Page 4

I sit bolt upright, the memories of yesterday rushing through me.

The bench on the other side of the tiny cell is empty, which probably means Miss Sequins was released at some point while I was asleep. She said she slashed her boyfriend’s tires. I never asked her why she wore such a pretty dress to do it and now I’m kind of regretting that.

As soon as I manage to slide my feet into my unlaced sneakers, I’m marched into the corridor that feels even more oppressive than it did when I first arrived.

We walk past the next cell, where somebody is wailing inconsolably. It actually makes my heart hurt. Halfway down thedrab hallway the smell of vomit is so noxious it makes me gag as it wafts from another cell.

“I hate this shift,” the officer mutters, unlocking the door and pushing me into an empty room. “Wait here, I’ll get your lawyer.”

I frown. They told me the court-appointed lawyer wouldn’t get here until morning. And yes, technically itismorning, but only three a.m., according to the clock on the wall of what I think is an interview room.

I sit there silently for five minutes before the door swings open, and I turn to greet the unlucky public defender, because lawyer or no lawyer, nobody deserves to have to deal with my mess at this godforsaken time of night.

But instead of an exhausted lawyer in a crumpled suit and yesterday’s breath, I get slapped in the face with the last person I expect to see.

“West?” I manage to squeak.

Oh. My. God. I’m absolutely a dead woman walking. I should just plead guilty to whatever charges they throw at me and let myself rot in a cell for the rest of my life. Because it’ll be a walk in the park compared to what awaits me outside.

Because of course the six-feet-two-inches of infuriating perfection with a suit that costs more than I’ll ever earn in a year is West Abbott. My oldest brother’s best friend.

He’s all charm and champagne and ethically questionable deals wrapped in a Tom Ford suit, and I’m… not.

“What areyoudoing here?” I ask with an unnaturally high voice, jumping out of my seat like I’m about to escape. “Did Hudson send you? Oh God, does he know? He’s not here, is he?”

The thought of my big brother knowing I’m in jail makes me want to hurl.

“Please sit down.” West’s stupidly square jaw twitches as he talks. And because it’s so unusual for him to sound anything other than laid back, I actually do as I’m told.

But he doesn’t take the seat on the other side of the table from me. Instead, he starts to pace the room. And for the next minute he says nothing.

Finally, he comes to a stop and looks at me. “What the hell were you thinking?” he asks, his voice low and sharp. “Do you have any idea what a mess this is?” Underneath the annoyance I can hear the worry. Which of course makes me want to sass him even more.

“I didn’t plan on this,” I say, lifting my chin, because I already have four brothers. I don’t need another.

He arches one perfect brow. “You threw paint at a casino in the middle of the Strip.”

I don’t bother telling him it wasn’t me. I’m pretty sure he won’t believe me anyway.

“It was just a little bit of paint,” I say instead. “And it was from Pottery Barn. Only the best.”

His lips twitch, but he doesn’t reply. I’ll take it.

He pulls out the chair from beneath the formica table, sitting down in it, his long legs stretching against the wool of his suit. Seriously, who wears a three-piece suit at three a.m.?

“Why are you in Vegas?” he asks. “You’re supposed to be in Peru.”

“I’m heading home. Autumn asked me to visit.” My stomach twists even more. I’m already the family mess up and now I might be going home with a charge against me. Why is it that I always let them down?

“You’re about two thousand miles in the wrong direction,” West murmurs.

“Yeah, well I got a ride here from the Mexican border. I was planning on catching a Greyhound or two.” I clear my throat. “But then I heard the International Fur Convention was here.”

“And you couldn’t resist, could you?” he asks. “Little Eden. Champion of the poor and weak.”

“That’s almost a compliment coming from the man who cleans Hollywood’s cesspits,” I reply.

His lips curl into another almost smile. His eyes flick down, taking in my bare legs, tank top, shorts, and then quickly back up like he’s punishing himself for looking.