Page 30 of Trailer Trash

“She’s supposed to help me stay sober. Dad hired her.”

“Oh, so she isn’t your girl. Perfect, because I invited Frida.”

Killian scowls, but only I see it. He isn’t excited about this Frida-girl.

I don’t want him triggered anymore today. I squint at him, my brow knitting with concern. “We can leave.”

He ignores me.

Just then, Jagger elbows me playfully. “I didn’t want to say how much I like cute CNAs if you’re seeing my brother.”

Oh.

This family is full of flirts.

Still, my cheeks rush with heat, finding his charm far more welcome than Killian’s. After all, Jagger is sober, handsome, and successful.

I glance at Killian, who isn’t finding our exchange funny. He leers contemptuously. It’s strange, but I can feel his glare, and it practically burns my skin. Without drugs numbing him, every reaction seems too close to the surface.

But Jagger doesn’t notice. He carries on.

“We’re so thankful you’re home. Mom made you chocolate cake. Your favorite. Come on.”

Jagger leads the way.

Killian still glares at me, but I don’t cower. I shuffle closer and clutch his bicep.

Why do I keep touching him?

I let go.

The loss of contact feels strangely wrong.

No. Come on, Harlow.

Swiftly, I murmur low enough for only him to hear. “The girl Jagger mentioned, who is she?”

“Why do you care? Aren’t you quitting? Even though I just dropped off all those fucking drugs? That’s what you said outside there.”

“What? No. Wait—!”

But he walks on.

Okay, I upset him. I get it. He did a big thing, and I threatened to quit — again. Maybe my determination to be professional is coming across as cruel.

I’ll be nicer.

I follow him to the grand kitchen. It is bigger than my trailer’s living room and kitchen combined. White cabinets climb toward the ceiling, uninterrupted by handles or fingerprints. Pale marble covers the counters, and gold lights hang above an island long enough to serve dinner to a football team. It looks staged for a magazine, not used by a family.

I spot his parents and another man. Killian introduces him as his other brother, River. The girl, Frida, seems more like Jagger’s type. She is gorgeous, maybe Latina, and has wavy brown hair that lies perfectly. A red spandex dress wraps around her hourglass figure. It’s impossible not to look at her. I’m not jealous or anything.

Not at all.

Not even when he takes her hand and spins her around like old friends reunited.

And since I’m an employee, not a friend or family member, I stay near the edge of the room. From a barstool, I watch quietly as they fawn over Killian. I don’t know what I expected. Maybe lectures, or ‘you scared us,’ or comments about his face.

It truly is a welcome-home party.