Wealth … who doesn't want nice things, nice houses, good food? But isn't this a little ridiculous? Where's that line in the sand? How much is too much?
I think a woman wearing black trousers, a white dress shirt and a black tie just to pour wine into an adult's glass qualifies.
“Mum,” Paxton drawls, letting his cruel smirk drop firmly into place. “Pop.”
Here we go …
Amelia leads me over to stand next to Pax, right in front of a gorgeous blonde wearing a modestly cut but still sumptuous (and very expensive) evening gown. There's no way in hell that's Paxton's mother. No way. She has the same cruel mouth as her son, the same grey eyes, but she just looks so fucking young I'm in a bit of shock.
Her husband looks a little older—not surprising really—with blue eyes, faint lines around his mouth and eyes, and pale brunette hair going grey at the roots. What's that Beauty in Lies song called again, the one that's clearly about Pax's dad? I think it's called Fucker. Looking at the severe expression on his face, I can see the inspiration.
“Allow me to introduce my beloved posse,” Pax continues, clearly reveling in his ability to introduce a bunch of alternatively dressed rockstars to his uptight family. “This is Lilith Goode,” he begins, giving me a scalding glance that I don't think a damn person in that room could possibly miss, “followed by Michael Luxe, Copeland Park, Derek Muser whom I hear you've met and, of course, you know Ransom Riggs. Friends, these are my parents Arabella Adelaide Mary Blackwell and Leopold Charles Duncan Blackwell.”
Wow. Talk about a mouthful.
I struggle to keep my facial expression relaxed and pleasant.
“It's nice to meet you,” I say and his parents mumble out something similar and entirely disingenuous, taking my hand but not bothering to do the same for any of the guys behind me.
“I'm sorry,” Arabella says as she studies me, her son … the way her son is leering in my direction. Goddamn it, Paxton. “Are you the band's manager?” She tries to be polite, but I can see by the way she's staring at me that she wishes I were anywhere but here, standing in front of her in a cheap cotton dress.
My lips part, but I can't seem to find the words. What should I say anyway? I could tell her I'm dating any one of—or all of—the boys behind me, but I imagine Paxton has a plan in mind.
“Lilith's my guest,” Pax says as both his parents eye me warily … eye the boys like they expect them to snatch the silver candlesticks from the table and make a run for it. When I glance back at them, I see Cope and Muse smiling politely, Ransom grimacing like he's trying to smile, and Michael glaring with violet eyes.
Arabella simply smiles tightly and turns to the room, introducing us as smoothly as if she's known us for years. She manages to remember all our names—first and last—without skipping a beat. After that, we're all seated along the table with half of our group ending up on one side, half on the other.
I'm fortunate enough to be sitting between Paxton, who's seated to the right of his mother, and Amelia. From my position, I can hear everything. I stare across the rather narrow table at the tall, balding man and smooth skinned younger woman at his side that Amelia introduced as her parents. Yet again, there seems to be quite the large age discrepancy. I decide not to judge and play Muse's game both in my head and out loud. If you don't have anything nice to say …
“How long do these parties usually last?” I ask Amelia after about an hour of dull, mild conversation that goes nowhere. I'm a little tipsy from the wine, Muse's freak-out weighing heavily on my shoulders, still in a bit of shock that Muse and Paxton actually had sex. I mean, they didn't ease into it like I thought Ransom and Pax were doing. They just … fucked. If Muse hadn't seemed so upset afterward, I would've loved it.
“Far too bloody long,” she whispers back with a small sigh, her finger tracing the rim of her wineglass with a red painted nail. I do my best not to sigh, picking up my own glass and downing the remaining liquid. Whatever it is that I'm drinking—some dry white wine that reminds me of peaches—I get the feeling that it's grotesquely expensive.
As I sit there, I notice some very interesting things. First off, I see immediately that Paxton's dad is a heavy drinker. Before we're halfway through the various courses, he's red in the cheeks and forehead. I wonder if Pax inherited his drinking problem from him? Somehow, I get the idea that Pax, too, is taking note of this, barely finishing a single glass of wine by the time I'm on my third.
I also pay close attention to Muse, to the way his gaze wanders every now and again to my face, like he wishes for a brief second that we were alone. But then the expression fades back to pleasant neutrality, as if the desire was never there at all. I'm desperate to know what he's thinking about, why he did what he did, how he and Pax feel about it.
But that'll have to wait for later.
Right now, Paxton is clearing his throat.
I take a deep breath and look down at my plate. Well, I guess it's a plate. Really, it's this little rectangle of slate with four tiny squares of food arranged neatly atop it. I was told these were almond biscuits, but they don't really look like much of anything. They were served with some pale yellow ice cream of indeterminable flavor and a small espresso. I just stick with the wine, especially when Paxton turns to address his mother. If I don't keep drinking to calm my nerves, I might just throw up the asparagus with crispy duck egg, chorizo and lovage (what is that anyway?) that I ate earlier in the meal.
Don't get me wrong, the food was very carefully prepared, the ingredients obviously expensive and fresh … but the combinations were a little strange. I think longingly of those greasy burgers and fries we had back on the tour bus. I miss my Bat Cave.
“Mummy,” Paxton begins, and I can tell that the honorific is annoying to his mother, the woman that looks easily as if she could be his sister. I might be less surprised if I'd been told Harper had come back to life and was sitting at the dinner table with us. “There's something I'd like to discuss with you.”
“Can it wait?” Arabella asks, leaning back in her chair with the tiny porcelain cup of espresso in her delicate hands. She doesn't even turn her grey eyes to look at her son, instead keeping them focused on something one of the other guests is saying, some woman with a strong French accent whose name I can't remember. All in all, there are three other couples attending dinner with Pax's family, Amelia's family, and me and my boys.
I don't pay much attention to any of them.
“Not particularly,” Paxton says, the inky wash of his hand tapping fingers on the white surface of the tablecloth. I notice his mother does look down then and her expression is anything but pleased. “It's about me and Amelia.”
“Oh, for heaven's sake,” Arabella sighs, closing her eyes for a long moment. “Paxton Charles—”
Pax cuts her off with a wave of his tattooed hand and a derisive snort, like he can't be bothered to hear her usual protests.
His mom opens her eyes then and stares straight at me, like she can sense a storm brewing.
“Do you want me to tell you now, in pleasant low tones, or should I stand up and make sure every single person at the table is listening? I can discuss all sorts of things: dad's drunken fits, that time he hit Harper with his belt so hard he split her skin open, the way you covered up all the awful things he did with lies and bullshit. Or you can hear what else it is that I have to say.”
“Don't be ridiculous, Paxton,” his mother says with a small scoff, finishing her coffee and setting the plate aside. “Really, the stories you and Harper used to make up … what nonsense. And besides, don't you find it ironic to discuss all the supposed wrongdoings from her past? I mean, considering your hand in her tragic end.” Arabella closes her eyes again, and for a second there I think she's going to cry. But then she opens them and I see that exact same cruel expression on her face that Pax gets. So … he got the drinking and the anger from his dad and this calculating coldness from his mom. “If you're going to introduce your newest paramour to me, t
hen don't bother. We all saw what happened to the last one—that drunken whore, Chloe.”
Arabella whispers this last bit so low that I almost miss it.
There's this split second there where Paxton's entire body goes frighteningly still. I don't wait even a second before I reach out and lay my hand on top of his, marveling as usual at the strange contrast between his colored flesh and my pale emptiness. I want more tattoos.
“I'm not marrying Amelia,” is what he says and I feel a slight swell of pride in my chest. I know there are a million more things that Paxton wants to say to his parents in place of that. Instead, he stays calm.
“Paxton, this is not a subject that's under discussion,” Arabella says, setting her napkin aside like she's preparing to stand up. Pax reaches out and covers her hand, much the same way I did his, but with absolutely zero affection.
“You're right—it's not under discussion at all. It just is the way it is: I'm not marrying Amelia.”
“Why?” his mother asks, sliding her hand out from under her son's and turning toward him, leaning close and crossing one arm over her chest. She props her elbow in her palm and then rests her curled fingers against one smooth cheek. Behind her, Pax's dad is too busy chatting with Amelia's parents to notice their conversation. That, or he's too drunk. “Because you've brought a whore home with you this time?”
I close my eyes and blow out a long breath, trying to remember Muse's game. Stay pleasant, keep smiling. It's a serious challenge. I'm tired of being called a whore—by Kevin, by Octavia, by my stepmother's implied accusations. And anyway, why should a woman's purported sexuality be of any concern to her fucking character?
This really is a medieval dinner party; I was right.
“A whore?” Pax echoes mildly, but there's this simmering rage beneath his words that tells me he has no problem stepping in to defend my honor. My smile turns real and I open my eyes to look Arabella straight in the face.
“You think I don't know where all your luggage was sent? I know everything that goes on in this house. If she's not your whore, why is she staying in your bedroom?”
“Excuse me, Ms. Blackwell,” I say, drawing her attention from her son and over to me. “I just want to say that you have a lovely home.”
A small giggle bursts from my throat along with the compliment, and I clamp a hand over my mouth. From behind me, I can hear Amelia make a small sound of surprise. Across the table, Muse is grinning.
“Pardon?” she asks, her face this confused mask that's so much fucking better than if I'd insulted her outright. Hell, she looks like I just insulted her outright anyway.
“And may I just say that you're absolutely beautiful. I can see where Paxton gets his good looks from.”
There's a long pause where both Pax and his mother stare at me with the same tempest tossed eyes, grey as a sea in a storm. Well, no. Those are the color of his eyes, and while her shade is similar, there's not a lot of life or movement to them. Gunmetal grey, that's what Arabella's look like. Cold as steel.
“What are you getting at?” Arabella asks me, voice still low and dulcet, but her expression hardening. There's this little 'V' between her brows that deepens the longer she looks at me, like she's trying to pull me apart with her eyes.
“I love your son very much,” I tell her next, still smiling, curling my fingers through Pax's. He lets out a sharp breath and looks over at me, cocking his head to the side slightly like he's also trying to figure me out. “And I promise I'll take excellent care of him.”
“If she needs any help, I'd be happy to assist,” Ransom says, and the thick luscious tones of his voice have a visible effect on Paxton's mother. He pushes his hood back to smile at her, the scar pulling at the corner of his lip.
The way her skin ripples when she looks at him … I see that Paxton isn't the only one that held blame over Ransom for Harper's death.
Arabella decides not to respond, looking over my shoulder toward Amelia, and then dropping her gaze back onto her son.
“You've run out of time, Paxton,” she tells him ominously, pulling away briefly and standing up at the same time the French couple does. Goodbyes are exchanged, and then both she and Mr. Paxton lead the pair toward the sitting room.
I can't help it; I burst into inappropriate laughter.
“Cheeky twat,” Pax says, but his voice is colored with amusement, surprising considering the turn of events. “I've been scared of my fucking parents for years and here you are, laughing at them.” He gives Ransom a look across the table, seated next to Muse, Michael and Cope. They don't say anything, but I can see Ran's mouth twitching with a bit of repressed humor. “Bleeding hell,” Pax murmurs as Amelia's parents break away briefly from their conversation with one of the other couples to address their daughter. I don't think it escapes their notice that I'm sitting between her and her supposed fiancé.
“How is it then? Seeing each other after such a long break?” her father asks, his voice this impressive baritone that commands authority. Uh-oh. I feel like a teenager all of a sudden, about to watch my friends get scolded by their parents. Except … Paxton is twenty-six fucking years old. So is Amelia. They can do whatever the hell they want. As soon as they both realize that, I think they'll be a lot happier.
I glance at Amelia and notice that some of the color's leached from her face. She reaches up to adjust the flowers tucked behind her ear. I notice they're not placed there quite as effortlessly as they first looked; there are about a million bobby pins.
An awkward silence descends on the table when she doesn't answer, and I find myself laughing again. At the almond biscuits, at the wine which I've probably had slightly too much of, at the leaf print on my dress. It's all just suddenly a little bit funny.
Paxton stands up from the table and smiles as his parents reenter the room.
“I have an announcement to make,” he says, and I notice that while his mother frowns, his dad smiles, a drink clutched in his right hand. I guess he hasn't been filled in on the situation yet. Maybe he thinks Pax is getting ready to announce that he's finally marrying Amelia? “I'd like to ask this woman, Miss Lilith Tempest Goode here, if she'd do me the honor of accepting my hand in marriage.”
Oh shit.
Now it's my face that completely leaches its color.
I can feel the blood draining out of my cheeks, my lips, my eyelids.
Pax reaches into his pocket and produces a small piece of jewelry.
“This ring, I pinched it from the heirloom collection in the study earlier this afternoon. It was actually worn by the first Mrs. Blackwell to ever grace the estate, back in 1681. And since her passing in 1745, it's sat unused and collecting dust on this same estate. Now, I'd like to see it travel the world. Miss Lilith, will you accept my proposal?”
Oh crap, crap, crap, crap, crap, is he actually doing this?
I laugh again; I can't help myself.
“I accept,” I say, feeling like a lady with her lord, biting my lower lip to keep back the rest of the giggles hiding in my throat. Too much wine. Definitely too much fucking wine. Now, I don't really think that Paxton is proposing. It's all a show for his parents and their friends, but … Holy fucking shit.
I stand up and Paxton slides the metal onto my finger, this antique yellow gold ring with a lozenge-shaped diamond that's as grey as Pax's eyes. When I look up and into them, it doesn't really seem like much of a joke.
My heart starts to thunder in my chest and a bead of sweat drips down the side of my face. Right there in front of everyone, Pax reaches out a finger, catches it and puts it to his lips, licking the moisture off with a quick flick of his tongue.
Complete and utter silence follows, and I pray that I don't have to be the one to break it.
“Dinner was delicious, Mr. and Mrs. Blackwell,” Muse says, also standing up from his seat. “Thank you for inviting us to join you.”
I think he's the first person to realize that we're about to be kicked out.
“You can't j
ust fucking propose like that without asking the rest of us,” Michael snarls for the hundredth time. Maybe the thousandth. He's throwing things out of his suitcase and onto the floor of our hotel room. Sunshine streams in and catches the blue highlights in his dark hair. “I mean, that's fucked. Seriously fucked.”
“Oh, would you get over it already?” Pax asks, lounging on the bed in jeans and a t-shirt. That's how we can tell when things are getting serious with him. Unlike most people, dressing down implies an important occasion on Paxton's part. “I said it's not all that serious. Lilith knows that, don't you, Lil?”
She twists the ring around her finger, but it stays on, just like it did all night last night, through breakfast this morning.
Each day he retold the same joke, and each time he did it, the less humorous it became. It was like a dirty pebble, polished with each telling until the gem hiding beneath the layers of grime and dirt shone through. When it came to her, that girl he'd fallen for all those years ago, there was nothing he wanted more than to drop the pretense and tell her how he really felt.
I bite my lip ring for a moment as literary wisdom spins through my brain. My lids feel heavy and gritty and for a second there, I almost regret staying up all night to read this angst ridden erotica novel about a man pining for his best friend's wife. But it calmed me a little, reading about somebody else's problems, watching them struggle for solutions and feeling this inner core of ease in knowing that I could do nothing to either help or hurt their situation. That's one of my favorite parts about reading as a whole—the characters' problems are not my problems.
No.
These are my problems right here.
“If it wasn't Yasmine's birthday, I'd kick your ass,” Michael growls, finally finding the t-shirt he was looking for and slipping it over his head. Almost like he just can't kick the habit, Muse picks the discarded clothes up from the floor and dumps them back in the suitcase.
Last night, after the Blackwells kicked us out of their house in the country, their driver took us to York and dropped us at a hotel. After a brief verbal tussle in the back of the limo, nobody really mentioned what happened. Not the 'faux' engagement, or the thing with Muse.
Moxie (Rock-Hard Beautiful Book 3) Page 13