Page 36 of Renegade Ruin

INDIE: WTF Leigh?

LEIGH: He’s grieving. He lost literally everyone. And flying sucks when you don’t have the fresh reminder that your entire team died in a plane crash. Plus, Bishop Lawson has already proved kisses are his only form of distraction. It’s par for the course.

INDIE: He’s not the only one grieving though. He’s taking advantage of our girl and that’s a dick move.

LEIGH: I’m not saying he was right in what he did. I hate him for putting Willow through that since we both know she’s not over him.

Fuck Leigh and her ability to see right through me.

I fire back.

WILLOW: That’s not true.

It’s totally true. 100%. No lies detected. But it’s over. Time to move on.

LEIGH: Are you sure about that? You went out of your way to make sure he had a private jet to get down to Florida.

WILLOW: For the sake of the team.

LEIGH: Uh huh. I see you, Willow Mae.

INDIE: It doesn’t change the fact he was an asshat and doesn’t deserve your lips, let alone any other part of you.

LEIGH: I’m just saying. I don’t think he meant what he said. We say a lot of shit when we’re grieving. Remember the summer I shut you guys out after my parents passed? I said some horrible shit.

INDIE: I still haven’t forgiven you for the comment you made about my hair being like a lion’s mane.

LEIGH: It’s a very pretty lion’s mane. Brings all the boy lions to the yard.

INDIE:

A weighted sigh escapes me, and I type and retype my response three times before I send it.

WILLOW: I hear you. I really do, but I’m his boss. It doesn’t matter what happened in the past, there isn’t a future for us.

It’s the truth. And I need to hold on to that more than ever. We might have an insane chemistry that transcends the realm of reality, but Bishop and I are two fucked up sides of the same coin at the moment. We each need to figure out how to move forward, and we can’t do that together.

INDIE: That’s right Willow. Tell him to fuck off and maybe put a laxative in his Gatorade.

LEIGH:

WILLOW: I’ll take both options into consideration.

LEIGH: Now that we’ve got that planned out, what dress do I need for the gala? Is there a theme or can I just go balls to the walls whatever makes me feel sexy?

Anxiety coils low in my stomach.

The gala.

It’s the one aspect of my work I’ve been avoiding thinking about. I still have no idea how I’m going to fix the issues with the league gala. Bishop wasn’t wrong when he said we were using the children of the victims of the crash. That was Vaughn’s plan all along. And what’s worse is the board of Renegade Hearts loves the idea. They ran the numbers and partnering with the league has the ability to generate millions for the organization. I’m the only one who sees a problem with it. Maybe because I was one of those kids once upon a time.

After my mom died, there was a period of time my dad didn’t know what to do with me. I was shipped off to boarding school. When I came home on breaks, he expected me to continue being a present part of the York name—attending parties and fundraisers with him like before. But it was different. I was no longer Adrianna York’s little progeny. I was the girl who lost her mother, and everyone made sure I knew that—with their pitying stares and half-hearted offers of condolences that would segue into questions about how they could get in good with my father. It wasn’t until my dad realized I enjoyed spending nights with him at the ballpark more than dressing in frilly dresses that things began to change. I was no longer my mother’s daughter but the daughter of Richard York, and no one messed with him.

I can’t put these children through that. Especially when none of them have the York name to fall back on.

My phone buzzes again, pulling me from my worries back to my friends.

INDIE: Absolutely go for sexy, Leigh. Lord knows you deserve the night out.

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