The Malibu Secret (The Kensington Brothers #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

TALLY

I slam my needle down on the tray. "For the love of—would you stop squirming?"

The redhead in my chair—who calls herself "Shallow" like that's a normal human name—flinches again as I try to finish the cursive “M” of “Mortimer” on her lower back. March isn't even over, and this is already boyfriend tattoo number five for the year.

"I thought redheads were supposed to have, like, superhuman pain tolerance," I mutter, dabbing away a tiny bead of blood.

"Sorry," she whispers, then immediately jerks again.

I shake my head, wondering what drives someone to permanently ink every temporary man onto their body.

Part of me wants to lecture her about how these guys never stick around—trust me, I know—but another part of me almost respects her stubborn optimism.

While I'm over here refusing to get even one romantic tattoo until I meet a unicorn who won't bail, she's collecting an entire gallery of failed relationships like they're souvenirs.

I cap my needle gun and step back. "Well, Mortimer has officially joined the skin parade,” I tell the lovely Shallow, who's been my most loyal—and most idiotic—customer. "Right above the VIP entrance, as requested."

She's got a goddamn boyfriend museum all over her body. Slade occupies her left forearm (lasted three weeks), Nash rides her right shoulder blade (cheated with her cousin), Lincoln decorates her ankle (stole her cat), and Wilde (ironically the most boring) circles her belly button. The douchier the guy, the cooler the name. So, assuming that relationship between douchetude and cool names, that’ll mean that good ol’ Mortimer will be a wonderful guy who’ll treat her like royalty.

I mean, nobody names their kid Mortimer unless they're planning for him to grow up honest and dependable, right?

Maybe the universe is finally cutting her a break.

Or maybe she'll be back next month for a "Bartholomew" tramp stamp. Jesus.

She rubs her lower back—newly minted Mortimer territory—and wrinkles her nose. "I know, I know. Terrible name. But you ever see Arsenic and Old Lace?"

"The one where sweet little grannies poison lonely dudes with elderberry wine laced with arsenic, strychnine, and just a pinch of cyanide for a kick? Yep. Why?"

"Cary Grant's character was Mortimer," she says, jazz-handing like she just pulled a rabbit from a hat.

And fair play—Cary Grant was basically the Ryan Gosling of his day, if Ryan Gosling had the voice of a British butler and eyebrows that could seduce you from across a football field.

So maybe Mortimer has a fighting chance after all.

Even if the name peaked sometime around 1943, when people thought Mortimer, Mildred and Hubert were names you'd actually inflict on a child.

Shallow slaps her card on the counter, wincing as she rubs the fresh ink on her back.

I ring her up, watching her go with a head shake.

Ten bucks says she's back before Valentine's Day wanting "Poindexter" or "Eggbert" etched somewhere else.

Girl better pray she doesn't fall for some dude with a name like Bartholomew Christopherson—she's running out of virgin skin at this rate.

Eight hours later, I'm finally clocking out.

My fingers are cramping from the nonstop tattoo gun action today.

Maya—my business partner and supposed "other half" of Manic Muse, my tattoo studio—texted at 6 AM with some bullshit about food poisoning.

Yeah, right. More like she's nursing a hangover the size of Texas after that warehouse rave she "wasn't planning to attend" last night.

I need a drink the size of Jupiter right now.

Thank god I'm hitting up our Malibu spot with Celeste and Liv tonight.

Yeah, Malibu—land of the douche canoes—but what can I do?

My bestie Celeste went and married Max Kensington, billionaire extraordinaire who practically has his name stamped on every grain of sand there.

Their whole setup started like some medieval arranged-marriage bullshit that I thought died with corsets and the plague, and I thought she was batshit cray for doing it, but damn if those two didn't pull a romance novel twist. From "I can't stand his face" to "I can't keep my hands off his face" in record time. Love's weird like that.

I spot Celeste and Liv at our usual table on the Bluetide Grill deck, the ocean breeze tousling their hair.

Despite marrying a billionaire, landing that screenwriting gig, and having little Violet at home, Celeste hasn't changed.

There she sits in worn Levi's, a faded t-shirt, and those ridiculous rainbow Docs she loves so much.

That knockoff Vuitton she haggled for in Cabo is perched beside her, red hair twisted into her signature messy bun.

Max filled her closet with designer everything, but whenever she's with us, it's like the fancy shit stays home.

Sometimes I wonder if she's just more comfortable this way, or if she's afraid we'll call her Princess Moneybags if she shows up in Prada. Maybe a little of both.

I slide into the booth, drumming my fingers on the table. "All right, ladies. Spill the tea. What's been happening?"

Celeste shrugs, tucking a strand of perfect hair behind her ear. "Nothing much, really. Just the usual."

"Right," I snort. "Just the usual mind-blowing sex with your movie-star-looking husband while you’re raking in screenplay money.

God, how do you survive the boredom?" I catch Liv's eye and she smirks.

We both know the drill. In an hour, Celeste will check her watch and make her excuses—Max and little Violet waiting at home, the perfect little family in their perfect 20,000 square foot house.

Meanwhile, Liv and I will order another round, maybe hit another bar after, stumble home whenever the hell we want.

No texts to answer, no one to check in with.

Just sweet, uncomplicated freedom. And honestly?

I wouldn't trade it for all the Max-clones in the world.

One-night stands don't come with custody arrangements.

Celeste sips her drink with that cat-who-got-the-cream smile. Must be nice getting laid on the regular—definitely one perk of the whole marriage package I hadn't considered.

"How's life treating you?" she asks.

"Jesus Christ." I blow my bangs off my forehead.

"Today was a three-energy-drink nightmare.

" I dive into my highlight reel of the day's clients—the frat boy who fainted during his tribal armband and the middle-aged woman who wanted her ex-husband's name covered with a particularly anatomical mushroom.

I roll my eyes. "So, yeah, when Maya decides to be 'sick,'" I say, making little bunny ears with my fingers, "my entire existence turns into a dumpster fire.

Like, congratulations on your self-inflicted misery, now I get to suffer too. "

Celeste's eyebrows shoot up. "So there's this guy at Max’s studio who's been asking about you?—"

"Hard pass," I cut her off. "I'm not about to make awkward small talk with some trust fund bro who keeps flashing his fancy-ass Philippe Patek watch at me like it's supposed to make my panties drop."

"It's Patek Philippe," Celeste says primly. "They're actually quite?—"

"Jesus, who names their kid Patek?" I snort. "Though I guess it beats Mortimer. At least Patek sounds like he might know how to have fun without his mommy's permission."

Celeste laughs. "It's actually named after two guys who started it—Antoni Patek and Adrien Philippe. They created this super high-end watch company in Switzerland back in the 1800s. The Swiss don't mess around when it comes to timepieces."

"How do you know this random watch trivia?

" I ask, shaking my head. "I thought Patek Philippe was some new luxury brand all the rappers started flexing in their Instagram posts like five years ago.

" Then I shake my head. Of course Little Miss Married-to-Money knows all about fancy-ass timepieces.

I bet her husband could buy the whole damn factory with his pocket change.

I take a deep breath, trying not to roll my eyes. Maybe she has changed after all.

"No, no," Celeste says, swirling her wine. "But it is weird how everyone suddenly cares about them. I always thought Rolex was the ultimate status symbol, but now it's all about Patek Philippe."

"Holy shit, is this what girls' night has devolved to?

Drooling over fancy-ass watches worn by trust fund babies?

" As soon as the words leave my mouth, I wince.

Nice one, Tally. Celeste's husband Max probably has a whole damn collection of those Patek whatever-the-fucks stashed in some climate-controlled safe.

And he's actually decent, despite the silver spoon.

His brother Roman isn't half bad either—managed to fall for some crystal-waving tarot card reader, which still blows my mind.

Maybe I've been too quick to write off the entire Kensington clan.

Celeste's eyes meet mine for a second before she loses it, cackling so hard her mascara starts to run.

I'm right there with her, snorting like an idiot.

Jesus, we're ridiculous—usually debating the merits of dick pics while normal people worry about climate change or whatever.

But fuck it. Some people march with cardboard signs; we judge tattoo designs and talk shit.

Not exactly solving world hunger over here, but at least we're honest about it—unlike that customer today who wanted "Deep" tattooed on her wrist while talking about her spiritual awakening at Coachella.

Later on, I'm driving home stone-cold sober. Five years ago, a cop pulled me over after girls' night. I got lucky—he let me go with a warning that still makes my hands shake on the wheel sometimes. Now I nurse one drink all night, tops.

The streetlights flash across my face as I grip the wheel, thinking about Celeste. It's not the hot-as-hell husband who looks photoshopped in real life. It's not his bank account that could fund a small country. It's that look in her eyes now.

A few years back, we were the same—not happy, but not unhappy.

Both of us just existing, her with her screenplay rejections and her mom's cancer battle, me with my own shit.

Now? That bitch radiates. She's crossed over from that gray zone of not-happy-but-not-unhappy into just plain happy.

Meanwhile, I'm still stuck in that same twilight of not-happy-but-not-unhappy, watching the clock tick.

But I've made my choices. Damn right I have.

The whole white-picket-fence-and-hubby routine?

Hard pass. Same goes for popping out kids.

While other little girls were playing house, I was mixing watercolors until they bled through the paper.

Liv was the one obsessed with her Easy Bake Oven—no surprise she's slinging gourmet appetizers now.

Me? Give me a Lite Brite or that impossible silver-screen Etch-A-Sketch any day.

God, that thing was a nightmare at first, but once I cracked the code?

Magic. One of my favorite foster families nearly lost their minds when I twisted those little knobs into the perfect Beatles Revolver album cover at age eight.

Their faces when they recognized those four floating heads and that wild lettering? Priceless.

Love is garbage. It’s not like my childhood prepared me for happily-ever-after.

Mom chose prescription painkillers over stability, which meant I got the grand tour of the foster care system.

Every few months, some government lackey in sensible shoes would interrupt my Etch-A-Sketch masterpiece to stuff my belongings into trash bags.

And I never wanted to leave my mother. Never.

I mean, sure, Mom was orbiting Saturn half the time, and I became a Hot Pocket connoisseur by third grade, but she was mine.

Those substitute rando mothers with their fake smiles and forced hugs? Couldn't hold a candle.

And then—HOLY CHRIST—a deer materializes out of nowhere, eyes blazing like hellfire in my headlights.

I wrench the wheel hard, tires screaming against asphalt as my Jeep launches sideways, the world spinning violently as metal crunches and glass explodes around me.

Three, four rolls—each one hammering my body against the restraints until I'm hanging upside down, blood rushing to my skull.

Those movie scenes where people walk away from wrecks?

Complete horseshit. Every breath feels like knives between my ribs, and something warm trickles down my temple that I'm desperately hoping isn't brain matter.

It takes everything in me to dial 911, my trembling finger missing the buttons twice before finally connecting. The room spins like a carnival ride as I press the phone to my ear, darkness creeping in from the edges of my vision until I mercifully slip into unconsciousness.