I pick it up, and then I turn, walk stiffly back to the kitchen, and hold the flower up to Pam. She stares at it, her jaw flexing.
“Andrew’s a cruel person, Pam. He’s just... He’s the worst person I've ever met. And I’m really sorry that you can’t see that anymore. He’s going to hurt you so badly, and you don’t deserve that—” My voice cracks, tears well in my eyes, and I dash them away angrily. “You deserve better than that, Pammie.”
An emotion flickers across her face, and for half a heartbeat, I recognize her: the old Pam is back. But she doesn’t stay for long. She glances away from me, scrapes at something invisible on the counter with her thumbnail.
“Andrew’s taking care of me,” she says quietly, and it sounds like something she’s repeated often to herself, so many times that she actually believes it now.
I nod, shoving the rose into my bag, and I’m halfway through the door before she clears her throat.
I stop, turning to look back at her.
She's blinking away tears. “Just be careful, okay?”
“What are you talking about?”
Pam’s bravado falters as she murmurs to me, “Andrew? He doesn’t like Grim. At all. Like...at all.”
I stare at her. “I’ve noticed.”
“No, look... He doesn’t want her in town. Says she’s a liability, that there’s too much about her that doesn’t add up, and that’s bad news for Paris. Plus...she's started buying up local properties, and Andrew doesn't like the competition.” Her voice drops as if she’s telling me a secret: “He says he's going to run her and her family out. Soon.”
My blood runs cold.
“Just watch out for yourself?” she asks me, pleadingly.
I nod, and then I put my hand on the doorknob. But I pause for a moment and take one last look at my best friend. My former best friend, I guess.
“Yeah... You, too, Pammie,” I say softly, sincerely.
Chapter 16: The King of Roses
I'm miserable. I'm as miserable as can be. I’m walking down the sidewalk, lugging the heavy duffel bag on my shoulder, and I’m replaying the conversation that Pam and I just had—over and over and over again...
Her heart is going to be broken—shattered—into a million pieces. I think she's too smart to develop strong feelings for Andrew, but he’s going to destroy her, nevertheless. For all I know, he’s only sleeping with her as some twisted form of revenge against me.
This is an Invasion of the Body Snatchers level of weirdness. I understand that Pam didn’t want to spend the rest of her days in Paris, but how could she be desperate enough to turn to Andrew? I could have helped her figure out a plan to leave town. Am I a terrible friend? Did I do something awful that discouraged her from confiding in me?
My head is full of whys and what ifs as I head back toward Betty’s new condo, my feet operating on autopilot. I’m so lost in my own thoughts that I almost run into someone: I feel a shoulder brush—lightly—against mine, and that shakes me out of my reverie. I mumble, “Sorry,” and keep walking...
But then I stop, look back.
“Jordan?”
He's leaning—a little lopsidedly—against the exterior wall of The Pints Hideaway. This is one of the bars that Old Jeb frequents after hours. It's traditionally packed with a bunch of grouchy men who want to spend as much time apart from their wives as possible.
So it’s an unexpected hangout for a former boy band member. But Jordan looks as if he’s been here for a while; the guy is completely wasted. His eyes are half-shut, and he’s swaying as he sags against the brick wall, his knees barely supporting his weight. He was trying to stand upright when we ran into one another, and he tries to straighten again, pushing off from the wall with his hands.
He slumps forward a little and almost falls into me.
I hold out my hands. “Hey! Jordan, are you...okay?”
His squinting eyes search my face, but it's clear by his expression that he doesn’t recognize me. “I’m...not in the habit...of givin' out au'graphs...during my pers'nal time,” he slurs, regarding me with a lazy, crooked smile.
It isn't even noon yet. For him to be this drunk already, he must have been pounding them back one after the other...
I bite my lower lip, considering. This is really the last thing I want deal with, but I can't just leave him here in this condition. He could get into all sorts of trouble. I imagine his naked-in-the-park scandal probably had a similar start.
“Jordan, are you okay?” I ask him again.
“Yeah. Yup. Peachy. I’m waitin' for a frien'.”
“Oh. And is your friend going to drive you home?”
He’s shrugging and nodding and shaking his head. It’s hard to figure out what those three gestures combined could mean.
Frustrated, I try again. “Do you need to get home?” I enunciate each word slowly, hoping that that will help them sink in.
He shrugs and leans back against the wall, trying to shove his hands into his pants pockets.
It takes him four tries.
Yeah, that can’t be good.
“Hey, buddy,” I say, keeping my voice slow and gentle. “I’m heading back your way, to Grim Tower. I can take you with me, if you’d like.”
To state the obvious, Jordan is not my favorite person in the universe, but I’m sure Grim doesn’t want her brother to become known as the town drunk, wasted before lunchtime. God, what if the tabloids found out? Given Grim's family's private nature, I'm sure that's the last thing they'd want to happen.
Suddenly, Jordan starts to tip over, his spine seemingly melting as he folds forward, then squats back on his heels. He nearly hits his head against the wall as he seats himself awkwardly on the sidewalk.
Groaning, I bend down, help him stand up again, and loop his arm around my shoulders. Then I let him lean against me as we stagger together along the sidewalk, heading for the Pines first, and—eventually—Grim Tower.
Wow, it’ll be great for Rex see his uncle like this. I blow my hair out of my eyes and pause for a moment, wondering what to do about that, but then Jordan starts talking loudly in my ear, yammering on about how his friend is waiting for him.
“What friend, Jordan?”
“Andrew,” he slurs. “Obviously.”
I freeze in place; my temples begin to pound. “Your friend is Andrew?” I ask, and he doesn’t say anything, just sags, putting all of his weight, painfully, on my neck.
I remember Pam's warning, about how Andrew intends to run Grim and her family out of Paris. Andrew sure has his finger in a hell of a lot of pies... I open my mouth to ask Jordan how he and Andrew met, but he suddenly trips, nearly taking me down with him.
“I don’ feel so good.”
I chuckle humorlessly. “Yeah, well, that's what happens when you drink too much, buddy.” I grimace as he turns his face toward mine; his breath reeks.
“Hey, B'linda, did I ever tell you 'bout my hit song?” He hums a few bars blithely; at least he's a happy drunk. “It was called King of Roses, and er'ryone said it was the best song they e'er heard. It was my last hit 'fore they foun' me in the park—after some kids stole my clothes.” He guffaws, slapping his knee. “That's what I tol' the press, anyway.”
I drag him down the sidewalk, bearing most of his weight.
“I wrote it for my sister, that song, but she di'nt like it. Made me lotsa money, though! Whoop-dee-doo!”
I grunt when he stumbles over a crack in the sidewalk. “Which sister?”
But he doesn’t answer me.
“I don’ feel so good,” he repeats then, before doubling over and vomiting.
I’ll spare you the details, but suffice it to say that I worked in a diner for long enough to cure me of any squeamishness. I’ve seen almost everything, and I’ve certainly witnessed a drunk guy throwing up before.
So I just wait for him to finish, sighing softly to myself.
How did this become my life? Standing on a sidewalk with a drunk former pop star on the way t
o pick up a kid from my friend's new condo...
I'm shaking my head, marveling at the randomness of life, when the sound of tires on pavement draws my attention away from poor, puking Jordan.
A beat-up black car slides to a stop just beside us.
Grim.
She parks, climbs out of the driver's seat, and stares at the two of us incredulously as she shoves her sunglasses onto the top of her head, squinting as if she can't quite believe what she’s seeing.
I don’t blame her. I don’t think anyone wants to see their brother throwing up on a sidewalk before noon. Ever.
Or, you know, at any other time.
Grim glances from me to her brother, and back to me again, her mouth hanging open in astonishment.
“Hi,” I say sheepishly, offering a small wave of my hand.
I’m still wearing last night’s smelly, wrinkled clothes. But even though I’m hardly at my hottest, I can’t help but appreciate Grim's appearance. She must have just gotten out of the shower, because her black hair is wet and finely combed, tucked effortlessly behind her ears, like fine silk. She's dressed casually, in boots, jeans and a soft-looking black button-down shirt that fits her like it was made for her.
Her amber eyes are bright, wide, glinting in the morning sunlight.
And even though the current situation is miles away from ideal...my body still responds to her nearness.
“Hi,” she replies, mystified.
My smile falters as I tap Jordan on the shoulder. “Hey, Jordan—um...your sister's here.”
Grim is already across the space between us, leaving her car running and the driver’s-side door open. “Jordan, what the hell were you thinking?” she growls icily, and then she’s grabbing him by the back of his collar, hauling him upright. He’s stopped vomiting, thank God, but when he peers at his sister, his eyes are bleary, rimmed with red.
“Hey, sis,” he drawls. And then, as if it weren't painfully obvious: “I’m a little drunk.”
“I’m going to kill you,” she sighs, gritting her teeth as she throws his arm over her shoulders, “if this hangover doesn’t first.”
He giggles at that—a strange, high-pitched sound. And then Grim glances at me, her eyes flashing with golden sparks. “Bella, I’m sorry to ask, but would you mind opening the back door of my car for me?”
I nod and swing the door wide, and Grim unceremoniously shoves her brother onto the backseat. He slumps over and starts to sing an off-key song about roses—the “hit song” he was talking about, I guess. Grim groans, slamming the door behind him.
She pockets her sunglasses, and then she’s staring at me, her hands positioned firmly on her hips.
“I found him outside of a bar in town,” I say, and pick up my duffel bag from the sidewalk.
Raking a hand through her hair, Grim nods slightly; she looks very pale and very upset.
“But it’s all right—don't worry. I'm pretty sure no one saw him. He'd just come out of the bar, I think. I was trying to help him get back to Grim Tower.”
“That’s kind of you,” she says softly, working her jaw. Her gaze moves away, toward Jordan in the car. “When he gets like this...” Her shoulders sag. “He could compromise us all. So.” Fire-bright eyes latch onto mine. “Thank you. You didn’t have to help him, and you did, and I’m very grateful that you prevented him from making a scene.”
He could compromise us all? That's a strange way to phrase a family embarrassment.
But I let it slide, hold her stare. “You helped my friend. I was only returning the favor.”
Grim stands motionless, watching me with an unreadable expression. She puts her sunglasses on, breathes out, nods. “You mean Betty.” It’s not a question.
“Yeah. Why didn't you tell me?”
“I...I didn't want you to think... I mean—wait. How did you find out?”
“Rex.” I swallow, shrug. “Jordan asked me to keep an eye on him, and when Rex said he wanted to go play with some new friends, I walked with him to the condo. I didn’t realize he was talking about Betty’s kids.” I duck my head; a blush creeps over my cheeks. “It's...amazing, what you did for Betty. I don't know how to thank you. But...” I smile at her weakly. “Thank you.”
Grim's brilliant eyes burn through me as she opens and shuts her mouth; for a long moment, she says nothing. And she's saved from a response when Jordan's singing grows louder—much louder—and he starts to hit some piercing falsetto notes. Grim sighs, approaching the car.
“Would you like a ride, Bella?” she asks, her voice strangely quiet.
I shake my head, take a step backward. “No, it's okay. I have to go pick up Rex.”
Her nod is quick, curt, and then she folds herself into the driver’s-side seat, slams the door, and peels away smoothly, driving so fast around a turn that the tires screech.
---
When I reach the door of the condo, I'm greeted by children's screams of delight. Apparently, their games are going pretty well. With kids, it seems like the louder they are, the more fun they're having.
“Hey, Bella.” Betty answers the door with a pinched, worried expression on her face. “Did you see Pam?” she asks hastily, ushering me inside.
“Yeah, and...it didn’t go well. Like, at all.”
“Oh, no...”
I cross my arms and lean against the kitchen counter, and I consider telling her about Pam and Andrew. But Betty has enough on her plate.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” she asks, offering me a plate of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.
I bite into one of the cookies and smile. “Let's talk about it later. Ooh, this is delicious! God, I've missed your cookies at the diner. You know, you should open your own bakery—seriously.”
Betty's blue eyes light up, and a slow smile spreads across her face. “I've always wanted to. Maybe, if things work out here...” She shrugs, but I can tell that the thought excites her. “Is it time to take Rex home?”
I nod, finishing off the cookie and dusting my hands together. “But can I use your bathroom to change clothes first? And, uh, your hairbrush?”
“Of course. Just go right down the hall,” Betty gestures.
When I emerge from the restroom, I feel light-years better. I’m wearing one of my favorite dresses—a knee-length black number—and I borrowed a hair elastic from Betty to draw my hair up into a flowing ponytail.
Rex runs up to me and hangs around my waist, grinning. “You’re so pretty, Pretty!” he declares.
“Ready to go, Rex? It's almost time for lunch.”
“Lunch, yay!” He scoops Mr. Cheese up from the carpet, depositing him on his shoulder. Then he starts tugging on my arm, dragging me toward the door. “Come on! Mr. Cheese wants cheese!”
I laugh, shrugging helpless at Betty. “I’ll call you later. Are you getting a new number?”
“Yeah, I'll text it to you. And let me know what's going on with Pam, okay?”
“I will—but you won’t like it,” I sigh, then hug Betty tightly. “I’ll see you soon.”
---
Rex whistles as we walk, his hands buried deep in his pockets, his feet kicking at bits of trash and leaves. He's in a great mood, lost in his own little world, probably daydreaming about ham sandwiches (hold the bread).
And that suits me just fine. I've already had a hell of a day and am in no state for conversation.
I have too much to think about—but my mind doesn't linger long on Betty's new home, or Pam's shocking revelation, or Jordan's drunken display.
All I want to think about is Grim.
I’m lost in remembrances of her kisses when Rex's whistling turns into humming, and suddenly I recognize the mournful-sounding tune. Well, sort of.
“Is that one of Jordan's songs?”
Rex grins at me, nodding his head up and down. “Want me to sing it to you, Pretty? Mom says I'm as good a singer as him. Actually...” He lowers his voice conspiratorially: “She says I'm better.”
“I wouldn't doubt it,” I smile. “Sure, I'd love to hear you sing.”
With a decisive nod, Rex removes Mr. Cheese from his shoulder and holds him on his flat palm. Then he proceeds to sing right above the rodent's ears, as if the little mouse is a furry microphone.
“She says, I don't wanna be a princess
I don't wanna be a queen
If I've gotta wear this thorny crown
I'm gonna be the rose king
“And on a throne of thorns, I'll sit
And no one'll dare come near
I'll keep you safe
Oh, brother, sister,
you'll be safe, stay right here
“This is our rose garden
It's wild, it's cruel
No sun, just moon
“And the king of roses
never sleeps
Don't kiss her, prince
You'll wake a wolf—”
Rex claps a hand over his mouth and eyes me worriedly as Mr. Cheese scrambles for purchase on his arm.
“Why did you stop, Rex? What's wrong?”
“Um...” He glances around, as if he's checking to see if anyone else overheard him. “Ants doesn't like that part.” Rex ducks his head, staring at his shoes as we begin to walk side by side again. “She got mad at Uncle Jordan after he wrote it, and she never lets him sing it anymore, but Mom says I can sing it if Ants isn't around.”
“Huh.” I remember Jordan slurring something about having written that song for his sister—for Grim, I'm realizing now.
So...it's about Grim? She's the King of Roses? Keeping her family safe in a garden of thorns. She's the protector of her family, and that responsibility must weigh heavily on her...
“Hey, Pretty! Do you think I can become a pop star like Uncle Jordan?”
Rex's question shifts my train of thought; I smile distractedly, then ruffle his hair. “Your mom's right. You've got a great singing voice,” I tell him sincerely. He's also got a hell of a lot of poignancy for a kid. “But do you really want to be a pop star?”
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