Page 6 of Mason

Emily

“Buy the fucking ring.” Rachel taps her finger on the display case like a child terrorizing a fish in a bowl. “It’s gorgeous.”

Judging by her glare, the store’s owner wants to bounce my best friend’s face off of the counter as each tap leaves a smudge, but the middle-aged woman swallows her pride and bites her tongue.

Not because of Rachel Darrow. That name means nothing. But me? With one word, I can have the woman’s shop closed. One more, and she’ll be at the bottom of the Mississippi while everything she loves burns to the ground.

Allegedly, of course.

“You don’t think it’s too flashy?” I ask, directing the question at the shop owner rather than my best friend.

The woman dons a few stones on her otherwise understated black ensemble of a dress and heels. She wears the jewelry and not the other way around, just how I like. Rachel, on the other hand, is loud and proud in a leopard-print coat and black pleather pants. It suits her perfectly, but isn’t for me.

“No, it’s classy!” Rachel smacks her gum, the noise making the poor owner flinch.

I eye the twisted band of diamonds and rubies one last time before stepping away. “I have to sleep on it.” I like the piece, but I don’t love it.

Rachel scowls and plucks her iced coffee from the display case, the cup leaving a puddle of condensation behind. “You’re such a brat. Your father gave you money to treat yourself, and you won’t even spend it. I wish my parents threw cash at me.”

I fasten the top button of my twill coat and ignore the insult. Rachel is fun, and I like having someone to be myself around, even if it comes with an attitude bigger than Hiller Park. She’s honest to a fault, and I appreciate it in a world where fake friends are as common as traffic on I-10.

“Money doesn’t burn a hole in my pocket,” I explain. I wear nice clothes and drive a luxury car, but I don’t spend for the fun of it. Papa appreciates my fiscal caution, while Mama and Anna blow more than enough of his blood money to make up for it.

Rachel stomps away from the jewelry counter in a tsunami of clanking jewelry. “It’s not yourmoney, though. He told you to buy something. Not spending it is like, disrespectful, or something.”

I pause at the door. “As disrespectful as unsolicited advice?” Much like her yapping Chihuahua of a father, Rachel’s never learned when to shut up.

She shoots me a nervous smile before wiggling her fingers at the store owner. “Oh, Emily, don’t be so snippy!”

I push the door open, spilling out onto the packed sidewalk. The autumn air nips at my cheeks as I power along, the city buzzing all around.

“There’s a big Halloween party tonight at Down Under, you know.” Rachel struggles to keep up in her heels, the sky-high stiletto boots the last thing someone with half of a brain would wear for a shopping trip. “It’ll be good practice for your twenty-first…”

“I have class in the morning.”

With finals around the corner, I can’t afford to slack off. One slip in my grades and I’ll be married off like Anna to some creep. A dumb daughter is more useful as a bargaining chip than a brain. I won’t be used as leverage. I want to show him that I’m more than a pretty face. To earn a spot at the table, even if he hasn’t cleared one for me yet.

“Come on, it’ll be fun!” Rachel pushes, the ice jostling around her colossal cup with every step. She hits up Starbucks at least three times a day for one of those and an everything bagel, yet she’s still built like a rail. Well, aside from the boobs. But she bought those. I helped her pick them out of a book like Build-a-Boob. Nipple shape and all. “Dorian will be there!”

Now that gets my attention. Dorian Ross is head and shoulders above Steven, the rodent-faced prosecutor that Papa has in his sights for me. The sooner I catch Dorian’s eye, the better if I want to avoid a life as Mrs. Rat Face. I don’t doubt for a moment that Papa will force an engagement after graduation unless I have a suitor.

Sighing, I take the bait. “What time?”

She smirks. “Ten.”

My shoulders slump. My first class tomorrow starts at 8:00 AM, and Tuesdays are my long day on campus, with back-to-back lectures.

Her angled brows arch, sensing the impending no on my lips. “How often do you get to see Dorian?”

I loathe when she’s right. “How am I going to get in the door?”

The only place as secure as the family compound is the door at Down Under, the club entrance guarded by bouncers bigger than most of Papa’s men who can sniff out a fake ID regardless of how short your skirt is. I’ve only gotten inside a handful of times by paying one of Papa’s men to smuggle me in the back door.

She rolls her shoulders as she catches up, loving having the upper hand for a change. “My buddy, Oscar, is working the door, and let’s just say he owes me a favor.”

“I didn’t know people our age are named Oscar. Don’t tell me you’re screwing old guys again, Rachel.”

Her last fling was forty. And the one before that, fifty. I might understand a sugar daddy arrangement, but these bums give my best friend nothing more than heartache and pregnancy scares.

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