The next day, Stanton, Sofia, Presley, and I arrive at Chelsea’s house after work. She hasn’t told Riley about the concert yet, wanted it to be a surprise. And she said she didn’t want to risk Riley’s shattering the windows with her screams of excitement.
Oh—and Brent tagged along too. Because I’ve mentioned Chelsea and the kids at lunch and he wants to meet them. Also, because he has no life.
We gather in the foyer and I make the introductions. Chelsea greets each of my friends warmly. She’s wearing a casual, pale blue shirtdress that displays miles of smooth, succulent legs. And I fantasize about Stanton taking the girls on his own, and Sofia and Brent taking the rest of the rabble. Far, far away.
“Hi,” Regan says to Sofia, toddling into the room and holding a stuffed bear who looks like he’s seen better days.
“Hi,” Sofia replies, smiling.
“Hi!” Regan squeaks.
“Hi!” Sofia laughs.
And here we fucking go again.
For my own sanity, I’ve gotta teach this kid another word.
Stanton and Brent pick up their conversation from lunch—the ongoing “perfect murder” game. “Drowning,” Brent says insistently, ticking off his points on his fingers. “Chances are the body will be too decomposed to retain any useful evidence, and there’s a built-in alibi because the defendant can always claim the person slipped. It worked like a charm for Natalie Wood’s husband.”
Stanton shakes his blond head. “I’m still stickin’ with an allergic reaction.”
Raymond adjusts his glasses and jumps into the conversation. “Are you guys talking about the best way to off somebody?”
They nod and Raymond’s face turns eager. “I know a way. You make a high-powered bullet out of ice. And fire it from a sniper’s rifle. After it passes through the heart, it’ll melt. No fingerprints. No footprints.”
We’re silent. Shocked.
And kind of freaked out.
“I just got goose bumps.” Brent shivers. “Did anyone else get goose bumps?”
Rosaleen steps forward, her eyes focused on Brent. “Why do you walk like that?” she asks innocently.
“Rosaleen!” Chelsea chides. “That’s rude.”
But from experience, I know it’s fine and I tell her so.
Brent explains to the seven-year-old. “I got hit by a car when I was a kid, lost part of my leg.” He lifts his pant leg, showing off his titanium prosthetic. “So be careful riding your bike.”
She regards him with a tilted head. “So they gave you a fake leg?”
“Yep.”
“Can you take it off and show me?”
“No.” Brent shakes his head.
Rosaleen considers this. Then she asks, “You wanna come see my playhouse outside? It has curtains.”
“Sure.” Brent checks his watch. “I’ve got time.”
Riley comes down the stairs, her eyes taking us all in. I introduce her to everyone. She smiles at Presley with a friendly, “Hey.” And Presley waves.
“Sooo”—Chelsea grins—“Jake has a surprise for you, Riley.” She gives me a look, tilting her head toward Riley, nudging me on.
I clear my throat and stick the tickets in the teenager’s hands, trying not to make it a big deal.
“Oh my god!!!” Riley screams.
And Cousin It howls in response.
“These are One Direction tickets! Front-row One Direction tickets!” Huge blue eyes brimming with elation look up into mine. “Are you serious?”
“Unfortunately.”
The twittering, enthusiastic, unintelligible chattering between her and Presley begins. And goes on.
And on.
Rory smirks at me. “You have to go to a One Direction concert?”
I nod reluctantly.
“Ha!” He laughs, pointing his finger. “Sucker.”
I glower. “Shut up, kid.”
• • •
Four and a half hours of screaming girls later, I can’t hear jack shit. Even driving back in Stanton’s car everything is muffled—the shouting, singing girls in the backseat sound like they’re annoying me from underwater.
The four of us walk in the front door and find Brent, Sofia, and Chelsea having coffee in the den. Sofia holds Ronan, asleep in her arms, and a fierce, hungry look crosses Stanton’s face as he gazes at her.
“How was it?” Chelsea asks, grinning at me in a fuck-hot, teasing sort of way.
I hold up my hand. “Don’t make me relive it. I’m trying to block it out.”
But that cat’s already been sprung from the bag. Presley and Riley tell Sofia and Chelsea every single detail, talking together and over each other. They’re big on terms like “OMG” and “can’t believe,” “best ever,” and . . . “OMG.”
“And then . . . ,” Riley screeches, grabbing her aunt’s hand, “Harry looked right at me!”
I squint Stanton’s way. “Which one was Harry again?”
“The one who needs a haircut.”
I try to distinguish them in my mind, but they all need a haircut.
“Daddy,” Presley asks, “can Riley sleep over?”
“Yeah, Aunt Chelsea—can I sleep over at Presley’s?” Riley asks at about the same time.
Because apparently One Direction’s superpower is instant friendship. Someone should ship them to the Middle East so they can get to work on that Israel-Palestine thing.
Stanton gives the go-ahead and Chelsea says it’s fine. And then there’s more screeching—yay—before they charge up the stairs to get Riley’s stuff.
“Where are the other kids?” I ask Chelsea.
“They’re asleep,” she gladly informs me. “Brent tired them all out with flashlight manhunt.”
Brent pats his own back. “I’m the reigning champion.”
When the girls come back down carrying a sleeping bag, pillows, and a duffel bag, Riley stands in front of me, looking genuinely, sparkling happy.
“Thank you, Jake. This was like . . . the best night of my life.”
I could say it was my pleasure . . . but that wouldn’t be true. “Don’t mention it.”
Sofia hands Ronan to Chelsea and she gently lays him down in the small dark green portable crib in the corner. As they get ready to leave, I decide to hang around a little longer. Or a lot longer. Chelsea and I won’t exactly be alone, but minus one child is better than nothing.
Until Brent shoots my plan to shit. “Stanton’s car only seats four, so I need a lift home, Jake.”
Fuckin’ A.
I glance at Chelsea and it’s like she can read my mind. Because she’s smirking at me with humorous disappointment. “Thanks again, Jake. Good night.”
I reach out my hand, brushing her hair back from her face. “Good night.”
Then Brent slips in front of me. He bows slightly, takes Chelsea’s hand, and lifts it to his lips, kissing the back. “Thank you for a lovely evening—you were the hostess with the mostest.”
She giggles, while i
n the back of my throat, I snarl.
And the idea of breaking his jaw seems even more attractive than it did a few weeks ago.
Chelsea closes the door behind us and we walk toward my car, Brent skipping as best he can. It’s fucking annoying.
“Well . . . ,” he breathes slowly, suggestion strong in his tone, “Chelsea seems nice.”
I say nothing.
“And that ass,” he goes on admiringly, “mmm, mmm, good—I could bounce quarters off that tight—”
My hand lashes out, twisting the front of his shirt, dragging him forward till we’re nose to nose. “Shut up.”
He searches my eyes, his smile slow and knowing. “You like her.”
I drop him like a Hot Pocket straight out of the microwave and brush past him to my car. “Of course I like her. She’s a nice girl.”
Brent sticks close to my side, wagging his finger. “Nooo, you like her—not just in the sense that you want her riding reverse cowgirl on your dick. You like her, like her.”
“What, are you twelve?”
“Age is just a number. Or at least that’s what my uncle said when he married lucky, nineteen-year-old wife number three.” He nudges my shoulder. “But seriously, you’ve got this whole knight-in-shining-armor vibe going on.”
I shake my head. “My armor was tarnished a long time ago, Brent.”
“A knight in tarnished armor is still a knight.”
When I don’t respond, he pushes—because he actually believes I won’t punch his pretty face. “Then let me know when you’re done. I’d like to see if I can hit that.”
I step toward him. “She’s off-fucking-limits to you. Now, during, and after. Don’t even think about it.”
And the son of a bitch looks pleased with himself. He smiles wider. “Yeah—you