29. Tatum
29
TATUM
T wo hundred people, my ass. The place is packed. Bodies gyrate in the middle of the room, and the wired speakers blare music so loud I can practically see the notes strung together. My lips curve up when I recognize the song. It’s Doomsday. Rory must recognize it, too, because I catch her smirk as she bumps her shoulder into mine.
“Coincidence?” she asks.
My brows pull. “What else would it be?”
“He knows they’re your favorite band,” she reminds me.
She’s right. He does.
Refusing to acknowledge the potential thoughtfulness behind the party’s playlist, I wrinkle my nose and lift my chin toward the edge of the room. “Come on. Let’s start cleaning.” I reach for a flute on the windowsill, but a man balancing a tray of food intercepts me.
“I can take that, miss,” he says.
“It’s fine. I was hired to clean up?—”
“Tatum, I presume?”
Rory and I exchange glances but don’t answer him.
Deciding he’s correct, the man explains, “My staff has been ordered to make sure you don’t lift a finger.” He snaps his fingers and lifts his arm high into the air, pointing to me while making eye contact with another server across the room. “Tatum,” he mouths. His arm moves over Rory. “Rory.”
The server nods their understanding, and Rory lets out a surprised laugh. “I’m sorry, what is happening right now?”
“I’m confirming the rest of the staff are aware of your presence this evening,” the man explains, giving me his full attention. “Tatum, I was told you like Jack and Diets and chocolate shakes. Do you have any other preferences?”
He knows my order?
I shake off the spark of flattery, dousing it with sheer stubbornness.
Focus, Tatum.
“Pretty sure drinking on the job is frowned upon, but thanks.” Glancing at Rory, I add, “Let’s split up. I’ll take the top floor, you take the bottom. I have my phone if you need me.”
She opens her mouth to argue, and so does the waiter beside her, but I ignore them both, slipping through the crowd like water through a crack in a dam. Seriously. It is so. Freaking. Packed. When I reach the second floor, I press my ear to the secondary bedroom’s closed door in hopes of confirming it’s empty. With my luck, there are two people getting busy on the other side, and if it’s Pax, I might literally stab something. Not because I’m jealous, mind you, but because… Nope. Not going down that road.
By some miracle, only silence greets me, and I push the door open. A few beer bottles sit on the windowsill, but otherwise, the room is untouched. Striding toward the small mess, I pick them up, then move to the next room. The soft strum of a guitar makes my ears perk and my heart race, though I refuse to acknowledge why. It’s not like I want Pax to see how cute I look in the dress he had delivered to my house or anything. Because that would be ludicrous. I also refuse to acknowledge the fact that whether I want to admit it or not, I’ve been scanning every room for a glimpse of the familiar rockstar despite my best attempts to appear unfazed by this entire ordeal.
Just open the damn door, Tatum , I remind myself.
Grasping the handle, I push the music room door open. A few people stand inside. Some are messing with Paxton’s guitars. Others flip through his music collection like they own it. I wonder if Pax knows they’re in here. Knows they’re touching his things. Knows they’re making themselves at home in his sanctuary. My sanctuary. Did they find The Count of Monte Cristo ? Did they flip through the worn pages the same way I did not so long ago? My mama bear instinct threatens to take hold, but I bite my tongue and close the door again, refusing to cause a scene over something that is absolutely none of my business.
Beer bottles in hand, I turn around, smashing into someone. Like a couple of bowling pins, we crash to the ground, the half empty beer bottles spilling over me and staining the slinky black dress Pax sent me.
Shit.
“What the hell?” the stranger squeals. She stares at the dark stain on her red satin dress, and my head falls forward.
Well, isn’t this fantastic?
At least I didn’t fall down the stairs, or push this woman down them.
Right?
With a deep breath, I push to my feet, ignoring the scattered beer bottles, and offer the stranger my hand. “I’m so sorry.”
“You’re going to be,” the woman spits. Her face twists in disgust as she shakes her index finger at me. “By the time I’m finished with?—”
The words are lost on her tongue as she looks up at someone behind me.
“Careful,” Paxton warns. His tone is low and growly and laced with way more sex appeal than is even fair at this point.
The stranger’s lips part on a gasp and she pushes herself up before taking a step back. “Y-you’re Pax?—”
“The one and only,” he confirms. “I’m also the owner of this house, and this beautiful woman is my guest of honor.” His hand runs along the curve of my hip before dropping back to his side. “Now, you were saying?”
“S-she spilled?—”
“Yes, yes I did,” I interrupt. “And for that, I am super sorry. Would you like to trade?” I motion to the dress Paxton gifted me while the man’s amusement seeps from his chest and into my back.
“She’s kidding,” he says.
“I’m not kidding,” I volley.
“And what would you wear?” he challenges me.
Twisting to face him, I prop my hand on my hip and raise my chin. “I’m sure the maid outfit is still here somewhere…”
His brow lifts. “I mean, if it’s on the menu.”
I fight back my smile, refusing to take the bait no matter how much I want to. “I can fight my own battles.”
“Of that, I have no doubt, but you’ll have to cut me some slack for?—”
My phone buzzes between us, interrupting Pax as we stand in the middle of the hallway, chest to chest. Annoyed, I pull it out of my purse. It’s Lia. Again. She’s called at least a dozen times over the last few days. She’s also sent that many cryptic text messages, asking—no begging—me to call her. The cherry on top was when she even sicced my parents on me, which was the final nail in the coffin. Can she seriously not take a hint? I don’t want to talk to her. I never want to talk to her. Not since?—
“Who is it?” Pax murmurs.
“No one of importance.” I look up at him again. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
His hand wraps around my bicep, preventing my escape. “You’re late.”
I cock my head. “Late?”
“You were supposed to be here an hour ago.”
“Dock it from my pay,” I dare him.
“With this attitude, I might.” His attention falls to the beer bottles in my hands. “You’re working?”
“You paid me to be here.”
“I paid to get you here,” he clarifies. “I told the rest of the staff to make sure you don’t lift a finger.”
Clicking my tongue against the roof of my mouth, I say, “Too bad I’m a terrible listener.”
“Truest thing you’ve said since we first met.” He tugs me a little closer to the side so we don’t block the stairs. “You still being stubborn?”
“It’s what I do best.”
“Would you look at that? We’ve agreed on two things in one night.” His attention slides down my body. “I like the dress.”
I glance down at the garment in question, hating how well it fits. Silky. Black. With a long slit up the side and just enough support to make my boobs look incredible. Seriously. It’s like it was made for me. My gaze flicks up to Pax. “You’re lucky it isn’t red.”
“Are you saying there was a chance of you getting in the hot tub again?”
My phone buzzes in my hand, and I drop my head back. “God, I’m seriously going to kill her.”
“Kill who?” Paxton prods.
“No one.”
“You sure?”
My phone buzzes again with another call, and I silence it, peeking back at Paxton. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Before he has a chance to follow, I dash down the stairs as another call blows up my phone. I start to tuck it back in its place, but a message appears.
Ophelia
Tatum, will you please stop being a brat?
A brat? I’m the brat? Screw that. I open the message and subsequently, the last dozen she’s sent, too. The first is from a few days ago.
Ophelia
Hey, Tate! I know you’re busy, but if you could give me a call, I’d love to chat for a minute. No pressure, though.
Hey, Tate! Just checking in to see if you can chat?
Look, I know I’m not your favorite person, but I have news, and I really want to share it with my little sister.
My teeth dig into the inside of my cheek as I stare at the title, little sister, unsurprised by the familiar guilt and resentment it brings with it. And sadness. There’s sadness there, too, though I’m familiar with that particular feeling as well. Forcing my jaw muscles to relax, I continue scanning the onslaught of messages.
Ophelia
Tate, please stop ignoring me. Please?
It would be nice if my little sister would answer her calls OR her text messages.
Listen, Tatum, I’m tired of keeping this from everyone in hopes that you hear it from me. Will you please call me? I have news.
News.
I scoff. What? Did you save another orphan? Cure cancer? Learn a seventh language? What could my perfect, high-and-mighty sister want to share with little ol’ me? I scoff again, unable to help myself. Like I want to know. Mom and Dad are probably forcing her to reach out or something. It’s not like she’d be texting or calling out of her own volition or anything.
Ophelia
You’re pissing me off, Tate. Call me. Please.
Aaaand, we’re back to the beginning.
Ophelia
Tatum, stop being a brat.
A brat? Now we’re name calling? Real mature, Lia.
Another message buzzes.
Ophelia
You don’t get to ignore my calls and messages, then get butthurt for being the last in the know, Tate.
Ouch.
Ophelia
Fine. Here it is. Mav proposed. We’re getting married. I’d love to give you the details, if you’re interested. Give me a call.
The sucker punch hits its mark, leaving me breathless.
What the fuck, Lia?
Legs weak, I lean against the wall and reread the message.
Mav proposed.
We’re getting married.
Married.
Anger surges through my veins, and I squeeze my cell, my vision blurring.
They’re getting married.
Racing the rest of the way down the stairs, I steal a bottle of Jack from the bar before flicking the lid off. It rolls on the ground, disappearing into the sea of dancing people in the middle of the room while I bring the bottle to my mouth. Liquid heat burns my throat as I swallow.
They’re getting married.
My eyes ache with unshed tears, but I tell myself it’s the liquor. That it has nothing to do with my sister and the happily-ever-after she’s living without a single fuck to give for the rest of the world, let alone the man she buried. The man we buried.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, then go in for another glug. The quicker the alcohol sets in, the quicker I can black out and forget this ever happened. At least, for a little while. It’s funny. When you’re used to surviving a day at a time, a little while is all you can ask for, isn’t it? Squeezing my eyes shut, I open my throat and pour the liquor down, letting it wash over me as I welcome the numbness, praying it’ll take over soon and I won’t have to hurt so much. I won’t have to hurt so deeply. Then again, I should know better than this. To believe the pain will go away.
I can’t believe they’re finally doing it. They’re getting married. They’re fulfilling the fucked-up circle of life or whatever. It shouldn’t be a surprise, and in a way, I guess it isn’t, but seriously? They’re really just…moving on like that? Like he never existed? Like they didn’t steal his happily-ever-after? And even though I knew they’d get married and ride off into the sunset, it still…hurts. Knowing he never will.
“Tate, are you—” Rory’s eyes pop as I turn toward her. Staring at the bottle of Jack pressed against my lips, her eyes glaze with trepidation. “Whoa.” She peeks up at me again. “Are you okay?”
Keeping a firm grasp on the neck of my liquid gold, I drop my arm to my side. “Fan-fucking-tastic. Haven’t you heard the news?”
She frowns. “What news?”
“There’s a wedding to be had,” I announce, using my best hoity-toity British accent while batting my lashes.
Her frown deepens. “What are you talking about?”
“Your brother proposed.” I swallow the bile coating my throat, well-aware it’ll only be replaced with more.
“Mav proposed?” she asks, dumbfounded.
“Yup.” I take another swig of alcohol. “How much do you wanna bet Jax will be at the wedding?”
The blood drains from her face.
“Exactly,” I quip. “Which is why I led with fan-fucking-tastic. Who doesn’t love a good ol’ family reunion, am I right?”
Steeling her shoulders, Rory orders, “Tatum, put the drink down.”
She reaches for the bottle, but I tug it away from her. “And why would I do that? Aren’t we supposed to eat, drink, and be merry? A wedding’s a celebration, isn’t it?” I scoff. “And who doesn’t want to commemorate your big brother’s death by pretending he never existed, am I right?”
She jerks away as if I’ve slapped her. “What the fuck, Tate? Did you really just say that?”
My body floods with regret. “Shit. I didn’t…”
“Didn’t mean to throw my brother’s death in my face like that?” Her eyes flood with crocodile tears, and her bottom lip wobbles. “I know you hate Mav for surviving when Archer didn’t, but they’re both my brothers, Tatum. Both of them.”
I shake my head, but the cotton in my mouth is too thick to push past. Besides, even if it wasn’t, what’s there to say? That it isn’t true? That I don’t hate Mav for surviving when he’s always been the lesser brother? Instead, I simply stand there, watching my best friend take a brutal blow straight to the chin while knowing I’m the one who dealt it.
“I know how much you wish your favorite Buchanan would’ve survived, but I can’t play that game, Tate. Honestly, I refuse to.” A tear rolls down her cheek, and she angrily wipes it away. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going home. You can call an Uber.” Then, she bolts toward the front door. I shake my head, willing the ground to swallow me whole and put me out of my misery once and for all.
I’m such a bitch. And to the person who deserves it least.
Bringing the bottle to my lips once more, I pour the burning liquid down my throat, savoring the trail of blazing heat. After all, I deserve it, don’t I?
Fan. Fucking. Tastic.