long, ending just beyond my wristbones. The neckline is demure, with a slight drape, leaving the full-blown sexiness to the back, where the dress plunges in a deep U that just covers the top of my butt crack. Thank God for the built-in bra, or I’d never be able to pull it off.
“Do you need help? I’m dying of anticipation here, Scar,” Kelsey calls out to me.
With a smile, I slip out of the bathroom to stand in my bedroom.
“Holy shit. If I had a dick, I’d definitely fuck you.” This comes from Harlow, along with a slow clap. “Damn, girl. You look like a goddess in that.”
“Hold on. We need shoes! I know the perfect ones!”
Kelsey disappears back into the closet, then emerges with four-inch nude heels that have a simple strap across my toe and one that goes around my ankle. Thankfully, they’re also insanely comfortable and won’t cripple me before we even get to the club. Where many of my other tall heels qualify as “sitting shoes,” these are functional and beautiful.
I slide them on my feet and buckle them before turning in a slow circle so they can see the whole effect.
Kelsey is already making plans by the time I’m facing them again. “Your hair goes up. I know that’s not your normal, but with that back, we don’t want anything covering it. We’ll keep it super simple and sexy. Like a chignon, with a few wispy pieces around your face to soften the look.”
“And long earrings. Statement pieces,” Harlow says, clapping her hands. “Where are the pretties? I want to pick through.”
“Safe is in the closet. Let me grab a few trays. One sec.”
Moments later, I reappear, and we lay the trays on the bed. Harlow and Kelsey sort through the collection I inherited from my mother, as well as the new pieces I’ve added here and there.
“I like these. Simple and elegant.” Harlow holds up an earring made of a half dozen gold snake chains about three inches long, with diamonds dangling from the ends.
“Oh yes. Those are perfect. I can pick up the gold in the makeup. I’ll smoke it out a little too with some earth tones, and you’ll look phenomenal.” Kelsey has her phone out, making notes about the look we’re going to create, and the lop-eared rabbits are back bouncing in my belly.
This is really happening. I’m actually going to do this.
A smile spreads over my face as Harlow and Kelsey debate the rest of the makeup choices and decide on a nude lip and a blinding highlight.
Gabriel Legend, you’re not going to know what hit you.
Fifty-One
Scarlett
I find myself back at Dolly’s Diner on Friday with Flynn, steaming bottomless cups of coffee in front of us.
Normally I wouldn’t leave Curated on a Friday, but things are different lately because I’m living. And apparently, so is my former stepsister.
“When did you start street racing? How?”
Flynn’s wearing a light pink cardigan over a white cami and a jean skirt. It’s a far cry from the all-black-and-leather outfit from Saturday night, which makes this conversation even weirder. It’s like I never knew her at all, which I suppose is the truth. We both spent most of the time we were around each other watching the shit show that was our parents’ relationship.
“Senior year of boarding school.”
“What? No way. That’s impossible.”
“Oh, stop. You know they let us get away with murder—and the parking lot is like a luxury car dealership. Every kid has the latest and greatest, even if they don’t know what the hell they’re driving.”
“But that doesn’t explain how you got into racing them.”
Flynn leans back in her chair and sips her coffee. “I met a guy.”
“I swear, that’s how these stories always start,” I comment dryly.
Her dark hair falls over her shoulder as she tilts her head. “Do you want to hear the story or not?”
“Sorry, go ahead.”
“I met a guy. A townie. He hit on me one night when I was out with some friends, but he was really checking out my car. I was driving a BMW M3 in those days, and he cornered me in the bar and bet me that a pretty little rich girl like me didn’t know how to drive it the way it was meant to be driven.”
I have so many things I want to say, but I kee
p my mouth shut and let Flynn continue.
“I took the bait, ditched my friends, and followed him in his little Honda CR-X out to some abandoned strip of road on the other side of the tracks—”
I almost choke. “Jesus Christ, Flynn. Really? He could’ve killed you.”
When she glares at me, my teeth clack together and I shut up.
“We raced a quarter mile, and he kicked my BMW’s ass in his two-thousand-dollar Honda.”
“Did you lose the car to him?”
She shakes her head. “No, we weren’t racing for pinks.”
“What were you racing for then?”
Her face turns red, and I can imagine what it was. “You slept with him because he won?”
“Blow job. Turns out, I wasn’t great at those either, but I learned a lot that night.”
“Flynn!”
“I would’ve banged him either way, so it’s not like it mattered. It just made the whole experience even more exciting. Anyway, we started dating, and he taught me about cars and racing, and how not to underestimate other people. A car might look like a piece of shit, but you don’t know what they have under the hood or what modifications they’ve made. He also helped me tune up the Bimmer and taught me to drive for real. I was hooked after the first night.”
She pauses to take another sip of her coffee.
“It’s hard to explain the adrenaline rush you get when you’re at the line, waiting for them to drop the flag. And then they do . . . and you launch the car and hold on for your damn life. It’s epic.”
From her voice, I can tell how much she loves it, and I’m happy for her, despite the fact that her favorite hobby is illegal. And dangerous.
“And when you came home, you kept doing it?”
“Yeah, but I’d earned enough money for my freshman year of college before I left boarding school. It got so bad that no one in the school would race me because everyone knew I would take their cars, and then they’d have to explain to Mommy and Daddy what happened. It didn’t make me a lot of friends, and the guys whose egos I crushed steered clear of me.” She laughs, and I can’t help but love the hearty sound.