I glare at Beretta, but when Ransom simply laughs, I relax, even though I’m positive I’ve missed an inside joke.
A smirk covers my lips. “I don’t think he could hang with me that long.”
“Why, you all about girly, crybaby shit?” Beretta teases.
I look away, my eyes widening in mockery of my own damn self. “Yeah, that’s me.”
“Is it not?” Ransom wonders.
I shake my head.
“So, you’re stone-cold then?” A hint of disbelief, or maybe it’s disgust, deepens his voice. “No fire, no soul?”
“Sure, you can say that.” I shrug carelessly. “Being all deep and devoted is senseless.”
“I’m not buying it.” Ransom frowns.
“It’s true. It messes with your head, and it’s all downhill from there.”
“You’ve been fucked over then.” A shadow of annoyance slips over him. “Loved and let go?”
“Hell no.” I laugh. “And I never will.”
“So you’re scared?”
My gaze slices to his, narrowing.
He gets in my face, so I hop off of the truck and stand before him. His eyes search mine and a low huff leaves him. “Yeah, you’re terrified of what would happen if you opened your pretty little eyes to more, aren’t you?”
“I’m not scared, I’m smart.”
“You think so, huh?” he scoffs. “What, mommy and daddy not love you enough?”
“Spoken like a scorned asshole.” I tip my head. “What, desperate for something you don’t have at home?”
His eyes turn to slate, hard and impenetrable.
I think I struck a nerve.
“Okay, yeah.” He nods, detached. “I’ve got mommy, daddy, fucked-up sibling issues like the next blue-collar bastard, but tell me, Jameson, what’s the point of this fucked-up world if you have no one in it?” His words drip of cold disdain, but something deeper strains beyond the surface. “Someone to lean on, to depend on, who can depend on you?”
I’m already shaking my head before he’s done speaking. “What a fairy-tale world you speak of. You’re setting yourself up for failure, thinking like that.”
“And you’re running straight to misery by not.”
“I won’t waste my life bleeding for someone else when I don’t even bleed for my damn self.”
His laugh is as cold as his eyes. “So, you cut yourself off from all that makes you human, like a true ice princess?” He slips closer, his tone lower. “How pathetic.”
“Pathetic is to love someone so much that when they’re no longer yours, you buy a one-way ticket to the bottom of the fucking ocean,” I seethe. “That is pathetic.”
He blanches, his face falling as he takes me in.
I hold back a swallow and straighten my shoulders.
Fuck him.
He licks his lips, creases forming along his forehead as the pieces fall into place. “Jameson...”
“Like I said.” I purse my lips. “Love makes you weak.”
A heavy sense of uncertainty clouds his features. “That’s an unfair judgment.”
“Yeah, well.” I grab my bag off the ground and step toward Arsen’s Camaro. “Me and my sister were the ones screwed in the end, so... kind of feels like I’m allowed to be a bitch about it.”
I climb inside and slam the door.
Ransom is a dumbass.
Everything he said is what’s wrong with this world.
People allow themselves to fall for such feeble ideals so carelessly that when they’re hit with the unexpected and uncontrollable feelings that come hand in hand, their deepest regrets follow.
Unruly emotion always leads to irrational actions.
It’s why I’m perfectly apathetic, agreeable to an arranged marriage, and looking forward to a contractual future rather than a precarious one.
When no one is looking, I slip a Xanax under my tongue and savor the chalky taste as it slips down my throat.
Feelings can go fuck themselves and so can the boys who shouldn’t be able to bring them out of me.
This time, when they take me to my car, it’s in the school parking lot, a note stuck under the windshield, one Ransom takes it upon himself to read, tear in half, and toss through my open window once I’ve climbed inside.
He pauses there beside me, waiting for me to pick up its pieces, but I don’t.
I wait to read it when they are as good as gone.
Come by for a nightcap.
~ Scott
I take a deep breath... and head his way.
He’s on his balcony when I pull in, so I start up the spiral staircase at the edge of the garden that leads to the entrance of his room. The place is basically a New York-style flat with a living room, kitchen and all.
It’s a singular, large, and wide-open space with glossy gray flooring and matching beams running up the walls every four feet or so, the entire thing made up of black glass windows you can see out, but not in. It’s extremely modern and screams bachelor. And his parents added it just for him.
He meets me at the landing with a grin.
“I wasn’t sure you were coming, but perfect timing.”
I give him a quick half hug, and he latches his arm around my shoulders, steering me indoors.
Leaving my side, he slips behind his bar, grabs a glass and empties the contents of the blender into it. My brows lift as I accept the slushie-like drink, knowing, without a doubt, he wasn’t the one drinking it.
He notices my expression and chuckles, tapping his knuckle on his near-empty tumbler. “Jules and Dax came by for a bit. She made it and that’s what’s left. I was about to pour it out... and then I saw you coming.”
I pull the glass to my mouth, allowing it to coat my lips so I can taste the red concoction. “Do you always sit around and stare at your security cameras?”
“Only when I’m waiting for someone to pop up on them.” His smirk is a mix of triumph and assurance.
I cross my legs, my forearms resting on the cold granite. “You were so sure I would, huh?”
He nods, and the superior glint in his eyes is clear—he truly had no doubt.
I’m not sure what that says about me, or him for that matter, so I look away, push to my feet, and step out onto the back side, wraparound balcony. Behind his house is where his family’s vineyards began, now relocated to a far larger estate, but enough to service the house and more remains.
“All this at your fingertips, and still, you go for the hard stuff.”
“We leave the wine to my mom and her friends. Trust me, they go through enough without help from me.”
“I don’t doubt that.” To love a good glass of wine is pretty much a prerequisite around here.
Scott turns his body to face mine, so with a long exhale, I meet his move. His hand slips into my hair and when I don’t pull away, he lowers his lips to mine.
I’ve kissed him before, on his yacht, when he blocked my exit on the stairs, and like then, he tastes of bitter bourbon and stale smoke, but most of all—privilege.
My fingers never leave my glass or the railing, and he doesn’t give up the drink in his hand either.
He kisses me simply to remind himself he can, and I let him in hopes it helps me to forget, to bring the numbness back.