“Jackson, a word?” I say, turning up the sweetness in my voice to cavity-inducing. His arm drops across my shoulder and I brace, half expecting a noogie. It’s just the big-brother kind of move he loves to pull. If he tries it tonight, I’ll be happy to put a stiletto through his Italian leather shoes.
“Happy New Year, sissy,” he says tapping me on the nose, like I’m still a five-year-old clutching a teddy bear.
I slap his hand away.
“How’d you do it?” I demand.
Before Jackson can respond, Ryder steps in. “I hear congrats are in order,” he says. Ryder’s played referee to more than one sibling death match before, but this time I’m determined. Not even Jackson’s friends are going to save him. “Jackson told me earlier you just got promoted at work. Can you get me free tickets to a Falcons game?”
I see an opportunity and turn my sweet smile to Ryder. “Only if you do me a favor.”
“I am at your service.”
“I’d like you to beat someone up for me.”
“Give me a name and consider it done.”
“Jackson Masters.” And I jerk my head towards my brother, the smile on my lips hardening.
“What did I do this time, Shelby?” Jackson looks at the space just over my head. It’s his trick. To play dumb. To pretend to be docile. For the most part, Jackson has been an amazing standin parent. He came to awards dinners, graduation ceremonies, and moving days. He helped me sort through my student loans, lease an apartment, and—most important—he taught me his tried-and-true hangover cure. But tonight—and in my dating life in general—I definitely don’t need his over-protective bullshit.
The only time I know Jackson’s lying to me is when he doesn’t meet my eyes.
“How do you know Tom Parker?” I demand.
“I don’t know anyone by that name.”
“Bullshit,” I say, putting my hands on my hips. “He was all on board for tonight. I put his name on the list and now he’s not coming, which he informed me via text message.”
“What a dick,” Cassie says coming to my defense. “You’re better off without him.”
“Well I have my brother to thank for that.”
The second Jackson meets my eyes, he breaks like a one-pound bag holding a ton of shit. “Yes, you’re better off,” he says in a leveled voice. “He drinks too much and has left Illusions with more women than Cash used to.”
My fingers curl into a fist, and I itch to punch my brother in the face. But if I want him to treat me like an adult, I can’t react like a child.
“I don’t care if he’s a certified dickwad. You let me fight my own battles.”
“You’re my sister. That makes you my responsibility.”
“I’m my own responsibility,” I say. “How many times are we going to have to go over this? My love life is none of your business.”
I stamp my foot before I can stop myself. It’s the most childish thing I’ve done all night, but I can’t help it—Jackson has made me sink to his level.
Jackson studies his shoes. Everyone around us grows quiet, waiting for the full-out battle. I ball my hands into fists, pressing my lips together into a thin line. There’s no need to ruin another evening with our bickering. Fed up, I decide to take the high road and walk away.
I spot Ruby and Avery having a good time at the bar. They’re knee-deep in men. Ruby, drink in hand, sways to the music. She seemingly ignores her handful of admirers but I know she’s hyperaware of each and every one of them, observing carefully and picking favorites. Avery and a tall guy lean over the bar, both of their heads bent in conversation. I can see her smile from across the room. This is my problem, not theirs. I don’t want to ruin their fun with my troubles. Instead I weave through the crowd heading for the back stairs.
I climb the stairs and when I reach the top, shoulder open the door, shivering at the blast of cold air that meets me. The roof deck is empty tonight, but the skyline is bright with life. A thousand lights blink from skyscrapers, winking in the darkness. From here I can see the shadows of bar goers spilling out onto the street, the warm glow of cigarettes against their lips. It’s cold out. I forgot to grab a jacket, but my anger is enough to keep the chill off. The door slams and I look over my shoulder. The guy standing in the door looks familiar. He’s built like the guys I work with. Broad shoulders. Muscles packed tight into their arms and legs. He’s gorgeous—I can tell even from afar. I feel the heat rise in my cheeks under his piercing gaze.
Knowing my luck, he’ll know one of the athletes from work who view me as their little sister and I’ll be in the same position I am with every other guy.
So when the stranger stands next to me at the edge of the roof, I sneak another look. He’s got green eyes that search me with a perfect devil-may-care smile spread across his lips. His features are strong, irresistibly masculine—as if they were cut from stone. In a crisp white button-up and dark jeans and a navy blazer, he is clean cut, neatly put together—but with a spark of danger in his expression.