The battle of devastatio.., p.6
Dirty Savage Player (House of Cards Book 2), page 6
“Still too low. Hey, how much did you win at your poker tournament last night?”
“$75,000.”
Her eyes go so wide, I can see white all around her irises. Oh, yeah. She’s impressed, even if she hates herself for it. I puff up my chest, preening a little.
“Maybe if you gave me your winnings, I’d consider it.” She laughs, because she doesn’t think I’d ever actually do it.
So naive. She’s seriously underestimating how much I love winning.
“Fine. You win, you get 75 thou. But if I win, you have to leave your dating profile like that until the new year.”
She tilts her head like a confused puppy. “That’s it? That’s all you want for winning?”
I shrug. “I can make back my money playing online poker for a few days. But the feeling of beating you? Priceless.”
“Fine.” She snatches her phone back out of my hand. I don’t even make her fight me for it. “I’ll keep the profile for a day. I look forward to you writing me a check.”
With that, she scoops Waffle up in her arms and stomps back to her bedroom. I flop down on the couch, grabbing a Playstation controller. If Pippa’s sulking all night, that means I get the living room all to myself. I can play Grand Theft Auto until the sun comes up if I feel like it.
It’s only a little annoying that now, the couch smells like Pippa’s cherry perfume.
6
PIPPA
Waffle purrs and rubs her face against mine. Apparently, she’s decided I shouldn’t go to Mom and Jack’s holiday party tonight, because she’s been laying on my chest for twenty minutes, and I don’t have the heart to move her.
Maybe I’ll stay home with the cat, since I’m already dreading the very idea of getting out of bed.
After Ryan gave my profile a makeover, over two hundred guys marked me as a Keepr. At this rate, I’ll probably get a hundred more by the time the party’s over. It’s nice to have options, obviously, but I’m not sure it’s worth Ryan lording this over me for the rest of my life.
Ugh, men suck.
I’m trying to come up with an excuse to stay home that Mom would accept when my phone dings.
Cat
How’s it going, Pipsqueak? Do you need me to come rescue you yet?
It takes me a minute to maneuver my phone so I can type an answer without dislodging Waffle from her place on my chest.
Pippa
You can hold off on sending in a SWAT team, but maybe keep them on standby.
How’s wedding planning going?
Cat
Work has been so busy, I’ve barely started. Nate and I are leaving for a quick trip to Spain tonight.
I’m not in a huge rush, anyway. You’ll be the first to know when I’m ready to start thinking about venues and dresses. <3
Pippa
Good. You’ll need my dress advice, because I don’t think Nate would settle for you pulling your dress out of a thrift store discount bin.
Cat
I’ll get him to appreciate a good thrift one day.
I’m about to reply when two notifications pop up simultaneously. The first one is a text from Dad, a selfie of him grinning and holding the hot pink hammer I bought him for his birthday a few years ago. It has little unicorns prancing up the side, and I thought it would be hilarious for him to have to bring it to a job site.
Never one to shy away from a joke, Dad always brings the hammer for his first day on a new contracting gig. I reply to the picture with a few heart emojis.
The second text is from my other parental unit.
Mom
So excited to see you tonight, sweetheart! I made some peanut butter blossoms, and there’s a whole box waiting just for you.
Ugh. So much for getting out of the party tonight
I’m the only one who even likes those cookies and everyone knows it.
Reluctantly, I nudge Waffle off my chest and get up. Opening the closet door, I flip through the hangers. If I’m going to have to deal with Ryan gloating, I might as well be wearing something that makes me feel like I’m above his bullshit.
I’ve always been drawn to dark colors, but I didn’t make the shift to an almost all-black wardrobe until last year, when I wrote an article about it for Belladonna. Now when I get dressed, I get to be more creative, putting pieces together based on texture and shape. If I’m feeling color, I usually just add an accessory, but my signature red lip is usually all the accent I feel like I need.
My fingers move to a black velvet dress I picked up at a sample sale. It’s soft and clingy, with thick ribbon ties on the shoulders. It’s a little more risqué than I’d usually pick for a family party, but hey, maybe I’ll meet someone tonight. Sometimes, my parents’ friends bring their adult kids or younger colleagues with them, so there should be a few men my age.
And I’d love any excuse to go out with a guy who’s never seen the photo Ryan took.
Even though I’m only ten minutes late for the party, Mom’s driveway is already crammed full of shiny Audis and BMWs, with more spilling out onto the street. I can guarantee I’m the only guest who took the train to get here. As I walk up the long driveway, I count how many cars have a driver waiting in the front seat, playing Candy Crush to kill time.
There are exactly eight. I give each of them a little wave. I’d probably be more comfortable having a conversation with any of them than with every guest inside.
It can be weird, having rich parents and not being rich yourself. Mom and Dad weren’t exactly rolling in dough when I was born, and after they got divorced, money was even tighter. So when Mom married my stepfather, Jack, I was suddenly drawn into an opulent world of mansions, designer clothing, and extravagant vacations.
All with the understanding that none of it would be mine.
It was so the money wouldn’t change me, Mom said. I’d always have what I needed, but I needed to remember that I would never be given that wealth. As if I could forget, especially after being enrolled in prep school, where everyone else was born into wealth. I was just some interloper, whose visa could be revoked at any time.
Every once in a while, a classmate would take me under her wing, with the understanding that I’d never be able to outshine her. They were the main characters, while I was the sidekick wearing jeans from Old Navy instead of Versace. That’s why I’m so close to Cat. She was the first real friend I had who saw me as an equal instead of an accessory.
Laughter and chatter drifts out from my parents’ front door, and I can practically smell the Chanel No. 5. I take a deep breath, steeling myself to join the crowd.
The minute I get inside, a server takes my coat for me and hustles to put it in the makeshift coat room in Jack’s office. Another server tries to hand me a glass of champagne, which I wave off. I’ll get a drink later, but it definitely won’t be champagne. Finding an empty space by the wall, I scan the room, trying to find Mom in the crowd.
She and Jack really went all-out this year. Twinkle lights hang everywhere, and a three-piece band plays Christmas songs in the corner. All the guests are dressed to the nines in designer suits and dresses. I have to smile, knowing that I look just as good as they do on a tenth of the budget.
“Look who finally showed up,” a voice says.
Ryan strolls over to me, a glass of whiskey already in his hand.
I roll my eyes. “If you cared about me being late, you could have offered me a ride.”
Unlike me, Ryan has a car—a Mustang Shelby he won at a poker tournament.
“Nah, you love the train,” he drawls, and I make a sound of disgust, but he’s right. I do love it. Always have. “Why are you always dressed for a funeral?”
“When I’m around you? I’m manifesting one.”
He scoffs and sips his whiskey, eyeing the crowd.
Ryan’s dressed up for once. This might be the only night all year my stepbrother willingly puts on a suit and tie, and actually puts an iron to them instead of just digging them out from the back of his closet. He still sticks out like a sore thumb in the conservative crowd at the party, though, with his silver rings, the tie a little loose, and his dark hair swept back with careless fingers instead of meticulously styled.
“Have you seen our parents yet?” he asks.
“Not yet.”
He leans against the wall. “Damn. I was hoping you could point ‘em out. I’d so love to avoid the inevitable you’re wasting your life lecture from Dad.”
He says it like it’s a joke, but I know it isn’t. Not really. I’ve seen how Ryan’s shoulders slump after Jack’s semi-annual lectures. I know it affects him even if he likes to pretend it doesn’t.
A glass of champagne appears in front of me, this time pinched between the fingers of yet another server who grins at me warmly. I sigh inwardly, pasting on a smile. I guess the only way they’ll leave me alone is if they see me actually holding a glass of bubbly. The second I take the glass, though, Ryan plucks it from my fingertips.
“No champagne for this one,” he says, setting it back on the server’s tray and leans in conspiratorially. “It gives her gas. When you get a chance, she’ll take a glass of dry red.”
Ryan discreetly hands the server a bill, sending him scurrying back to the kitchen to fill my order.
“Gives me gas?” I snap. “And what if I wanted that?”
He snorts. “Please. You hate champagne.”
“You don’t know that. Maybe I changed my mind.”
He leans down so his eyes are almost level with mine, like I’m some toddler he’s communicating with. “Repeat after me: Thank you, Ryan, for getting me a drink I actually wanted.”
I bare my teeth. “Bite me.”
“Pippa! Ryan!”
We both turn when we hear our names. Our parents stride through the crowd toward us, Mom wearing a smile and Jack wearing a pantomime of one.
“Sweetheart! You look beautiful,” Mom says, pulling me into a tight hug.
“Damn, Emily!” Ryan says from behind me. “That’s one hell of a dress.”
“Oh, stop it,” Mom says. “You know it’s the same old dress I wear every Christmas.”
I stop myself from rolling my eyes. The “same old dress” is Valentino and perfectly tailored to her. None of her friends would ever comment on it the way they would if I rewore the J. Crew dress I picked up on sale last year.
“Well, you look better in it every year.”
“Always the charmer,” she teases, giving him a hug, too.
“Thank you both for coming,” Jack says. His hands are clasped behind his back, like he wants Ryan and me to remember that he won’t be offering so much as a handshake, as if I’d even want one. He couldn’t be more unlike my warm, social mother, and I wonder for the zillionth time how Mom could have picked this emotionally bankrupt stuffed suit over Dad.
“How’s apartment hunting going?” Mom asks.
Ugh. My smile must look just as wooden as Jack’s, being reminded of the real estate market. “Um, rental agents aren’t being super responsive because of the holidays, but I’ve got a few places on my radar. There are two apartments I’m looking at next week.”
“So you could be out by New Year’s Eve?” Ryan asks hopefully.
“I hope so.”
If I can’t find a new place by January 1st, that means I’ll probably be stuck with Ryan until at least the 15th if not February. And I really don’t know if I can handle another month and half of giggling girls and endless poker chatter. “I hope Ryan’s been a good host to you,” Jack says, shooting a pointed look at his son.
Ryan’s jaw tightens. He knows that this is my opportunity to tell Jack exactly how annoying he’s been, from his constant shirtlessness to scaring off my date. Fortunately for him, the last thing I want is to listen to the two of them whisper-fight in the middle of a party. Ryan may not have limits or morals, but I do.
“I haven’t even seen Ryan that much,” I say, mostly truthfully. “He’s been traveling a lot for work. The only reason I know he’s been home is the mountain of energy drink cans he clogs the recycling with.”
Jack frowns. “Playing poker isn’t work.”
“Well, it pays the bills,” Ryan says stiffly. “So I think it counts.”
“You’re not producing anything. Not building anything or making a contribution to society. It’s gambling.”
Ryan clears his throat. “Yeah, I should really be doing something more noble. Maybe like getting repeat offenders off on just charges.”
Jack’s eyes flash.
Mom and I exchange glances. It’s a fight we’ve both heard dozens of times, and we know all the beats by heart. Luckily, before they can get into it, a man taps Jack on the shoulder.
“Jack! Wonderful party,” the guy says, his voice slightly muffled by his giant mustache.
My stepfather immediately puts on his big strong susinessman face, clapping the man on the back heartily.
“Great to see you, Harold,” he says in a booming voice. “And this must be Molly.”
Molly is a skinny woman in her 20s, with long stringy blonde hair. She extends her hand to Jack, but her eyes flash over to Ryan. She looks him up and down shamelessly, even while her arm is linked through Harold’s.
Jack gestures toward us. “This is my wife Emily, my son Ryan, and my stepdaughter, Philippa.”
I cringe at the use of my full name that literally no one except him ever uses.
“Great to meet you all,” Harold says, and apparently it’s my turn to be ogled. My stomach twists as his eyes track up my legs, hips, and breasts.
Barf.
As Jack and Harold start discussing how some banking stock has been performing, Ryan leans over and whispers in my ear.
“See? You don’t even need dating apps, sis. Looks like you found your first date already.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Ew.”
“Come on, he’s kind of cute, in a walrus sort of way.”
I shudder. “Ugh, did you see the way he looked at me?”
“You kind of invited it, Pips.”
I glower at him. “Excuse me?”
“That dress is screaming ‘I’m a present, come open me!’” Ryan tugs at the ribbon bow acting as a strap on my left shoulder.
Instinctively, I yank away from him, but Ryan doesn’t let go of my dress. The knot comes loose and the fabric unravels, slipping off my shoulder.
I barely manage to clutch the velvet to my chest before it falls, showing everyone in the party the bra I’m not wearing.
Whirling on my heel, I rush back to the kitchen, holding the front of my dress tight against my torso as I dart between two men in matching combovers and squeeze around a gaggle of women oohing and aahing over someone’s Valentino purse.
Thank god, nobody’s in the kitchen when I get there. The caterers must be using the staff kitchen in the back of the house for everything tonight.
Using my hazy reflection in the stainless-steel refrigerator door, I carefully retie my shoulder strap. This time, I make a tight knot before I tie it in a bow. I wouldn’t put it past my absolute asshole of a stepbrother to try and humiliate me by untying it again.
Just as soon as I think of him, Ryan appears in the doorway. He rakes his fingers through his messy hair, looking way too pleased with himself.
“That was so fucking childish! I almost flashed the entire party.”
He rolls his eyes. “Oh, big deal. So a few people would have seen your bra.”
“I’m not wearing one! I can’t with this dress!”
“Not wearing a bra to the family Christmas party? Wow. That’s the wildest thing you’ve ever done, Pips. What’s next, are you going to star in a porno?”
“Of course. For you, everything has to be about sex. There’s no such thing as appropriate context. You even had to make my dating profile dirty.”
His eyebrows raise. “Wait a second. I get it. You’re pissed off at me because my methods worked. How many matches did you get?”
I swallow, looking down at my shoes.
“Oh, it’s even more than I thought, isn’t it?”
I clench my teeth.
“Come on, Pips, how many?”
“Three twenty-six,” I grumble. “Last I checked.”
“As in, three hundred and twenty-six?” Ryan echoes, and I roll my eyes.
“That is what I said.”
Something flashes in his eyes that I can’t name. Then his lip curls into a sneer. “See what happens when you don’t act so sexless and uptight?”
The barb digs right into my skin. “I am not sexless!”
“Hey, I’m not saying it’s your fault. Some women just aren’t into sex. You know—” He strolls closer to me, counting on his fingers. “Frigid bitches, elementary school librarians, and apparently, Pippa Murphy.”
I take a furious step toward him, poking him in the chest. “Just because I’m not trying to get in the Guiness Book of Sex Records like you doesn’t mean I’m frigid! I like sex.”
His brown eyes narrow. “I’m sure you do. Let me guess—lights off, missionary, and total silence? Am I far off? Ooo, I bet you even keep your bra on.”
“I’m not even wearing one now!” I hiss, punching a hole in his stupid logic, wondering why I even care what he thinks about my sex life.
Ryan’s eyes darken, then dip down to my neckline. I instinctively draw a sharp breath, and I realize I’m practically close enough to brush up against his chest. His musky cologne goes straight to my head, and suddenly my mouth feels dry as hell. I take a shuddering breath, and my chest almost grazes his. Static electricity licks at the narrow space between our bodies, and any second now it’s going to start a fire I hope burns all his pretty hair right off his head.
Then my stiletto heel snaps.
