Chapter 11 Lance
Lance
Dante’s restaurant is loud tonight.
Not loud in the way a hole-in-the-wall tavern is, but the smooth white linen tablecloths and fake flickering candles can’t pay enough for my family to shut the fuck up for three seconds.
Dante’s is owned by my brother Paxton, though, so there isn’t much we could do to get thrown out.
Perks of being the family dynasty in town, I guess.
There’s a clatter of plates from the kitchen, a shout of “hands!” from the back, and across from me my brother Alex is holding court, midway through explaining how the lead in his play is so bad, he’s considering quitting acting entirely in favor of a higher artistic calling.
“What calling?” Roman asks, his tattoos flexing as he drapes an arm around the back of Juliette’s chair and plays with her long black hair.
“Something soulful, Roman. Something with depth.”
“Try a job that pays,” Felicity says.
Felicity, Juliette’s best friend, is perched beside Alex, her blond strands wrapped around her finger like she’s sweet as candy, even though I’ve seen her verbally dismantle grown men in under five words.
“I’ve heard you prefer the struggling artist types, Fee.” Alex leans in, pursing his lips. “Kiss me if I’m right.”
She shoves his face away, but she’s smiling. “If you have to ask for a kiss, then you haven’t earned it.”
“What would earn it?”
“A working knowledge of warp core mechanics,” she says.
Alex blinks. “I’m a lover of philosophy, Fee, which means I can learn to love anything you want, including random words you just strung together.”
“Ew, Alex, quit trying to steal my best friend. She’s mine, not yours,” Juliette says, throwing a straw at him.
“She’s right,” Felicity adds. “Although… I need someone to hang out with who doesn’t suck face with a tattooed graffiti artist turned corporate overlord every other second, so Alex is kind of winning. No offense.”
Juliette scoffs but turns and smacks her lips to Roman’s anyway.
Roman grins against her mouth. “We could leave and she could do more than suck my face.”
“See, this is what I deal with,” Alex says. “No one appreciates me.”
“Get a real job and maybe that’ll change,” Felicity offers.
“I’ve considered teaching, actually.”
A laugh pours out of me, and every head snaps my way.
“What?” I ask.
Felicity’s eyes narrow. “It’s weird to hear you laugh.”
“I’m just wondering what you’d teach, Alex,” I say.
“Theater, obviously. Or maybe philosophy. Molding young minds.”
“God help them,” Felicity mutters.
The front door swings open, and Paxton strides in sans his wife. Typical. Tiffany rarely shows up to family events, although I’m hardly one to talk. The only reason I’m here is because I’ve been a shit brother, and I promised Juliette I’d try harder.
But it’s difficult, living this double life, doing what I do and then showing up with a smile like everything is fine.
Paxton’s suit is immaculate, his black hair perfectly styled, and he’s got that expression he always wears that makes it seem like he’s inconvenienced by everyone’s existence.
“You’re late,” Juliette says.
“I’m the owner; I’m never late.” He pulls out a chair and drops into it.
“I’ll have a gin martini,” he tells the server. “Dirty.”
“Like your—” Felicity starts.
“Who invited you?” Paxton cuts her off, cocking his head as he stares at her.
Felicity’s smile doesn’t waver, but her eyes sharpen, the way they have since we were kids, and Paxton would smack her forehead and call her Flick.
“I did,” Alex says, throwing an arm around the back of Felicity’s chair and pulling her to his side. “Respect my future wife, Pax. Fee’s family.”
“She really isn’t,” he replies.
“She shows up more than some people,” Juliette says, her eyes cutting to me.
And there it is.
I sigh, cracking my knuckles.
“How is everyone?” Paxton asks.
“Fantastic,” Alex drawls. “We were just discussing my artistic evolution.”
“Were you? How fascinating.”
“God, you’re a cliché,” Felicity says.
Paxton takes a sip of his drink. “Manners, Felicity. They matter.”
“I have wonderful manners, Golden Boy. I just choose not to waste them on people who don’t deserve them.”
Paxton frowns.
I groan, already tired of my family’s antics, when I could be doing literally anything else.
Juliette kicks me under the table, and I jolt.
“Ow, what the fuck, Jules?”
“What the hell is your problem?” she snaps.
“Probably the bodily injury you just gave me.”
Roman tugs her closer and presses a kiss to her head. “Calm down, Little Rose. Not everyone can handle when you’re mean.”
She scoffs. “Please. Who do you think taught it to me?”
I smirk, my shoulders loosening.
“Jules is right. I’m the superior brother, and her favorite. If you fell in love with her mean streak, then really, you’re just in love with me.”
Paxton pinches the bridge of his nose. “Can we not do this?”
“We can’t not do this,” Alex adds. “Mainly because it’s tiring to pretend like this entire town doesn’t know that I’m the best Calloway. Genetics play favorites, and I fear I won the lottery.”
Felicity cackles but then her eyes slide behind me and that grin drops. “The real question is who the hell invited him?”
I follow her gaze to the front door, where Art’s walking toward our table.
“There you are,” he says. “I’ve been looking everywhere.”
Felicity offers a thin smile. “How efficient. Now you can leave.”
“Freeloading off the Calloways again, Felicity? How convenient for you.”
“Please don’t project your insecurities onto me, Arthur. It’s embarrassing.”
Paxton’s mouth twitches.
Art ignores them both and turns to me. “I need to talk to you.”
“No,” Juliette says. “We’re having dinner, and it was hard enough getting him to show up for that.”
“Jules…” I press my lips together, that tightness in my shoulders raring to life.
She deflates, reading me, and her jaw sets. She turns away, and Roman’s hand cradles the back of her neck softly, as he murmurs something into her ear and then gives me a disapproving look.
“Aw, man, come on,” Alex says. “It’s family time. At least tell us what the gossip is if you’re about to ditch us.”
“It’s private,” Art replies.
I down my drink and push to a stand, guilt dripping through me like acid.
“I’ll be back.”
“No, you won’t,” Juliette says.
I toss my napkin beside my plate and follow Art toward the door.
The autumn air hits my face as we step outside, and Art doesn’t stop walking until we’re in the alley, away from the windows.
Even under the dim light, he looks like shit, which makes me worried. Art’s always been the kind of guy who runs on fumes and people pleases his way into trouble. And my job was always to be at his back, and make sure he wasn’t alone.
“Did you see the Rag?” he asks.
“Come on, man, you know I don’t read that shit.”
He pulls out his phone, scrolls for a second, and flings it toward me. The headline glows on the screen:
Late-Night Stroll or Something More?
My stomach sours as I skim the article. Did they see me go inside her apartment?
“I walked her home,” I say, handing the phone back. “You asked me to keep an eye on her.”
“I know what I asked.” He shoves the cell in his pocket and drags a hand through his hair. “I’m not mad at you; I just can’t stand what they’re implying.”
“Since when do you care what the Rag says?”
“Since they’re making Gin and you look like two-timing assholes.”
I shove my hands into my pockets and say nothing.
“Sorry,” Art continues. “I just… I’m in over my head.”
“You remember when you crashed your dad’s car into Ms. Valdez’s mailbox?”
He blinks. “What?”
“Your dad’s Audi. The mailbox. We were fifteen, and you took it out for a joyride, and you got so freaked out after that you just left it there. The Rag ran an article and said I was the one who stole it, remember?”
His brows furrow. “Your dad beat your ass for that, so that’s not really making me feel better.”
“I’m just saying, the Rag is full of shit, and they’ve used me as a target since I was old enough to walk.” I reach out, squeezing his shoulder. “Don’t worry about what they’re saying. I sure as hell don’t.”
“Yeah. You’re right. It just makes me fucking sick. You’re so much better than that, you know?”
I swallow and look away as he says, “And so is she.”
There’s a half breath where Genevieve’s face surfaces in my mind. My pulse picks up, and I pull my hand back.
“You could send in an anonymous tip, telling them you asked me to be there.”
He laughs. “The last thing I’ll ever be is a source for The Rosebrook Rag of all places.”
“Then we say fuck it and move on. That’s what we do, right? We figure shit out together.”
My arm slides around his shoulder, and I drag him back in. Whatever that was a second ago—I put it away, because it doesn’t matter, and it isn’t even real. Not like this. Not like Art and me.
“Yeah, well, we both know what happens when I have you solve my problems.”
“Let it go, man. I love you, you know? I’d do it a thousand times over.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Try harder.”
He grins, but then his face goes pale, his eyes locking on something over my shoulder.
“Arthur.”
We both freeze.