“Was he ever?” Linc adds with his own playful tone.
I wave to the waitress, to which she nods, saying she’ll be right over.
“You two want anything, or is talking shit about me enough to fill your appetites?”
“Order me a refill. I’ll be right back,” Lincoln says before excusing himself from the table to go to the men’s room.
Kennedy’s eyes discreetly linger on my best friend’s ass, but I catch the longing look just the same.
“What?” she snaps, her eyes in thin slits when I throw her a mischievous grin, announcing I caught her ogling red-handed.
“Nothing. Just, for a girl who’s going to walk down the aisle after graduation, your eyes sure check out my boy a lot.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She purses her lips, her southern drawl so deep that it’s a dead giveaway I’ve touched a nerve.
“Sure you don’t,” I smirk as the waitress comes over, ready to take our order.
The Grind is packed with the usual Richfield crowd with animated, rowdy chatter around us, giving me the reprieve I need to escape my own muddled thoughts. And nothing is more distracting than being with my friends while we pretend to be typical college students who aren’t being blackmailed for murder. Even if only for an hour.
When our coffee arrives, Kennedy takes a sip of her macchiato, doing everything in her power to ignore the knowing smirk still ingrained on my face. I’m about to tease her some more when the girls in the booth behind us start flapping their gums, talking a bit too loud for us to ignore their conversation.
“Oh, my God! I know, right?! He is so hot. Too bad I’m not crazy enough to want to date him. I mean, who is? Only someone who has a death wish or something. Am I right?” one of the girls says after an irksome squeal that perforated my eardrums.
“I don’t know,” her equally annoying friend adds. “I’d do Lincoln Hamilton in a heartbeat. He’s gorgeous. Not to mention filthy rich.”
“Nope. Not me. I don’t care if he is hot and richer than God. He’s bad news.”
“Oh, come on, Tiffany. You’re exaggerating.”
“Am I, Lisa? Everyone he comes in contact with dies. Like, ‘dead as a doornail’ kind of dead.”
“It’s not even like that,” this Lisa girl defends halfheartedly.
“Yes, it is. You heard the rumors. No one that lives in the Hamilton estate lives long enough to talk about it. I heard the mansion is haunted, filled with the ghosts of every person who has died there. Lincoln is either going to be next in joining the dead club or end up pulling a scene out of The Shining. Who knows? Maybe he already has,” Tiffany—who I’ve mentally dubbed as a world-class bitch—relents to her unimpressed friend.
“You and your conspiracy theories. He’s lost his whole family. You can’t actually think he had something to do with it?”
“Fine. Maybe that’s going too far. He may not be responsible for all those mysterious deaths, but he’s still creepy as fuck. I’m mean, who would even want to still live in that house? What if whatever ghosts that haunt the place possess him or something? Could you imagine being his girlfriend and sleeping over there? You’d think you’re about to get a goodnight’s sleep, and then bam! He shoves a knife in your back.”
“Oh, my God! You have got to stop watching all those horror movies, Tiffany. They’re making you paranoid.” Lisa giggles. “And who cares anyway? I know for a fact that, if Lincoln Hamilton even so much as looked at you twice, you would be all over him. Don’t even lie, bitch.”
“You’re right. I’d do him like that.” She snaps her fingers for emphasis. “Maybe even sweet-talk him into getting my name written into his will. That way, when he kicks the bucket next, I get all that Richfield money.”
“And good dick while you wait.”
They both laugh hysterically, gaining attention from the clientele around them. It’s enough for the two airheads to start whispering their nonsense to each other instead of making us suffer hearing every dumb word that vomits out of their mouths. I chance a glimpse over at a rigid Kennedy and see pure venom in her gaze.
Shit!
“Don’t do it, Ken,” I warn, grabbing one of her trembling arms to keep her exactly where she is.
I can see in her predatory, feline stare that she wants nothing more than to get up from her seat and punch each girl’s face in. Maybe even claw their eyes out with her nails. If given a chance, Kennedy would eat them alive, so her self-imposed restraint to remain seated is fucking admirable to me, all things considered.
Sure, if she thought none would be the wiser to her throw down, she would be all up on these bitches. But we’re in a crowded café, which means that even before Ken was able to deliver the first punch, everyone back at Richfield would know about it, including her less-than-understanding father, the dean. Not to mention that pompous douche of a fiancé. It would be all kinds of awkward trying to explain to either one of them what set her off in the first place. And she knows it.
I watch the red tinge of her cheeks return to its normal shade, and once I’m sure she won’t do something stupid, I let go of her shaking hand. I watch as she cracks her knuckles under the table while appearing ladylike to anyone else who might be looking at us.
But I know Ken. Under that sweet, southern-girl exterior, she is bubbling with rage. When all that pent-up aggression explodes, I pity whoever gets caught in the crossfire.
When Lincoln comes back and takes a seat, he starts reading the tense environment to a T.
“What did I miss?”
“Nothing. Just Ken giving me a hard time as usual. Isn’t that right, babe?” I explain while playfully knocking my shoulder with hers.
Linc has had it rough enough as it is. No use in adding salt to the wound by telling him that some lame-ass chicks have been talking smack about him behind his back.
“Actually, we were talking about Halloween,” Kennedy suddenly states cheerfully, leaning into the table, bringing her face closer to Lincoln.
“We were?” I ask in confusion.
“Yep,” she counters, popping the ‘p’ at the end.
She stares me down over her shoulder, ordering me to go along with whatever she has up her sleeve.
“What about it?” Lincoln grins as he sips his coffee.
“I think we should throw a party.”
“A party?” I repeat like a parrot, having no idea where she is going with this.
“Yes, Easton. A party.”
“Okay. I’m in. Where should we throw it?” Linc asks enthusiastically, always down for any idea that Ken throws at him.
“Your house, of course.” Kennedy smiles brightly, batting her long lashes at him.
Poor fucker never saw it coming.
“My house?”
“His house?”
“Yes! God, you both are so slow sometimes,” she blurts, but then quickly backpedals to her cooing tone. “It’s time to heal a few wounds, and what better way than to throw a Halloween party.”