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“And now the truth?”
Shrugging, Chip lifts a hand, tilting it side to side. “Genetically male?”
I pull a sundress off one crowded rack and hold it up to myself. The azure fabric complements my pale skin and brings out my eyes while the square neck and off-the-shoulder sleeves prove I got it for use at home. When I’m out in public, I cover the tattoo marking me as Rosanera’s. Brands like it delineate loyalty to a family—and in some places, for some people, that’s as good as a target. “Thoughts?”
Chip whistles. “Ain’t that a bit low cut?”
“Maybe.”
“Poor Rowan.”
Turning to the full-length mirror on the back wall of my walk-in closet, I spread the billowing skirt of the dress out from where it falls just below my knees. “He’ll live. I wore his shirt to bed last night. He slept on the couch in his own room because he ‘didn’t trust me to be alone’ in a room of my own.”
“You’re a true monster, Bossette.”
My smile withers, and I sigh, tossing the dress to Chip. “Lay it out with my white sneakers and pack up a picnic lunch. I’m waking Lace.”
“Good luck.”
Rolling my eyes, I change out of my romper and into my running gear, then—perhaps unwisely neglecting a bullet-proof vest—I head off to my best friend’s room.
♠
“I’m real sorry.” Lace jogs beside me. “But in my defense, ya gotta stop doing that.”
Doing that translates into waking her up. Waking her up often includes gunshots. Sometimes, knife fights. Once, a knife wound. I still treasure the little white scar across my pinkie finger. It doesn’t matter that it’s past ten in the morning. Lace doesn’t do mornings.
How fitting that my underboss carries the same kind of insane energy that has marked Rosanera for generations.
It’s a great source of pride to know my family isn’t bad, just illegal. There’s a big distinction.
And, presently, Rowan can’t say the same. Even though Veleno’s been under not bad, still illegal leadership for a marvelous three months, the poor guy’s so not bad that it’s taking ages for him to filter out the members who are.
Sun sneaks through the canopy to beat against my white cap as I start another lap on the winding track. Like a paved snake, the path streaks throughout the trees, which offer enough shade to temper the heat exhaustion even at noon in the beginning of summer.
When I haven’t justified Lace’s horrible sleeping (and waking) habits with a response, she asks, “How’re things going with tall, dark, and broody?”
“As expected.”
“Is that good?”
“It’s not bad. He’s carrying a lot of baggage. I don’t think he knows how to smile. The atmosphere at The Casa is very different than it is here, inside and out. His men are unruly. Disrespectful. Distant. I could go on.” I dodge a low-hanging branch for the eighth time today and solidify my mental note to get someone out here to trim it.
“Sounds like more trouble than this is worth.”
“TBD.”
Lace watches me for several skeptical moments, but she doesn’t press the subject. If there’s one thing she can count on after having known me my entire life it’s that I’m self-aware. I don’t pick battles I can’t win. I don’t do things that end fruitlessly. There’s very little I hate more than wasted effort.
If I’m going to kick frantically beneath the waters of my flawless white swan façade, I intend to get somewhere.
This world might not be sunshine, rainbows, and gummy bears, but nothing’s stopping me from pretending it is.
If bad people are allowed to get high off their illusions of power when they hurt others, it only seems fair that I’m allowed to play my silly little games and make the world a better place along the way. It’s my own personal version of therapy, which seems more productive than sitting in a pastel room crying about how my brain doesn’t make the right hormones.
“He has a bird,” I note, innocuously.
“Wow.” Lace’s breaths are hard as she pushes herself. Probably wishing she were weight training. Endurance is not her favorite thing. “Y’all’re soulmates.”
