“You either love a movie or you don’t,” I objected, ignoring my brother’s scowl, as I applied makeup. “Not everyone loves it. I mean, do you likeLord of the Rings?”
It was my brother’s turn to snort. “That is a New Zealand movie.”
“Ummm, just because it was filmed in New Zealand doesn’t make it a New Zealand movie.” For all his genius IQ, he wasn’t that bright.
“New Line Cinema is an American film production studio,” Willow chimed in. “They producedLord of the Rings.” She would know. She worked for the entertainment industry. Willow went the entertainment route, while Sailor and I opted for the careers that’d probably give us a shorter lifespan. I wasn’t sure who was crazier here. Though neither one of us would give up. Both Sailor and Willow were great at their jobs.
Sailor was passionate about reporting on the underdogs.
Disadvantaged victims of the corporate world.
The invisible women that experienced the brutality of human trafficking.
She never hesitated to write a story about sensitive topics that should be known. Unfortunately, some people in D.C. minded that. Though it’d never stop her. And it helped that the Ashford brothers had her back.
Just as Sailor reported on sensitive topics, Willow wanted to produce movies about them, bringing their stories to a larger platform. We were certainly a trio.
“No matter,” Byron protested. “They filmed it in New Zealand; it’s not an American movie in my book, and that’s all that counts.”
The three of us rolled our eyes in unison, then dismissed him. They knew Byron well enough by now to realize it wouldn’t make any difference to convince him otherwise. He’d let us believe we almost succeeded and then he’d tell us how idiotic we were.
An hour later, Willow, Sailor, and I ended up in the quietest restaurant we could find in the French Quarter. It would seem our party days were behind us because none of us could stomach crowded bars or streets. And the French Quarter was nothing if not crowded.
So we sat in Tableau, a classic French-Creole restaurant in an elegant three-story historic building with balcony seating. It was situated on St. Peter Street, between Jackson Square and Preservation Hall. We were right in the midst of all the entertainment in the heart of New Orleans but away from the noise, mayhem, and drunks on Bourbon Street.
“Well, your brother is getting hotter with age,” Willow broke the silence as the three of us stared at the wild parties passing us by.
We used to be wild. For one week straight. An unforgettable spring break, in the worst way possible. We were know-it-alls. Spring break in Miami was a party playground with access to everything and anything. We snuck into the hottest nightclubs, got drunk as fuck, and Anya, Sailor’s older sister, who watched over us, joined in. Some nights I had no idea how we got back to the hotel.
Until that last night when we didn’t. Instead, we broke into the house of the supposed cartel we heard about. On Anya’s suggestion. She was a drunk with the worst ideas.
That backfired, and ever since, we’d paid the consequences for it. We lost Anya, though we had Gabriel, and he was worth the heartache. We’d never tell him how he came about. That he was a product of some fucked up day.
Willow took a sip of her cocktail then casually added, “I’d bang him.”
“Shut up,” I choked out, cringing at the image. It killed me to admit it, but all my brothers were good looking. They always had women swooning after them - for their looks, money, power, and charisma. All my brothers inherited their height from our father. I wondered if Kingston was somewhere on this earth, tall like him too. Both Byron and Winston had Father’s eyes, while Royce, Kingston, and I had dark eyes like our mother. Apparently, I was the spitting image of her.
Not that I knew her. She died before I turned three. The official story was a robbery gone wrong, a case of “wrong place, wrong time.” The unofficial story was that a rival gang of her brothers, the infamous members of The Kingpins of the Syndicate, killed her.
All I had were her pictures and my brothers’ memories. Maybe it was good that she died before everything turned into a nightmare. She didn’t have to live through all the fucking crap that happened. Sometimes I wished I didn’t remember.
“I don’t want to have that picture in my mind,” I added. “Yuck. Makes me wanna barf.”
Sailor grinned and leaned forward with wide eyes. “Would you fuck him this weekend?” I kicked Sailor under the desk and a yelp escaped her. “Hey!” she complained as I glared at her.
“Don’t give her ideas,” I warned her with a frown. I’d heard Willow having sex once. You couldn’t unhear that shit. My eyes narrowed on my best friend, and I pointed my fork at her. “Do. Not. I repeat, do not sleep with my brother. And especially not this weekend. We have a minor in the household to think about.”
“Gabriel sleeps like a log,” Willow countered and I shot her a disapproving look. When I glared at her, she sighed. “Fine, I won’t sleep with him. God, I haven’t gotten laid in so long, I am not even sure if my lady parts are even functioning anymore.”
I rolled my eyes. Between the three of us, Willow got laid the most.
“What has it been?” I retorted dryly. “Like a week?”
Sailor and I haven’t gotten laid in a long time. Way too long. I wasn’t even sure I remembered how to perform the act.
“Like two months,” Willow answered. My eyebrow shot up. That was a long time for her. Sailor and I shared glances, but she just shrugged her shoulders. Willow was the most confident among us with her sexuality. She liked to experiment and try anything once. Then if she didn’t like it, she wouldn’t do it again. Hence, no shortage of partners for her.
Maybe she had become more selective?