by Nina Levine
I nod, feeling a weird pull to make conversation with her. “What are you listening to?”
She can’t hide her surprise. She never can. Scarlett wasn’t built that way. Her heart might not be an open book, but her body is. She wears the feelings she works so hard to conceal. “I’ll tell you what I’m not listening to and that’s the country shit you love.”
My lips curl up at the ends. “I didn’t ask what you’re not listening to. I asked what you are listening to.”
“What is this, Wilder?”
“What’s what?”
She motions at the space between us. “This. You never just sit in here with me and ask me random questions like this. Did you fall and hit your head?”
I rest my back and head against the wall and suck in a deep breath, feeling every bit of the exhaustion in my body. “It’s been a long day. I’m tired and I feel like I’ve run a fuckin’ marathon.” I turn my face to her. “I figure you’re feeling all that too.”
Her brows arch and she shoots me a “what the actual fuck” look. “I think you did hit your head and you just don’t know it.”
I chuckle. Scarlett’s snark amuses me as much as it pushes my buttons. “Take the day off tomorrow.”
“I’m not taking the day off. There’s too much to do.”
“You are taking the day off. I’ll get everything done that needs doing.”
“You won’t.”
“I will.”
“So when you asked me what music I was listening to, the wrong words came out of your mouth, after you hit your head, and what you really meant to say was ‘I’ve lost my fucking mind and I need you to ignore everything else I say after this.’”
I stand, ignoring her snark this time. “I actually did want to know what music you had playing. Some days it’s the only thing that seems to make you smile, and that kind of information could be really fuckin’ useful to me at times. Take the day off. If I see you here, I’ll carry your ass out.”
5
Scarlett
“Scarlett. Wake the fuck up.”
My brother’s voice crawls through the fog in my head, demanding to be heard when all I want to do is pretend I can’t hear it.
His foot, though, it snaps my attention to him completely when it connects with the wall next to my bed with a loud thud.
Jerking off the bed, I lunge at him, pushing him hard enough to make him fall backwards, his ass landing on the floor of my bedroom. Fixing a death stare on him, I snarl, “Don’t do that again. I can’t afford the cost of repairing a hole in my wall. And don’t come here and wake me up like that.” I cross my arms, still glaring down at him. “Why are you here? And if you tell me it’s because you want money for drugs, you can fuck off with that.”
Bailey glares back at me, keeping his ass on the floor. Most likely because he knows I won’t hesitate to plant it there again if the mood strikes me. “You don’t have to be such a bitch. I need money for rent, not drugs.”
“Do you think I’m an idiot, Bailey? I’m not buying that bullshit.”
“It’s not bullshit. My landlord is on my case. He threatened to kick me out tonight if I don’t give him the rent today.”
My brain might actually explode. Like, for real, what did I do in a past life to deserve the family I was given in this one?
I drop my arms and stalk into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. I take my time in there, needing all those minutes to control my urge to strangle my brother. When I’m finished, I swing the door open and stride to where Bailey’s still sitting on the floor.
I crouch down next to him. “How much do you need?”
“Two hundred.”
Fucking hell.
Bailey knows I won’t ever allow harm to come to him if I can help it, and he doesn’t hesitate to take advantage of that. In our family, my loyalty doesn’t benefit me; all it does is sting me. I learned a long time ago to restrict who I offer it to. Bailey is the only recipient of it these days and he’s coming dangerously close to losing it.
“Okay.” I stand. “I’ll get dressed and come with you.”
“Come with me where?”
“To pay your rent.”
A text comes through on my phone and I swipe it up off the bedside table to check it.
Phoebe: I’ll be in Brisbane in a couple of weeks. I’m not taking no for an answer. It’s time we started putting us back together.
The universe is playing a shitty game with me today. It should know I’m not about games. Ever.
Unable to ignore this message, I tap out a reply and violently hit send.
Me: It’s impossible to put something back together that is shattered into a million pieces. Do not come here. I won’t see you.
Throwing the phone on the bed, I search for clothes to wear like a woman possessed. So much for a relaxing day off.
“Who the fuck texted you?” Bailey finally gets his ass up off the floor.
I rip jeans and a shirt from my closet. “No one.”
“Jesus, you’re in a foul mood. Do you think you could calm down a little?”
“Do you think you could leave my bedroom so I can get dressed?”
His mouth presses together. The McKenzie temper is everywhere now, prowling through my small room like an animal circling its prey. This is what we do best. Hunt and kill. “It’s no wonder you’re single, Scarlett. No man would want this shit in their life.”
“What shit are you referring to?”
“This bullshit you carry on with. You’re always so fucking angry. Over the smallest things. And you remember every-fucking-thing anyone ever says or does to you. Why can’t you ever let anything go?”
“Oh see, when you said no man would want this shit in his life, I thought you might be referring to the fact I’m always there for you, or the fact I always save your ass when you need cash or food or somewhere to crash, or maybe that I’m so fucking dependable. Any man would want that shit in his life. You’re the asshole I choose to give it to, but right now, I’m rethinking that because you clearly don’t appreciate any of it.”
His eyes glitter with fury. Bailey has a dark edge, and when he gets angry like this, I wonder if he’ll snap and attack me. I’ve seen him hurt men bigger than him. I might be able to defend myself most of the time, but I don’t doubt that dark energy of his could inflict serious damage.
He snatches my phone off the bed and figures out my pin. I should be more careful with my damn pins and make sure I use something he can’t guess. I don’t bother to fight him for the phone. I suspect he’d win that fight today. He scrolls for a minute before looking at me again. “You are such a bitch. She just wants to see you and talk. Do you even have a heart in that body of yours?”
I don’t know what causes it, because I am not about feeling sorry for myself, ever, but his words cut deep and fucking hurt. Like, the kind of hurt that physically squeezes in my chest.
“The thing about the people in our family is they never just want to see me and talk to me. They always want something from me. I’m never giving her anything again, so seeing her is a waste of our time.” I lean closer to him and hurl the last thing I have to say at him with all the loathing and resentment consuming me. “I’ve changed my mind; I’m not paying your rent this time. Go find someone with a heart to help you out.”
When he doesn’t say anything or do anything except continue watching me like he wants to stab a sharp blade through my chest, I finally lose my last shred of sanity and scream, “Get the fuck out of my flat!”
His lip pulls up in a sneer. “You deserve every bad thing that ever happens to you, Scarlett.”
My front door slams a few moments later, and I sit on the edge of my bed, dragging deep breaths in while trying not to think about the fact I just said no to my brother because I really don’t think he needed that cash for rent, but what if he did? What if he does get kicked out and ends up on the streets because I didn’t help him? What if he spirals and overdoses?
J
esus, Scarlett, get your shit together.
Bailey’s twenty-six. A grown man. He can fend for himself. And he should be fending for himself. It’s not my job to mother him.
Annoyed with myself and my reaction over this, I push off the bed and march out to the kitchen. I fill the small watering can that’s sitting on the kitchen counter next to the sink and spend time watering the plants that fill my flat and the small balcony off the kitchen. I then make tea, put my AirPods in, and sit on the balcony sipping my drink and filling pages of my journal with words.
Words that bleed from me.
Words that soothe me.
Words that untangle some of the mess sitting heavy in my chest.
It’s not until my phone starts going off with text messages from Harlow that I realise four hours have passed.
Harlow: I’m coming over and taking you to Roxie’s.
Harlow: Did you get my message? I’ll be there soon.
Harlow: I’m pulling up outside your place. Be ready for me.
Me: I missed all your messages. I’m not ready.
Harlow: I’m almost at your door. Come let me in.
She is so damn persistent.
I throw the door open with “I’m not going.”
Her face breaks out into a huge smile and she pushes her way inside. “I’ve already worked out what you should wear. I’ll go get it from your closet.”
Before I can slow her down, she’s in my room, searching through my shit.
“Harlow,” I start at the same time she turns to me, holding my black tank that has Angel scrawled across it in white lettering. “This top with your ripped black jeans and leather jacket.”
I cross my arms. “I told you, I’m not going. Besides, I don’t need my hair cut.” Roxie’s salon is where all the Storm girls go. Usually on a Friday. They insist on a standing invitation for me. To date, I’ve never said yes and don’t intend on ever saying yes.
“A girl might not need a haircut, Scar, but she can always do with a wash and blow-dry or some other form of pampering. You’re going.”
“Is there something in the air at the moment?”
She frowns. “Huh?”
“Wilder bossed me into taking the day off and now you’re trying to boss me into this. For the record, I’m not into it.”
Her frown morphs back to the incessant smile that rarely leaves her face. “Good to know.” She shoves the tank at me. “Now put this on. I would say brush your hair, but you don’t even need to do that since Bobby’s gonna do it for you.”
My eyes widen as I watch her leave my bedroom, knowing full well there’s no way she’s leaving here without me.
“I’m in a bad fucking mood,” I yell after her while ripping my shirt off to put on the tank she chose.
“You’re always in a bad mood,” she yells back.
“Yeah, well today’s mood puts them all to shame,” I mutter as I fight with my clothes. “And why the hell are you putting on the clothes that Harlow chose? Surely you’re capable of selecting your own outfit. And fuck me, why are you talking to yourself out loud?” I shut my mouth and proceed to switch to thinking all my shitty thoughts.
“Are you talking to me or to yourself?” Harlow calls out. “Because I missed it if you were talking to me.”
I don’t bother answering her. I finish dressing before forcing myself to meet Harlow in my kitchen, where she’s inspecting my fridge.
Reaching for my bag that’s sitting on the counter, I inquire, “Hungry?”
“No, just making sure you have food.”
I roll my eyes. “Seriously, I have food. I have water. I make sure I put those things in my body at regular intervals. You don’t have to worry about me.” This is something Harlow does every now and then. It’s like she thinks I’m a child.
“Good. But you know I’m always going to worry about you. It’s what friends do.”
“No, friends don’t check on the consumption of food. Mothers do that. Friends check on other things.”
“Well your mother isn’t here, so someone has to check on your consumption of food.”
“Do I look like I’m not eating?”
“You do look like you’ve lost weight.”
I roll my eyes again. “That’s because the people I spend my time with stress me the hell out. Can we go already?”
She grins. “See, you do want to go.”
“If it will end this conversation, I’m all about it.”
We head out to her car and make the short drive to Roxie’s salon. It’s close to my place, but the Saturday traffic ensures the drive takes twice as long as it usually would.
Harlow finds a park and I try to find my ability to be friendly.
Five minutes later, we enter Roxie’s salon, and Bobby blasts me with a bored expression. I’ve met him a few times when he’s come to Salty Girl for dinner and drinks with Roxie. I like him and his bored expression.
“Fuck,” he grumbles. “I lost the bet.”
I smile. It stumbles across my face before I know what’s happening. “How much did you lose?”
“Twenty bucks.” He jabs a finger at me. “You owe me a free cocktail next time I’m at Salty Girl.”
Roxie joins us, looking as gorgeous as she always does with her indigo eyes, flawless skin, stunning make-up, and delicate features. I even like her purple hair, and I don’t usually like pink, purple, blue, or any brightly coloured hair.
The thing I like the most about her, though? Her inability to indulge assholes and princesses.
“Bobby thought he’d be spending the afternoon sitting on his ass doing nothing,” she says. “Such a shame for him that he won’t be and that he owes me twenty bucks.” At my questioning look, she adds, “I knew you had zero chance of getting out of this if Harlow was the one in charge of getting you here. Also, it’s about time you came. They’ve only been trying to get you here for a year or so.”
I drop my voice and lean closer to her. “They scare me.”
Roxie laughs. “Bullshit. Nothing scares you.”
I shrug. “Maybe, but if anything was going to, it’d be a girl squad trying to kidnap me.”
Bobby bustles about getting himself ready for me while Harlow settles herself in the seat next to Madison, who looks over at me and says, “Are you having a cut, Scar?”
Before I can answer, Bobby says, “Of course she’s having a cut.”
I eye him. “I’m not.”
He places his hands on his hips and lifts both brows in a “don’t argue with me” look. “Yeah, you are. I saw those split ends. They’re dying a quick death today.”
Madison laughs. “Good luck winning that fight.”
Sophia, Griff’s old lady, smiles at me from the other side of Madison. “Maybe run now. Once he gets you in that chair, there’s no hope of getting your own way.”
“She’s right,” Layla joins in. Blade’s wife is one of my favourites. She’s tough as hell. I’ve seen her take on some assholes at Trilogy and put them in their place.
I stare at Bobby, unsure of exactly how I feel about this. It’s odd for me because I usually know exactly how I feel about everything. “You’re not kidding, are you?”
“I never kid,” he says.
“It’s my hair.”
“And this is my job that I take very seriously. When you walk out of here, your hair blazes my name. No way am I allowing it to look anything less than its best.”
When he puts it like that, I get it. I’d be the same if I was a hairdresser. “Okay, so how much are we talking here?” I grab my hair and look at it. “A centimetre?”
Bobby looks at me like he feels sad for me. “Oh, sweetie, no.” He comes closer so he can inspect my hair. “Two inches minimum. We’ve got some work to do here.”
“I get the feeling that when you say two inches minimum, you really mean double that.”
“You’re catching on fast,” he says before clicking his fingers and ordering, “Sit.”
The last thought
I have before giving Bobby free rein over my hair is that Harlow will pay for this. I don’t know how or when, but she will pay.
Four and a half hours later, I’m down five inches of hair, more money than I care to acknowledge a haircut can actually cost, and my ability to say no to the girl squad.
These women are masters at getting someone to agree to shit they don’t want anything to do with. I need lessons from them. The things I could get Wilder to agree to could change my life.
So far, I’ve said yes to a night out with them for drinks and yes to considering joining them next Friday for their weekly squad get together. I have no intention of turning up next Friday, but I quickly learned it’s far easier to pretend I do. I did manage to say no to three other things, but that doesn’t feel like a win when I’ve agreed to do shit that wasn’t on my bucket list in life.
“How about yoga?” Chelsea says as I watch Bobby take all my money from my bank account. Slight exaggeration there, but good God, how can a haircut cost so much?
I shake my head. “I don’t do yoga.”
“It’s great for back pain,” Harlow calls out from the other side of the room.
I glare at her, sending her a look that says “how the hell do you keep tabs on my conversations so easily?” She makes eyes at me that say “I adore you too, Scar.” I ignore that declaration.
“Oh yeah,” Chelsea agrees. “So good for back pain.”
“No, I’m good,” I say. Yoga just sounds like another name for squad time.
“You complained to me about your back yesterday,” Harlow calls out.
“Just come once,” Chelsea suggests. “Monday morning at six. If you hate it, I’ll never mention it again.”
Bobby finishes fleecing me and hands me back my card. “You know you wanna go, sweetie. Just give in to them already.”
“I’ll say yes to yoga if you promise to never fucking call me sweetie again,” I say.
“Deal.” Then, with a grin, he adds, “I can’t wait to hear all about this class next week when you come in for Friday with the girls.”
“Asshole,” I mutter.
He blows me an air kiss. “You won’t know yourself in a month with all this yoga-ing and drinks-out-with-the-girls, and Friday beauty seshes.” He fakes a giddy shudder and throws me a wink before walking out to the back room.