Page 99 of Break Point
Guess we’ll have to wait and see.
Gemma looks stunning. She’s wearing the perfect little black dress, accessorized with just the right amount of gold jewelry. Her dark hair is longer now, bouncing against her collarbone as we walk further in. Her blood-red lips make her look like one of those undercover female superheroes at a cocktail party who’s there to spy on the villain but ends up stealing the whole scene.
“The antichrist,” Gemma whispers, rolling her eyes and flicking her chin in that direction.
I glance over across the room to see Zoya Kruschenko, the crowd parting like the Red Sea as she walks in dressed to intimidate, her stilettos striking the floor like gavel hits. She wears a black gown so sleek it could’ve been poured onto her body, the slit slicing up one leg with surgical precision. Her platinum-blonde hair is slicked into a high-gloss ponytail. It whips with every step, like a warning.
Her lips are red, and her icy blue eyes scan the room like she’s already decided who’s beneath her. A hint of something expensive and venomous trails behind her, probably sprayed from a bottle that costs more than myfirst professional racket. Every detail screams effortless power. And she knows we’re watching.
“Can you believe that?” Gemma says, but I wasn’t listening.
“Sorry, what?”
“Her room’s on the same floor as mine,” Gemma repeats. “Just a few doors down. I bumped into her earlier today. Blech.”
Zoya shoots a taunting smirk my way before being whisked away by Abigail Sloane, her quietly menacing publicist slash professional shit-stirrer.
And so the evening begins.
“I’m going to need a drink before I collapse from exhaustion,” Gemma says, probably trying to change the subject after sensing my vibe. I’m practically growling.
“What’s the drinking age in Australia again?”
“Eighteen,” I reply with a frown, my eyes still locked on Zoya as she moves through the crowd, greeting other guests. I’ve bumped into her a few times, too, at the venue and once at the hotel entrance. We don’t even pretend to be civil. No smiles. No eye contact. We hate each other’s guts. And that’s how I like it. Makes it easier to be ruthless when we’re matched on the court.
“Let’s see if I can trick the servers into pouring me a drink,” Gemma says, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward a cocktail table. “I’ll be eighteen in a few months anyway.”
A server quickly approaches us with a tray as Robbie and Dad appear through the crowd, each holding a frosty glass of Coop Craft Brewery beer.
“I’ll have the dark ale,” Gemma says, sneaking a glance at Robbie from the corner of her eye. I decline a drink for obvious reasons.
“We have an alcohol-free ginger ale, miss,” the server offers.
“That would be perfect, thank you,” I say, taking the glass. The ginger might help settle the nerves stirring in my stomach.
“You’ve got this,” Gemma says, bumping her shoulder lightly against mine. “And if not, I’m here to save your butt.”
I told her everything that happened with Henry earlier. She thinks he just needs time, that his silence doesn’t mean he doesn’t trust me. Maybe he’s not ready to talk about it yet. But it’s been months since he cameback, and I’m growing restless. The feeling of being left out is wearing me down. I’m worried about him and I want to help, but I have to face the possibility that Henry might not want that. My help.
Robbie reaches us first and greets us. He’s like a blond Clark Kent in that tie-less navy suit and crisp white button-up with the top two buttons undone. Those black-framed glasses are his trademark. He looks handsome, and judging by Gemma’s expression, she agrees.
“How’s the birthday girl?” Dad cuts through my thoughts with a grin, throwing an arm around my shoulders and pulling me in for a quick side hug before pressing a kiss to my head.
Gemma winces, and I laugh. She doesn’t want my hair getting ruined.
“You girls look beautiful tonight,” Dad adds.
Robbie sips his beer, eyes glazed as I catch him checking out Gemma. His gaze lingers on her cleavage a few beats too long before flicking away, mere seconds before I could say something to snap him out of it.
Jesus.
“I agree,” Robbie drawls. He seems a bit drunk, but maybe he’s just exhausted and jet-lagged from the trip. Perhaps an unfortunate mixture of all of the above.
Dad excuses himself to greet an acquaintance after telling Robbie to take it easy in a stern voice. Tempted to ask Robbie about Henry, I quickly dismiss the thought and decide it’s best not to involve him.
“You cleaned up nicely,” Gemma says to Robbie, narrowing her eyes at him. “You know, considering …”
He’s clearly tipsy and planning to keep it going.
