“He knows that,” Rose says, her yellow-green eyes never leaving his.
I have a feeling he’s going to spit in our margaritas. Not that I want anything from him anymore.
But Rose is right on one account. He should know they’re bodyguards, even if he’s not sure who we are. We’ve brought more attention to ourselves in the club, especially by being together. I already see some people snapping photos of us with their cellphones and whispering to their friends. I’ve been approached three or four times by fans, asking for an autograph and selfie.
It always surprises me that people beyond the United States are interested in us. Princesses of Philly made my family more famous than I can even process sometimes, now internationally recognized. It’s easier living in our own bubble of normalcy. When we step out—that’s when it’s crazy.
Poppy and Daisy clink glasses and then down their tequila shots while the bartender starts making our drinks. “Have the guys texted you?” I ask my sisters.
They all check their phones.
“No,” Daisy says, slipping her cell in her short’s pocket. She subconsciously touches her green and yellow hemp bracelet that Ryke made for her birthday. A simple present that has more love in it than anything store bought.
He did well.
“None from Sam,” Poppy says.
Rose shakes her head, though she’s the only one who sends a text back.
The bartender pours tequila into more shot glasses. He slides another one to Daisy. “For the birthday girl.” He’s sweet to her now, but I wonder if it’s because she hid her scar or because he pities her.
Either way, it hurts to think about.
“Let me guess your age,” he says with a smile.
I check my phone again. No texts. I bite my nails and then drop my hand quickly. Rose caught me though, a fiery glare scorching me.
“Only if you let me guess yours,” Daisy replies, twirling a drink napkin on the bar.
His face lights up, and he rests his forearms on the counter, peering over it. He scans her entire body, lingering on her long legs. “Just making sure you aren’t pregnant.”
Rose mutters a violent curse under her breath. I only heard penis. Poppy is holding Rose’s wrist in a maternal vice, one that also says cool your jets.
My jets are too cold. They’re frozen to a statue-like posture. Our trip really has gone smoothly thus far. Not too much drama besides my father. It’s bound to take a wrong turn somewhere. And I think tonight is the night. I’m just waiting for it, watching the storm clouds roll in.
“No baby in the oven,” Daisy says easily, though she concentrates more on the napkin than on the guy.
“You’re twenty-five,” he guesses.
Daisy mock gasps. “How’d you know?”
“I’m good with faces.” He smiles.
Rose snorts.
I laugh once, but it fades as he soaks in Daisy’s slender, athletic frame.
“Your turn,” he tells her.
Daisy takes the shot, licks her tequila-wet lips and says, “You’re eighty-nine, or maybe seventy-four.”
“Nice try,” he says, pouring her another shot. “I’m thirty-two.”
She gasps again. “I wasn’t right? I thought for sure you were a little blind in your right eye.”
His lips downturn.
“I’m nineteen,” Daisy retorts. “Nice try.”
My smile overtakes my face. That was awesome. I raise my hand for a high-five, and Daisy smacks my palm.
The shock passes through his features quickly. “That doesn’t mean much to me,” he says, “other than your pu**y being tighter than your sisters.”
All of our mouths simultaneously drop, except Rose who is about to punch him. But she can’t. Hands swoop around her waist from behind.
Connor.
And Ryke suddenly appears beside Daisy with a murderous glare, directed at the bartender. Oh shit. “Lily,” Lo says my name in my ear.
My chest rises. They’re all back. Unharmed it seems. Even Sam, Poppy’s husband, his jaw unshaven like Ryke, and his features just as masculine as the rest of them.
Ryke has a paper bag in his clenched fist. Cigars, I think. To the bartender, he growls, “I don’t even know what to f**king say to you.”
“I do,” Lo sneers; then he motions between Ryke and Daisy. “They’re together, you dumb f**k. So swallow your tongue. And consider yourself lucky that only three out of eight people pray you choke on it.” I’m guessing that’s Ryke, Lo, and Rose. The hot-tempered triad.
I smile again, even though this is not the time to be smiling like a dopey fool. I just never really saw the three of them as a team like that until now.
“I say we cut if off,” Rose threatens.
Connor, standing behind Rose, puts his hand to her forehead like he’s checking her temperature. She swats his arm away. He says, “I’m just seeing if rage can boil a brain.”
“My brain is working perfectly,” she says. “I see a disgusting human being and it says die.”
Connor is grinning from ear to ear. “Your brain has no mercy, darling.”
She can’t reply because the bartender interjects and points at Daisy accusingly. “She was flirting with me. I had no idea that she had a boyfriend.” Oh my God.
Daisy pales. “I was not—”
“Let me guess yours,” he says in a high-pitched tone that sounds nothing like Daisy.
“Fuck you,” Ryke cuts in, his hand on Daisy’s shoulder. “Come on, Dais.”
The bartender can’t let it go. “I’m just telling the truth.”
Ryke growls, “And I’m telling you to f**k off.”
I interject (yes, me of all people) and say, “You can keep the margarita.” Out of principle, I won’t drink anything that has been touched by his hands. He threw my sister under the bus, which I do not appreciate.
I spin around, and I’m shocked to see not only Rose following suit, but Poppy and Daisy. I was the leader of this movement, heading towards an open leather couch by the wall. The trek involves being the center of attention, with camera phones pointed at us. But we all make it safely and settle there.
I sit between Lo’s legs, leaning back against his chest so we all have room. I like it best here.
I look up and whisper to him, “You were gone for a while.”
His eyes are daggered sharp, and something tells me it’s not because of the bartender. “There were a lot of tourists out.”
I don’t believe that. It’s February, and for the most part, the nightclub is sparse with mostly locals. “Are you lying to me?” I breathe, my face plummeting. Is it really guys versus girls to this extent?
He winces and dips his head closer to mine, his lips beside my ear. “All day, we’ve been followed by three guys, and we were trying to ditch them.”
I frown. “What kind of guys?”
He explains quickly, “They’re not paparazzi. They’re either on vacation or they live here, but they wouldn’t leave Ryke and me alone at the ATV park. They were just trying to get a reaction out of us.” His jaw is all ice tonight.
Cold rushes down my arms. “Did they say anything in particular?” I mentally recall all the rumors involving me, Lo, and Ryke.
“I don’t know,” he says in frustration.
“But…you heard them, right? They were close?” Or were they out of earshot?