Page 3 of Dearly Unbeloved (Spicy in Seattle #3)
ROSE
The living room is a common space. That means I get to put my stuff there too. I’m so sorry for your loss. - S
T hank god for my sister’s best friend. Maggie is the most organized person I know, and knowing she’s coming on this trip is the only reason I stopped protesting when Jazz told me my presence was required.
A little over four hours before our flight is due to take off, right on schedule for pick up, there’s a knock at the front door. Thank you, Maggie.
I wouldn’t usually take a full day off work for an evening flight, but it took Jazz so long to confirm the flight time that it was just easier. And it’s been nice to have the day to make sure I have everything ready.
It would’ve been nicer if Sierra hadn’t also taken the day off, but I’ve kept out of her way.
I have no idea why she chose today of all days, but her boss, Maggie’s husband, Cal, pushes his employees to take Fridays off when they’re not too busy.
From what I can tell, he mostly does it so he can take the day off to hang out with Maggie without feeling guilty.
I open the apartment door to let them in, and Jazz skips through the doorway, Maggie following behind.
“Hey. Just let me grab my bag—I’m all packed.”
“Of course you are,” Jazz says with a snort, shaking her head. “I bet you were packed days ago.”
“For the last time, it’s normal to pack in advance,” Maggie says, with an air of exasperation that tells me it’s not the first time they’ve had this conversation this week.
How Maggie and Jazz’s friendship has survived for so long, I’ll never understand.
I love my sister, but she’s complete and utter chaos. Maybe they balance each other out.
I run into my room to pick up my bag, running my gaze over everything to make sure it’s in order before we leave. When I make it back to the living room, Jazz and Maggie are still bickering.
“It doesn’t matter when you pack as long as you make it for last call at the airport,” Jazz counters, and Maggie just sighs. “I bet Sierra’s still throwing the last few things in her bag.”
“I finished an hour ago, actually,” Sierra says, and I spin around. She’s standing at her bedroom door with a purple patterned duffel slung over her shoulder.
“Where are you going?” I ask, not surprised she hasn’t told me.
It’s not like we keep each other apprised of our comings and goings, and I never told her I was going to Vegas this weekend.
I would’ve texted her from the airport so she didn’t wonder if I’d died or something, but it’s not like we’re friends.
Besides, she works with Jazz, so she probably knows all about the Vegas trip.
Sierra narrows her eyes at my bag. “Where are you going?”
“I asked first.”
Sierra opens her mouth, presumably to snap back, but Jazz’s voice cuts across us both:
“What the fuck are you talking about? We’re going to Vegas.”
Her words must sink into Sierra at the same moment they do me, because we both look at Jazz, then back at each other. “She’s coming?” we say in perfect unison.
“We’re all going!” Jazz claps her hands excitedly. “It’s a girls’ trip!”
I pull Jazz aside. “What the hell, Jazz? Why didn’t you tell me Sierra was coming?” I ask under my breath.
“Because you wouldn’t have come,” she says with a shameless shrug. “And she wouldn’t have come if I’d told her you were coming. This way, everyone’s going.”
“Why is she coming, anyway? I’m your sister. She’s just your assistant.” Not that my being Jazz’s sister means much. We probably spend less time together than she and Sierra do. We’re not close, and I was surprised by the invite in the first place.
Jazz holds up a hand, her brows drawn together. “Uh, we don’t say ‘just an assistant.’ Cal married his assistant, remember?”
Technically, Maggie quit her job as Cal’s assistant before they got together officially, but that’s not important .
“You’re already married, and your husband is weirdly obsessed with you. Were you planning on leaving him to run off?—”
“You know I can hear you, right?” Sierra interrupts, and I have to wonder what makes her think I give a fuck if she overhears. This is going to be a long weekend.
Though Sierra and I were technically assigned adjoining seats, Cal upgraded us all to first class, so we spent the two-and-a-half-hour flight from Seattle to Vegas separated by a half-inch sheet of plastic.
Thankfully, Jazz had the foresight not to make us share a room. She and Maggie are sharing a suite, and Sierra and I have our own rooms on the same floor. I desperately needed time to myself to decompress before we head out tonight.
I planned for Jazz. I planned for Maggie. But Sierra? I can’t pretend I wasn’t looking forward to a whole weekend without having to deal with her. At least there’s no expectation to stay sober this weekend.
My closet isn’t exactly packed with Vegas-appropriate attire. I rummaged right to the back, looking through the box of clothes I haven’t touched since college, but I was far from a partygoer, so it was mostly old workout clothes and sweaters with holes that I never got around to getting fixed.
After work last week, I went to the mall, walked into the store with the most people my age milling around, and purchased three outfits exactly as they were on the mannequins. What’s the point in trying to figure out what looks good when some professional has already done it?
I pull the shiny satin black skirt over my hips and half tuck in the loose button-down covered in silver sequins, exactly how it was styled in the store. The skirt is shorter than I usually wear, but if you can’t risk showing your ass off in Vegas, where can you?
Knee-high black boots that I might actually wear on a regular basis complete the ensemble, and I check myself out in the mirror.
My makeup is darker and smokier than I usually do it, but I’m useless with my hair.
It falls down my back, in loose, slightly frizzy waves—not wavy enough to look intentional, but I’ve never met a curling iron I can use successfully.
I sigh and grab the black clutch I bought to match all three outfits. I’ll do.
The hotel is so quiet up here that you wouldn’t know we were on The Strip. I get lucky with the elevators and head down to the lobby where Jazz told us to meet. I’m only a few minutes early, but naturally, I’m the first one here.
I hover by a giant, waxy plant and wait. After a moment, the soft click of heels sounds on the marble floor, and I look up. My breath catches in my throat, but I’m not happy about it.
For all her flaws, and my god, she has a lot, Sierra is… unfortunately gorgeous. Frankly, it’s incredibly inconvenient.
Her long black hair is slicked back and pin-straight.
I know she straightens it, I just have no idea how she gets it to look so nice.
She has deep brown eyes, so dark they’re almost black, wide and framed with thick lashes.
Her ability to line them with a perfect cat eye every time pisses me off, but fuck, it suits her.
She’s wearing a skin-tight black two-piece that shows off every curve, and a bronzed leg peeks through a thigh-high slit going up one side of her skirt.
I might spend a good ninety percent of my time pissed off at her, but I have eyes.
And those eyes enjoy Sierra, even if the rest of me would prefer never to see her again.
She looks me up and down and raises her brows. “Wow. This look almost makes it seem like you don’t have a giant stick up your ass, Rosie.”
“Charming as always. You know, I’m surprised you were able to find any clothes to pack, considering they all seem to be in that giant pile of laundry in the middle of your room,” I volley back.
“It was hard, but I managed,” Sierra replies sarcastically. “Oh, I borrowed your laundry detergent, by the way. Sorry.” The sly smile on her lips tells me she’s not sorry at all, and I take a deep breath, trying not to let her get a rise out of me.
We’re less than ten minutes from liquor. In a half hour, I’ll be buzzed enough to forget about Sierra and how socially awkward I am, so I can find someone equally tipsy on the—inevitably sticky—dance floor. With how busy work’s been keeping me lately, I’ve been in a bit of a dry spell.
Seattle has a lot of amazing queer and lesbian bars and clubs, but I’m better online than in person, and trying to find women who are interested in hooking up on apps is harder than it sounds.
I looked up the club we’re going to tonight, and it seems to be pretty queer-friendly.
And sure, a girls’ trip with my sister isn’t an ideal place to meet women, but Jazz won’t care if I disappear for a while.
We don’t all have obsessed spouses to go home to every night.
Some of us are forced to go home to the worst fucking roommates.
Not tonight, though. Thank god.