Page 21 of Burn the Script

No.

Me

Fine. Send me the address for your rental house.

Angel

Why?

Me

I’m ordering a DNA test to prove you’re the devil’s crotchety grandma.

“Drink up.” Carmen shoves a blackberry mojito in my face and sits on the arm of my chair.

I take the glass and catch the straw between my lips. The mint and berry flavors are a refreshing combo, and the rum will make the music more tolerable. “You should’ve brought me two if you plan on staying longer than an hour.”

One strap of her sparkly gold dress has gone rogue, and she slides it in place on her shoulder. “You had a frown on your face. Who were you texting?”

I slip the phone into my blazer pocket. “Maisy. She had nothing interesting to say.”

Carmen hums and sips her cocktail, no doubt spotting my lie. I wouldn’t be surprised if she reads my text messages whenever I’m in the bathroom or taking a nap. Nosy relatives.

Her pointy fingernails nearly stab me in the eye when she thrusts an arm out and waves. “Yuri!”

A tall, slim white guy in a charcoal-colored suit saunters toward us like he found his sole reason for coming tonight. Long strands of brown hair fall into his eyes while the rest is trapped in a bun. His skin is ghostly pale, except for the irritated pink patch around his lip piercing. A signet ring on the hand gripping his beer bottle explains everything I need to know. He has Bratva connections.

“Hey, gorgeous.” He bends down to give Carmen a hug, which means he’s all up in my space because my cousin’s draped along the side of my chair like a glittery blanket.

“Glad you made it,” she says, though she’s grinning at me, and I don’t like the conspiring wink she throws into the mix. “Miguel, this is Yuri Gonzalez. He’s a screenwriter.”

My eyebrows hit my hairline. “Gonzalez?”

His laugh is practiced and fake as fuck, like he’s tired of explaining his family tree to people at this party. “My dad’s from Spain, and my mother is from Ukraine.”

Carmen cuts in before I have a chance to comment on the rhyming countries. “Yuri, this is Miguel, the cousin I told you about.”

“Nice to meet you, Miguel. Carmen sings your praises often.” His murky, green gaze makes a slow pass over my body before shifting to my half-empty glass. “Should I grab us another round?”

“Another round” is code for I’m about to glue myself to your ass like a barnacle whether you want me there or not.

My plotting cousin plasters an innocent grin on her red lips. “We’d love another.”

As he wanders off, I feel a twinge of embarrassment for making assumptions when I know what it’s like to be on the receiving end. People have assumed I’m knowledgeable about fashion because I’m gay and like to sew. Instead of getting mad, I smile and tell them having good style is a sign of intelligence, then ask if they want any tips.

In truth, styling clothes doesn’t come naturally to me. I’m just a sucker for construction and luxurious fabrics. Like others, I look online for inspiration when putting a trendy outfit together. That’s a secret I’ll take to my grave.

Once Yuri is out of earshot, I poke Carmen’s thigh. “What are you up to?”

“You agreed to put yourself out there.”

“With that guy? Seriously?” I point to my mouth.

She knows how I feel about piercings and tattoos. My mind skips past the beauty in art or self-expression, and I imagine a sharp needle puncturing the skin, over and over, like it’s fabric. Fabric that bleeds. Even the thought of blood makes me lightheaded.

At least her grimace tells me we’re on the same page. It also tells me she’s playing a sneaky game because she knows this Yuri character is not my type. At all.

“The piercing is new. Maybe it’s healing.”