After I take the last pie out of the oven and set it on the cooling rack, I fly upstairs to get dressed for school. I don’t have the time or the wardrobe that some of the girls at my school have, but I make the most of what I’ve got: dark jeans, a sheer pale-pink short-sleeved top with a white tank underneath, black flats and a black leather jacket I found at the consignment shop last year.
I like jewelry, I like to jingle when I walk—like a human music box. So, it’s cheap rings on every finger, cheaper bangle bracelets on my wrists and a long silver dangly necklace.
I don’t contour my face or fill in my blond eyebrows with dark brown pencil like Kylie Jenner—I’d end up looking like that freaky female serial killer if I tried. But I do use under-eye concealer—practically a whole tube of it—plus a little mascara and light pink lip gloss.
When I hop down the back steps a few minutes before six a.m., Logan is done with the lock and talking to our waiter Marty in the kitchen.
Marty McFly Ginsberg isn’t just our employee—he’s my and Livvy’s big brother from another mother. If our mother were black, Jewish, gay and cool as shit. Marty’s the bomb-dot-com.
“Hey, Chicklet.” He hugs me. And the man doesn’t scrimp on his hugs. “How are you doing? Did you hear from Liv?”
I nod. “Did she send you the pic of her room?”
Marty sighs. “Like she died and went to Nate Berkus heaven.” He brushes a green-tipped strand of my hair away. “How were things around here last night?”
“Fine.” I yawn. “I haven’t slept yet, but that’s not news.”
Marty grinds the coffee beans, fills two filters and starts brewing the first of many pots of coffee. “How’s your dad holding up?”
“Fine, I guess. He didn’t come home.”
It’s not a frequent thing, but it’s happened often enough that it’s not a big deal. At least not to me.
Logan slowly turns my way. “What do you mean?”
I shrug. “He’s still not home. He was probably upset about Liv leaving, got tanked and passed out on Mulligan’s bar or one of the benches between here and there. It happens sometimes.”
The bodyguard’s eyes seem to spark—like a fire’s been lit inside him. “Are you telling me you spent the night in the flat upstairs, all by yourself, with an unlocked fucking door on the ground floor?”
“Yeah. But I had Bosco with me.”
Bosco is our shih-tzu-Chihuahua mix. He’s not exactly guard dog material—unless his plan is to startle intruders to death with his so-hideous-he’s-cute face. And if a burglar happens to try stealing hot dogs from the fridge, he’ll never make it out alive. Bosco would rip a throat out for a hot dog.
“It’s not a big deal, Logan.”
Logan looks at Marty and a secret, He-Man-Boy’s-Club look passes between them. When he turns back to me, his face and voice are hard. Definitely pissed off.
“We’ll take shifts—me and the lads. We can stay down here in the diner if you’re uncomfortable having us in the flat, but someone will be here with you, round the clock, from now on. You won’t be alone again. Yeah?”
I nod slowly, feeling warm fuzzies in my veins, like my blood is carbonated.
“Okay.”
So this is what it’s like to have someone to watch over me.
Don’t get me wrong—my sister would take a bullet for me and still manage to beat the shit out of the person who fired the shot. But this is totally different.
Hotter. More Tarzan-y. More comforting. I’m this tough, handsome guy’s priority. He’ll care about me, protect me . . . like it’s his motherfucking job.
Because—it is.
I know from Liv that Nicholas finds the constant protection stifling. But to me, it just feels . . . really nice.
A truck rumbles up the back alley.
“That’s the Danish delivery,” Marty says. “If he tries pushing squashed-to-shit pastries on us again, I’m going to have to bust some skulls.” He cracks his knuckles. “I’ll be back.”
As he goes out the back door, my friend Marlow slips through it, into the kitchen.
“Hey, bitch. You ready to go?”
“Yeah, five minutes.”
Marlow’s from a wealthy family. Her dad’s a hedge-fund manager and kind of a dick. Her mom is very beautiful and very sad, and I’ve never seen her without a glass of Pinot Grigio. They don’t send Mar to a private school, even though they can afford it, because they want her to have “grit.” Street smarts.
I don’t know if it’s the result of the public school system or if it just comes natural to her, but if I were to bet on the girl most likely to run the world? I’d put my money on Marlow.
“The front door is locked—what’s up with that?”
“Logan fixed the lock,” I tell her.
Her bright red, heart-shaped mouth smiles. “Good job, Kevin Costner. You should staple the key to Ellie’s forehead, though, or she’ll lose it.”
She has names for the other guys too and when her favorite guard, Tommy Sullivan, walks in a few minutes later, Marlow uses his. “Hello, Delicious.” She twirls her honey-colored, bouncy hair around her finger, cocking her hip and tilting her head like a vintage pinup girl.
Tommy, the fun-loving super-flirt, winks. “Hello, pretty, underage lass.” Then he nods to Logan and smiles at me. “Lo . . . Good morning, Miss Ellie.”
“Hey, Tommy.”
Marlow struts forward. “Three months, Tommy. Three months until I’m a legal adult—then I’m going to use you, abuse you and throw you away.”
The dark-haired devil grins. “That’s my idea of a good date.” Then he gestures toward the back door. “Now, are we ready for a fun day of learning?”
One of the security guys has been walking me to school ever since the public and press lost their minds over Nicholas and Olivia’s still-technically-unconfirmed relationship. They make sure no one messes with me and they drive me in the tinted, bulletproof SUV when it rains—it’s a pretty sweet deal.
I grab my ten-thousand-pound messenger bag from the corner.
“I can’t believe I didn’t think of this before. Elle—you should have a huge banger here tonight!” says Marlow.
Tommy and Logan couldn’t have synced up better if they’d practiced:
“No fucking way.”
Marlow holds up her hands, palms out. “Did I say banger?”
“Huge banger,” Tommy corrects.
“No—no fucking way. I meant, we should have a few friends over to . . . hang out. Very few. Very mature. Like . . . almost a study group.”
I toy with my necklace and say, “That actually sounds like a good idea.”
Throwing a party when your parents are away is a rite-of-high-school passage. And after this summer, Liv will most likely never be away again. It’s now or never.
“It’s a terrible idea.” Logan scowls.
He looks kinda scary when he scowls. But still hot. Possibly, hotter.