The One You Want. Gena Showalter

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СКАЧАТЬ big...big boy.”

      O-kay. Going there, are we?

      Dane frowned at the woman.

      “Darling!” Roanne’s voice registered, saving Kenna from having to say anything else.

      A slender arm wrapped around Kenna’s waist and tugged her none too gently from the group. “Excuse us, please.”

      “I guess this is goodbye,” Kenna said with a wave.

      Dane’s frown landed on her and deepened.

      Roanne drew her away, managing to maintain a smile as she whispered, “I asked you not to embarrass me, and you show up like this?”

      Ah. Motherly love and unconditional acceptance. Can’t ever get enough.

      They stopped in a shadowed corner. At forty-five, Roanne was still one of the most beautiful women Kenna had ever seen, with a thick mass of red waves and green eyes that rivaled the most expensive of emeralds, two features Kenna had inherited. But while Roanne had flawless porcelain skin, Kenna was covered in freckles.

      “It’s like you go out of your way to hurt me.” Roanne removed Kenna’s scarf and tucked one end along the bust of her dress.

      “What are you doing?” she asked, standing still and just letting it happen, whatever it was. Fighting would do no good.

      “Making you somewhat presentable. You should have let me buy you a dress.”

      Roanne had been living off Henry Starr’s insurance money for about two years. He’d died of cancer after an eight-month battle; actually, he’d died of a broken heart long before that, hating Roanne for her betrayal, but never leaving her. Why he’d stuck around, Kenna had never known. It certainly hadn’t been for her. He’d actually disowned her right before her seventeenth birthday, and he’d made it clear his money wasn’t to be spent on her, so despite her mom’s seemingly kind offer—always comes with strings—Kenna would never take a dime.

      “You know Daddy would have rather I wore last season’s garbage bag,” she said.

      “He’s dead. What he wants doesn’t matter anymore.”

      “That’s so cold.”

      “It’s also true.”

      Maybe, but all Kenna had ever wanted was to make her father proud and happy.

       And I failed in every way.

      Motions clipped, Roanne threaded the scarf between Kenna’s breasts, draped the material along her middle, then wrapped the ends around her waist. To make sure everything stayed in place, she then used a diamond-crusted broach to pin those ends at Kenna’s lower back. The final result was shockingly effective, making the dress appear almost Grecian.

      Roanne looked her over, nodded. “That’ll have to do. Now, don’t be a wallflower,” she said, patting Kenna’s cheek. “Get out there and have a good time. Or not. Probably not. We don’t want a repeat of...you know.” Her mother flittered off, calling, “Hannah! Darling, you are utterly radiant! I’m so glad you could join us.”

      Deep breath in...out...

      Kenna concentrated on the beauty of her surroundings, wondering where to go next. The room was decked out with an incredible assortment of hand-carved stones, exotic woods and colorful marbles. Every piece of furniture provided a perfect complement, seemingly plucked straight from some Victorian palace. But her favorites? The intricate mosaics and the magnificent frieze ceiling.

      “Champagne?” Brook Lynn approached her, holding out her tray.

      Kenna gazed longingly at the offering, but shook her head. “I wish. It would certainly make the time tick by faster.” She made sure to enunciate each of her words, so that Brook Lynn would have an easier time reading her lips. Her friend had a rare inner ear disorder that made her hear everyday sounds at an unbearable volume. Even something as simple as a cat’s meow used to send her into screaming fits of pain. The implants in both of her ears were supposed to regulate volume somewhat, or, when even that proved to be too much—as it always did at big social gatherings—render her temporarily deaf.

      “It would also energize this dud fest,” Brook Lynn said.

      “True, but I can’t risk it.” Even a few sips of alcohol turned Mild Kenna into Wild Kenna. She danced on tables, sang too loudly, even performed strip teases. Once, she’d slept with a boy she hadn’t known—which was exactly how she’d ended up with the horrible reputation she’d never been able to shake.

      “Oh, all right,” Brook Lynn said. “But if one more drunken old fart grabs my bee-hind, I’m going to do what Rick did to that biker and rip out his throat—with my teeth.”

      Rick from The Walking Dead. Kenna and Brook Lynn always watched the show together, and then discussed their survival plans for a zombie apocalypse afterward. An apocalypse guaranteed to happen. It was just a matter of time.

      “No throat ripping today.” Kenna lifted the hem of her dress, revealing the small weapon strapped to her inner thigh. She rarely left home without some sort of protection. “I brought a mini-ax. I’ll defend your honor.”

      “Hey! That ax is supposed to be reserved for zombie kills.”

      “Um, I’d say these people are close enough. Wouldn’t you?”

      Brook Lynn chuckled, and as always, drew the attention of every man nearby. Unfortunately, “every” included their boss, Mr. Calbert, who stood in a far corner watching his employees, making sure everyone did what they were supposed to do. He scowled at Brook Lynn and made a shooing motion with his hands. Grumpy businessman speak for go back to work or you’re fired.

      “I’ll stay till the bitter end and help clean up,” Kenna said. “That should pacify him for this little noninfraction infraction.”

      “No way. You won’t be paid for it. And you need to get home to Norrie.”

      Norrie. Kenna’s daughter, and the light of her life. The reason she pushed herself as hard as she did, working full-time and going to school part-time, with the dream of becoming a teacher. “She’s staying the night with a friend, so no more protests. I’m helping and that’s that.”

      “Okay. I accept and you’re a doll.” Brook Lynn kissed her cheek before sailing off.

      Kenna meandered through the crowd. A few feet away, a guy held out his empty glass without looking away from the man he was conversing with, expecting the wait staff to see and take it. Afraid he would drop it and cause a scene, garnering Mr. Calbert’s displeasure with his employees, she bounded forward and claimed the glass. Then the man beside him handed over the glass he’d just drained.

      After she placed the empties on a passing tray, she circled the room, pretending to be a happy guest. The richest of women from Strawberry Valley were decidedly chilly with her, but then, that was nothing new. Some even drew their men away from her to stop any kind of interaction.

      Chin up. Shoulders back. Smile. They’d never know how deeply their treatment wounded her.

      She’d СКАЧАТЬ