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Amongst Animals
We all standat the same time and file toward the dining room like pigs to a trough. I can’t lie, my stomach should be in knots in the middle of this lioness den. I shouldn’t have any appetite at all, but when I get another good whiff of the pot roast, my jaw aches with hunger. I haven’t eaten since this morning, and that was only half a muffin because I was nervous about seeing Jake.
He gestures for me to go in front of him, which is behind Preston, and Ruby rushes to his side. Flicks her hand at his crotch, quick and nonchalant, like it’s the most normal thing to do. His feet falter and his broad shoulders hunch forward with a groan. “Ladies first, dickhead,” she whispers, and then casually sips her drink as she hurries ahead.
I wait for him to get himself together so we didn’t leave him behind, then turn to look at Jake. Did she just nut check him? She’s in her forties, for God’s sake.
He sighs as if to say, welcome to the shitshow.
I’m just surprised she doesn’t have designated peepee corners around here to mark her territory. She might as well.
Preston waves us on so he can hobble behind Jake.
Magnolia sits at the head of the table, and Ruby sits to her right, Preston sits gingerly to her left, glaring at Ruby during his descent. I sit beside him, and Jake settles beside me. At the far end of the ten-person, rectangular table, an old woman with a black bun and more eyeliner than the butlers stares me down. A man in a wheelchair sits beside her, but more like leans, mouth open, eyes vacant as he stares straight ahead.
I recognize him immediately.
Harris Mitchell, famous Nascar driver and Jake’s dad, now basically reduced to a zombie from the stroke he had ten years ago.
I try not to stare, but it’s too late, my attention drawing back to the old lady. Her eyes are now narrowed, and I flinch. Look to Jake.
“Nanna Mitchell,” he says. “Dad’s mom. He’s in the wheelchair.” He sounds pained at the last part, his demeanor downshifting into melancholy.
I can’t blame him. It’s sad for me to see, and I’m not Harris’ child.
I nod and divert my attention to the empty plate in front of me.
“Cabernet?” James Bond asks behind us.
Ruby raises a hand, as does Preston. One of the other butlers, this one with cropped red hair, is already pouring Magnolia a glass.
That makes four butlers, so far.
Jake and his Grandmother abstain from drinking, and all eyes draw to me.
My stomach churns at the idea of wine, but it takes me all of two seconds to realize their sudden interest. I’d already passed up liquor in the library.
And I’m here. With Jake. Out of nowhere when he never brings girls home or cancels races. What else would make me so important?
Shit.
Suddenly, Preston’s wink when he handed me the water earlier makes sense—he thinks I could be pregnant. Or maybe I’m reading too much into it.
Just in case, I make a split-second decision and raise my hand, so we can go ahead and squash that theory right now.
When their eyes find other things to latch onto, I release a long breath, but my stomach hasn’t quit churning.
Wine.
Pregnancy.
I shift in my seat as an odd blending of unease and sadness settles into my bones. I swallow hard.
Focus.
As if taunting me, a bare, muscular arm reaches around and pours the red liquid into a wineglass at my place setting.
“Scarlett,” Magnolia says, raising her glass to meet her lips. “It’s so nice to have a guest for dinner.”
