Page 59 of The Deceptions
I stick my tongue out at him and finish the rest of my margarita quickly, begging for more.
"Anything for you, Livy," Mack chortles, climbing out of the treehouse through the trapdoor in the floor, clinging to my margarita glass. "I'll be back."
Fifteen minutes later, he came back with a small cooler full of beer and an entire pitcher of margarita mix, claiming he took the rest of it before anyone could drink my new favorite. We drank the night away, laughing and scheming on what we'd do the next day after we worked at the casino.
And nothing ever changed. I still hate the taste of beer on my tongue, no matter how many times I’ve had to fake liking it for my roles. Me and beer? Yeah, we aren’t ever happening. I prefer the ‘girly’ drinks, as Hux used to call them. Something sweet and flavorful that makes me happy. Or when I’m in a mood–straight bourbon or whiskey on the rocks to take the edge off.
The music from the party brings me back to the present, and my eyes widen at the chaos ensuing in front of me. A fight breaks out between two massive dudes. Blood spills. Noses crunch. And I cringe.
“Isaac! Isaac!” Half the crowd chants.
“Chance! Chance!” The other half chants louder and with more excitement in their tones.
More punches land. More blood spills onto the hardwood floors. Ouch. They’ll be feeling this fight for days.
"No fucking fighting in the house!" a gruff, familiar voice shouts over the music and marches into the room red-faced. He huffs several times, emerging through the circle of people that formed around the two fighters.
I’m in a time warp. Or that’s what it feels like watching someone I used to know with fury written on his face try to break the two up. No one else steps in to help when he grabs the fighters by the fronts of their shirts and pushes them away from each other with a grunt. They stumble over their feet, nearly falling on their asses, but stabilize. Blood seeps from each of their noses and lips. Isaac or Chance–I’m not positive on who–snarls at the other again, promising a world of hurt if he comes after him again.
"The only fights allowed are at the Coliseum." He crosses his muscular arms over his chest. "Not in my goddamn house."
It's odd having a deep-rooted memory of someone stuck in your mind for so many years and then finally seeing them in the flesh. I can't peel my eyes away from him as he scolds the massive dudes, growling at one another like they can't wait to get back to pummeling each other's faces in.
“Having fun yet?” Simon asks with a goofy grin, downing his margarita in one gulp. The immediate regret of his decision happens when he squeezes his eyes closed and his lips pop open. “Brain freeze,” he wheezes, holding a hand to his forehead. “But so worth it,” he sighs, peeling his eyes open.
I smile at his antics, attempting to shake off the tension building in my muscles from the memories pouring through my mind. Mack. He's here in front of me. Stoically standing in the middle of the room. He's familiar. Yet, not. Same facial features.Minus the now permanent scowl etched onto his face. I guess that’s what being a murderer does to you.
"Yeah," I offer Simon a grin, toasting my margarita to him. "It's a blast." I lie through my damn teeth. But Simon doesn’t need to know this is like tying me to a damn chair and waterboarding me for four hours until I break. Been there, done that. Didn’t let any information spill.
So, I fake it til I make it. That’s the motto, right? Pretend that I love standing in the house of my former friends who killed me and left me for dead. Yup. Good times.
"See! I told you, roomie! Stick with me and we'll have an entire year of this!" He grins, hoisting his drink in the air. "To us and to this damn party."
"Here, here," I agree with a smile, trying not to let my sour mood take over my expression. At one point in my life, I was told my face shows every emotion I feel. Well, thanks to dear old Dad, he beat that trait out of me.
Now, I’m a stoic statue, smiling through the worst pain of my life.
"There will be a fight Friday. Sign up to fight each other then,” Mack grunts, pointing toward the door. "Now, get the fuck out until after that." The men don't question him as they shoulder check people through the crowd and march out the front door.
"Ten bucks says those two throw punches on the lawn," Simon chuckles, leaning his head back against the wall. His glazed eyes take in the crowds of the party, sighing when he spots someone, but quickly looks away.
"Does that happen a lot?" I ask, discreetly watching Mack from beneath my lashes.
“All the time,” Simon chortles.
A hurricane of emotions flutters through me, like a tidal wave slamming on the shores after high winds. Seeing Mack so closeup has me wanting to retreat to the hills. Is my disguise good enough to conceal my identity from him?
I hold my breath when Mack scans the crowd, moving his gaze right over me, onto Simon, and finally, he looks away when JJ enters the room.
My stomach swoops, bottoming out. I thought seeing them from far away was bad enough. Now, they are a mere ten steps away, taking up space in this fucking house and infecting the air around them.
I swallow the lump in my throat as I watch the two of them discuss something. It's so strange to see the objects of my hatred living and breathing. But yet, staring at them, I don't feel hate.
It's rage. Betrayal. Heartache. Every emotion in between.
It all boils inside me. To the point I don't want to be here anymore. I want to give the job to someone else and let them figure out how to get close to them.
How can Jonathan expect me to lift my chin and take this like a damn man? I can't.
