Page 78

"Bring the twins for us to meet, Brooklyn," my father says as he escorts us to the door.
My girlfriend gives him a tight smile, offering no response. But I know her well enough to guess what she’s thinking:Absolutely not.Given what happened tonight, I can’t blame her.
Outside, L.J. suggests, "I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink."
I’m ready to decline—I want to be alone with her and process the damage my mother has caused—but Brooklyn surprises me.
"I’d like that," she says.
"Our usual spot?" William asks, referring to our weekly meetup location.
I shrug. "Sure."
We each get into our cars, and my friends don’t even blink when they notice the two additional vehicles following mine. I’ve never hidden anything from them. They know Brooklyn is under heightened security. They’re also the only ones, aside from me, who know my biological mother is hospitalized in our facility.
As soon as the driver pulls away and I ensure her seat belt is secure, I pull her close to me. I can’t put into words how angry I am, and the tension in her body against mine tells me she’s been putting on a brave face all night.
"I’m not upset with you. You couldn’t have known she’d act that way."
"I never would’ve brought you to this dinner if I had." I almost tell her about Febe and my mother’s wish for us to marry, but then I decide she’s had enough for one night.
"She wasn’t rude—just a bit malicious. But I think many mothers might react the same way. You and I come from different social circles."
"What she wants or expects for me doesn’t matter, Brooklyn. We’re together, and nothing she says or does will change that."
She nods, resting her face against my chest. "I think I came out of the coma more sensitive. I used to be tougher."
For the first time all night, I relax. "You are tough. You handle me in bed all night without complaining."
"Oh my God, only you would think about sex two seconds after leaving your parents’ house."
"I think I’m addicted to you," I whisper in her ear, "addicted to your body and your taste." Sliding my hand along her inner thigh, I confirm what I already suspected—she’s wet.
"Ahhh," she moans as I press my fingers against her barely-covered heat.
"Why are we going out with them? I don’t want a drink . . . not the kind they’re offering. I prefer your flavor."
She takes my hand from between her legs, kisses it, and presses it against her cheek. "You’ll have plenty of that later, but I want to talk to your friends. You said they’re close to you. They must know you well. I want to learn more about your world, Athanasios. At least L.J. and William don’t seem to hate me."
I lean my head back against the seat and close my eyes. "My mother doesn’t hate you; she’s just a bit spoiled. My father indulged her, I think."
"I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have to clench my jaw for most of the evening. But if your mother thinks I’ll give up on you so easily, she should study my past. Nothing in my life has beeneasy. I’m not a quitter. I want you. I love what we have together, and only one person could ruin it: you."
Brooklyn
CHAPTER FORTY
"So you don’t knowwhere she is?" William asks, referring to Shelley Edward, the woman I knew as Enya.
Every time I hear that name and remember who she is and what she did, I feel an almost overwhelming urge to break something. That woman tried to kill me out of jealousy because she was replaced by me. She almost left my children motherless out of sheer spite.
What kind of monster does something like that?
"No, we don’t know," Athanasios answers for me.
"No offense, Brooklyn, but your life could be the plot of an action movie," William continues.
"I’m not easily offended," I reply. "But I disagree. For me, it’s more like a horror movie."