“Fitz and the Tantrums.” She chuckled. “‘123456.’ I love this song.”
Of course she did. It was one of the anthems she dedicated to Arnie in the alternate reality she lived in her head. A reality where he loved her.
Easily dropping into the beat of the song, she danced around the quiet apartment while the techno hip-hop rhythm fed her dancing soul. She thought about Arnie’s dazzling blue gaze and adorable smile. The cardio explosion pushed her body. Erotic thoughts livened up her moves. Her golden Adonis was a carnal wizard. His touch transported her to another dimension.
When the song ended, she ran to the phone and played it again. The second time around, her wild dance released a whirlwind of energy. She kept going without stopping—until she was breathless.
Removing the ear pods, Summer stood in the middle of her apartment, her chest heaving while giddiness tickled her senses.
“Tom Petty. 1981. The Hard Promises album. First song, side one. ‘The Waiting.’ Come on, Arnie. I’m tired of waiting. Figure it the fuck out!” she whisper-screamed.
South of his belly button and slightly to the left, a clump of nerves kept diverting Arnie’s attention from the council of pontificators currently engaged in a fulsome recitation of the many reasons he, Darnell Wanamaker the goddamn third, should be barred from inheriting not just the Connecticut estate but almost everything else—on general principle.
It was super easy to tune it all out. Fucking idiots. He was third in goddamn line—hence the name—and was through attempting to play nice or justify anything.
Right about the time his dad’s pompous ass of a brother—Uncle Ed—got up on his portable soapbox with an unintelligible screed about the cachet of the Wanamaker name, Arnie wrote the whole lot of them off and went inside his head where the company was, at the very least, somewhat intelligent.
He glanced at his dad. It didn’t take an advanced degree to see that the man expressed his disdain for the proceedings by balls out playing a game on his phone. The sound was on but dialed low. Every time Arnie heard the tinkling bells indicating the game progressed to a new level, he bit his tongue to keep from laughing.
The gnawing in his gut intensified. He didn’t have to wonder what it meant. Ever since the incident between Giselle and her mutinous lawyer, he’d kept tabs on the male Wanamakers.
Stan was off page, doing god knows what, and not answering his phone. He also never showed for the luncheon where their granddad dropped a handful of patriarchal grenades.
He also skipped the quasi-mandatory cocktail hour before the most uncomfortable sit-down dinner in the history of their fucked-up family. The forced meal was one for the family album. Half the people he’d expect to find seated around Darnell Senior’s magnificent formal table were missing. Applying burn ointment no doubt from the afternoon’s explosions. In the light of aftermath, it made sense for Giselle to be absent but not Stan.
And now this. A hastily convened tribunal he had no doubt would end with a figurative firing squad.
Stan should be sitting next to him. The disgruntled reaction once Senior’s wishes were revealed made Arnie’s life hell. The two of them and their dad represented the future direction of the family. Stan’s support sure would have been nice.
Confusing energies made it difficult to cut through the bullshit. Ignoring everything going on around him, Arnie focused inward. Where was his brother?
A tiny swirl of pulsing light bounced off his chest. He watched it hover in his mind’s eye. Sending calm and steady orders to his physical body, he made the decision to follow the minuscule beam and slipped into sentient awareness.
Straightaway, he realized he most definitely was not in Kansas anymore. A wall of rage thicker than concrete blocked him. No stranger to navigating the wavelengths of others, he pressed on.
Another shift took him into an impossible to decipher, three-sixty maelstrom messier than a college kid’s dorm room.
He heard Stan’s voice, raised in anger. The sort of anger reserved for bad stuff.
Shit. Arnie’s anxiety exploded. Concern for the brother he loved shook him to his core. The jolt of emotion pulled the plug on his psychic wanderings and slammed him back into his physical body.
Arnie turned to his dad. They shared an intense, meaningful look. After a long, tense minute, his father nodded and gestured for him to go.
“Don’t worry, son. I’ve got this. Believe me, it’ll be my pleasure to shut everyone up. I have a few things needing