This was another defense mechanism with which I had loads of practice.
I sat down on a leather couch and crossed my legs, relaying the appearance that I hadn’t a care in the world. I magnified this by casually pulling my cream skirt up my knee and surveying my manicure like it was utterly fascinating.
I was wearing the palest of pale pink on my nails, the manicure was perfect, as it should be; it had only been finished two hours ago.
I was wearing designer from head-to-toe.
My hair was not dyed, it was naturally an ultra-light, golden-cream-strawberry blonde and also had this weird mix of natural soft ringlets combined liberally with waves. I wore it long and down my back. Today I had the front pulled back in an expensive clip and it tumbled down to my shoulders and back. Although not dyed, the cut cost three hundred dollars.
I had on a cream, pencil-slim skirt that skimmed the knees and had a pleated kick pleat in the back. I also had on a little, short-sleeved top, pale pink (to match my nails) with dozens upon dozens of pink pleats at the sleeves, capped with cream, satin ribbon. The top had a square neckline and fit like it was made for me. My slingbacks were to-die-for with a slim, four-inch heel, they were uber-elegant. I set my pale pink clutch on my knee and moved my eyes to a studied fascination of my shoe.
The door opened and I looked from my toe to the door.
Indy Nightingale and her sister-in-law, Ally Nightingale, walked in. I’d seen India Savage and Liam Nightingale’s picture in the wedding column. She was a gorgeous redhead; he was an extremely handsome, dark-haired man. They were a beautiful couple and, if their photo was anything to go by, very happy.
I knew Ally from my not so happy run-in with Daisy a few months ago.
Daisy Sloan was friends with the Nightingale clan and she had been my friend once.
Well, she’d almost been one.
The run-in hadn’t been a run-in, exactly. I saw Daisy, Daisy’s eyes turned to polar icecaps when she saw me, she whispered something in Ally’s ear, Ally’s eyes cut to me and they went hard.
That was it. Not a run-in but not pleasant either.
Now Indy and Ally were laughing at something but when their eyes moved in the direction of Shirleen, they saw something in her expression then they moved to me and their laughter died.
“Shit, I forgot, is it Wednesday?” Indy said to Ally.
Ally’s eyes went glacial as they rested on me. “Yeah,” she answered.
I didn’t know exactly why Luke, Shirleen, Indy and Ally (and I guessed Kai and Stella, although I hadn’t looked to be certain) hated me but I suspected it was either because Daisy hated me or because they suspected I hated Hector Chavez. Rumor had it they were a close-knit group. The papers had talked about what had now become the semi-famous Rock Chicks of Fortnum’s Bookstore and the Nightingale Men of Nightingale Investigations in their articles about Stella and Kai. They were known to be crazy and fun and willing to lay their lives on the line for each other.
Even though a part of me was jealous as hell, I was glad Daisy had that. Daisy was a good person, she deserved it.
As for me, I’d never had a friend, not a true, genuine friend, in twenty-nine years. I used to feel sorry for myself about this fact. But then I realized it was just my life and, as with everything else, I learned to live with it. Either people didn’t trust me, they didn’t trust my Dad, they didn’t stick around or they used me. I learned a long time ago to shut them down before they could rip out my heart, tear it to shreds, stamp on it, kick it around a bit and then spit on it.
When that happened, trust me, it was no fun, it hurt, loads, so I stopped it before it could start and didn’t let anyone get close.
No one.
Ever.
That was until Daisy. But that didn’t work out.
When Daisy hit the Denver social scene, I thought she was aces. She was not brittle and fake like everyone else of my father’s (and thus my) acquaintance. She looked like Dolly Parton. She dressed like Dolly Parton. She had a voice with a country twang. She had a tremendously cool giggle that sounded like jingling Christmas bells.
And she was real. And she liked me too.
But Nanette Hardy was ripping her to shreds at Monica Henrique’s garden party a couple of years ago, really laying into Daisy like only vicious, catty Nanette could do. Monica was giggling and I was quiet and waiting for my chance to get in a good shot. My chosen topic was Nanette’s husband getting rear-ended (literally) by the pool boy which only Nanette didn’t know about, everyone else knew all about it and was laughing behind her back when Monica’s face went pale and she was looking over my shoulder.
Nanette quit talking and I looked behind me. Daisy was there.
I caught the pain in her eyes before she looked at me like I was slime.
Then she walked away.
I knew why. I’d been nice to her; I’d been hoping she’d be my friend. She thought I was talking behind her back which was worse than what Nanette and Monica were doing. Everyone knew Nanette and Monica were bitches, it was expected.