Page 103 of All the Forbidden Things

“When I was a kid and we used to hang out, what did you think of me?”

I feel hot, and a little bit sick. “Bamm, you were a kid. I never, not until you stepped out of Mel’s car last Sunday, did I ever think anything inappropriate—”

“No.” She tuts and shakes her head. “I don’t mean like that. You’re not . . . that’s not what I mean.”

“Then what?”

“Did you think I was an ugly, fat little ginger kid with a face full of freckles and a mouth full of metal?”

“What the fuck, Bamm?” I question loudly, quickly looking down in case my voice has startled Layla, which it didn’t. “No, I never thought that. Who’s been putting that shit in your head? Where is this coming from?”

“Tell me what you thought of me first?”

“I thought you were a cute little kid with gorgeous red hair and the tiniest turned-up nose I’d ever seen. It’s because of you I’ve always wanted a red-headed daughter of my own.”

Her mouth drops open, but I’m pissed off and keep going, my voice a little louder than it probably needs to be. “Who told you that’s what I thought of you?” I ask her quietly.

“I overheard Whitney and her sister talking about me, and then I bumped into Whitney, and she said some stuff, including how you’d once described me.”

“Whitney’s chatting shit. I don’t think I’ve ever even discussed you with her, except to maybe explain who you are when I first met her … but I’m not even sure of that.”

We lock eyes, and I hope she can read the truth of what I’m telling her in mine, and that I’m well and truly pissed off.

“Was it Whitney who told you I fucked her last night?”

She traps her top lip between her teeth and shakes her head. “No.”

“Then who?”

“Deana.”

“Deana? When? The fuck …” I trail off. I don’t need to know when, Deana told me herself she’d spoken to Billie.

“I had a few drinks at the salon last night, then when I got home, I decided I wanted another drink—”

“Two nights running,” I interrupt. “I see a pattern developing here. I’m the rock star, I’m the one supposed to be out getting drunk.”

She rolls her eyes . . . Rolls her fucking eyes at me! “Whatever. Anyway, I came over to yours and pinched a bottle of prosecco out of the bar fridge in the laundry, I was still pissed off with you because, yes, I know, I stupidly believed Whitney, but I was also hoping you’d catch me … and whatever might happen would happen.”

“It would’ve happened, believe me. If you’d wanted it to happen last night, I would’ve made it happen.”

She’s quiet for a moment, and I’m not sure what might be running through her mind right now. She gives me something that sounds like a cross between a laugh and a huff.

“Anyway, I was about to leave with the Prosecco, but planned on texting you to come over, when I heard you and Whitney talking in her room.”

“I took Layla in to see her before I took her to bed. I was in there all of five minutes.”

She closes her eyes, tilts her face to the ceiling, and lets out a long breath.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Deana caught me.”

Fucking Deana.

“She told me you, Layla, and Whit had spent most of the afternoon and evening together. She said she felt like a spare part because of all the flirting going on—”

“She’s a fucking liar.”