Wrong Place, Right Time - Elle Casey Page 0,2

has passed, where no one can see me.

It’s the role I’ve played for her all our lives. When we were younger and the crap hit the fan at home with our parents, I was always there, stroking her hair and telling her it was going to be fine while she cried and moaned about how terrible our lives were. I had my own breakdowns later, when no one was around to witness them. I never wanted my sister to suffer on my account. It’s like Big Sister Code or something to take the hits.

It’s when she’s being completely calm and delivering horrible news that I lose my shit. Case in point: when she first met Ozzie, she called me to tell me the story. She kept trying to casually slip in details about how somebody was shooting at her in a biker bar, and how bits of splintered wood flew up into her face and cut her. I can’t be cool when I’m hearing stories like that, especially when I think my little sister is not reacting appropriately. She hasn’t told me any more nutty tales lately, but I don’t believe she’s not getting into trouble. It’s just that now she has a boyfriend she can confide in, so she hides stuff from me that she knows I’ll disapprove of. That’s my theory, anyway.

I like Ozzie well enough, but the minute he stepped into her life, her entire world was turned upside down and inside out, so I don’t exactly trust him. Maybe her life was a little boring before. Fine. I get it. But there’s a difference between being bored and having a death wish. Her days are a little too exciting for my taste with this new job. I feel like I always have to worry about her now, because she’s not worrying about herself enough. She’s too gaga over Ozzie and his whole team—the Bourbon Street Boys private security firm—to think clearly. I get that her man is hot and he’s one of the good guys, but come on . . . Bullets?

I sigh, realizing that for at least the next thirty minutes I’m probably not going to be able to enjoy my peaceful weekend as I’d hoped; no meaningful phone conversation between my sister and me ever lasts less than a half hour. I put the wineglass down, lift the phone up closer to my face, and type out a text with my thumbs.

Me: Please tell me there are no bullets involved.

May: No bullets, but I need ur help.

Me: Romance advice?

The mean-sister in me is hoping her relationship is on the rocks. Maybe if she weren’t under Ozzie’s thrall, I’d be able to talk some sense into her, convince her that wedding photography is a much safer and more practical career than security surveillance.

May: No. Computer expertise.

Ugh. So disappointed. That’s the last thing I want to talk about right now. I just ended a fifty-hour week of straight-up coding. No, thank you.

Me: Forget it. I’m off the clock.

My phone rings, and my sister’s name comes up on the screen.

I battle with myself; do I want to come to her rescue again, or do I want to get into the bathtub and forget all this nonsense for a little while?

A text beeps and a tiny message pops up.

May: Answer ur phone.

Mutiny rises up in me. I put my cell down on the counter, grab the bottle of wine and my glass, and walk down the hall. I will have my bath, I will have my relaxing weekend, and I will not be doing any computer work for anyone, because if I have to look at another string of code in the next forty-eight hours, I am going to run away, join a cult, change my name to Feather, and marry a man three times my age with a beard down to his belly button who wears only hemp. His name will be Free. Short for Freedom, of course.

At the bottom of the staircase, as my foot is lifting into the air to begin the climb toward my bliss—otherwise known as a bathtub with bubbles and wine—my phone beeps again in the kitchen. I stand on one leg like a damn flamingo, battling my conscience once again. Bath or sister? Bath or sister?

The mutinous mean-girl in me wants to ignore her, but the single mom who’s been rescued by May more times than she can count pauses. May did, after all, move into my house a year ago,