“You okay?”
“Yeah,” I answer, handing her a spoon and walking toward the bed. “Let’s just eat all the sugar.”
I spoon a huge chunk of chocolate cheesecake into my mouth, groaning in approval at the soft, sweet crumble touching my taste buds.
“So tell me,” Tatum states, wrapping her long hair into a bow bun on the top of her head and removing her slim-rimmed glasses. “How did you manage to catch the eye of the one and only Bishop Vincent Haynes?”
“Oh, God, not this again,” I utter under my breath, going for another spoonful to fill my mouth. The movie has long since started, and the gunshots in the background are pitched low.
“He stared. That doesn’t exactly mean he’s interested—or me, for that matter. Because I’m not.”
“Mmmm.” She sucks the cheesecake off her spoon. “Now, say it again. This time with more conviction!”
I snatch my pillow and throw it at her head, but she catches it, falling onto her back and laughing.
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, but for the record, that little eye”—she gestures between our eyes—“fuckery that you two had going on was more than I had seen out of him—ever. No one at RSPA is good enough for his royal highness.” She rolls her eyes, opening a bag of gummy bears.
“How do you know? Maybe he’s just discreet about it.”
She shakes her head. “Oh no, he has been with other girls, but they don’t attend RSPA. They’re like—” She pauses, mulling over the word she wanted to use. “—famous and stuff.”
Disappointed at her lack of a better word, I ask for clarification, “Famous—and stuff?”
She nods, oblivious to my stab at her wording. “Yeah. But those are all rumors though. No one has seen him with any of the girls who have apparently been with him. I’m talking like tycoon daughters, heiresses, that sort of boring crap. The only girl I know with 100 percent certainty was Khales, and that’s because, yeah, they were always together when they weren’t at school. It was like a modern-day Cinderella, where the poor princess found her prince.”
“Oh! That’s just being mean.”
Shaking her head, she pops another gummy bear in her mouth, and I reach for one before she eats them all. “Truth. Shame really. He was still unapproachable back then, but at least he had a smile on his face when she was around, and he didn’t tell people to ‘fuck off’ if they got too close to him.”
I let out a breath. “Well… lucky girl then, I guess. Maybe. Because he sounds like an asshole.”
Tatum laughs, throwing a bear at me. “See… I knew we would be great friends.”
She was right.
MY CELL PHONE’S ANNOYING RINGTONE sounds off on my bedside table, waking me from my deep sleep. Grunting, I sit up off the bed and blindly reach for it, accidently hitting Tatum’s sleeping form.
“I don’t want to go to Candy Land,” she mutters sleepily, flipping onto her side. I stifle a laugh, sliding my phone unlocked and pressing it to my ear.
“Hello?” I whisper, careful not to wake Tatum.
“Sis….”
I look down at the screen of my phone, squinting my eyes from the bright light assaulting my vision. Pressing it back to my ear, I whisper loudly, “Nate! What do you want?”
“Why are you whispering?” he murmurs, almost whispering himself. “Ouch!” I hear him growl, and in the background, someone else says, “That’s not why you’re calling, fucker.”
Walking into the bathroom, I flick the light on and close the door, careful to do it quietly. “What, why? What? Why the hell are you calling me at…” I look down at my phone again. “Fucking 3:00 a.m.?” My voice gets a little loud toward the end.
“I need your help.”
“Why would I help you? I’m not even sure I like you!”
“What? Why? I’ve been nice to you. I thought we had a—ouch! Fuck! Okay.” He takes a breath. “For real, Madi. I need your help.” His change in tone jolts me, my eyebrows rising instead of pinching together.
Closing my eyes, I lean over the sink, massaging my temple with my free hand. “What is it?”
“I cannot believe I’m fucking doing this,” I mutter to myself, no longer caring if I wake Tatum. Walking into my closet, I leave my pajama shorts and tank on but pull a zip-up hoodie off a hook, sliding it on before throwing my hair into a tight, high ponytail and slipping on my Chucks. Walking out of my closet, I flick the light off, noticing how Tatum hasn’t moved, then walk out my bedroom and trek down our double stairs. The pitter-patter of my rubber soles squeaking over the tiles in the foyer is the only proof I’m making my way to our underground garage. After passing the theater, I push open the door onto the clean white space of the ten-car garage, which looks more like a showroom, with all the cars strategically parked on display.