Delilah Green Doesn't Care(Bright Falls #1)(3)

On the other hand—the hand that tried to keep Delilah fed and clothed—Isabel Parker-Green had offered her a ridiculous sum of money to photograph Astrid’s wedding and two weeks’ worth of pre-wedding events. As the details from when Astrid first called Delilah about this happy event floated back to her now, there were definitely five figures involved. Low five figures, but still. Pocket change to Isabel Parker-Green and to most Brooklynites, but to Delilah, who could stretch a dollar for days, it was an IV to her dehydrated bank account.

Along with the money, which Astrid almost certainly knew Delilah couldn’t refuse, Astrid had also delivered an oh-so-subtly manipulative, “Mom says your father would’ve wanted you at my wedding.” Delilah still resented her for it, mostly because she knew Isabel was right. While he’d been alive, Andrew Green had been a devoted family man to the point of ridiculousness, insisting on nightly dinners and spring break vacations, Christmas Eve traditions and checking homework and learning how to plait hair just so Delilah wouldn’t be the only girl at the Renaissance Faire field trip without a braid crown.

A wedding would be nonnegotiable. You showed up for family, even if you got paid for it and gritted your teeth the entire time.

“Pre-wedding events start on Sunday,” Astrid said now. “You agreed to be there for all of it, remember? The details I emailed you indicate you’re booked June third through the sixteenth. I signed your contract, agreeing to all of your terms, and—”

“I know, I know, yes,” Delilah said, running a hand over her hair. Shit, she did not want to go back to Bright Falls for two whole weeks. And it was Pride month. She loved Pride in New York City. Who the hell started all this wedding nonsense that far before the actual day anyway? Well, Delilah knew exactly who.

“Astrid—”

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

“That mouth, Ass. What would Isabel say.”

“She’d say that and a lot worse if you’re about to cancel on her only daughter’s wedding on such short notice.”

Delilah sucked in a breath, even though she tried not to.

Her only daughter.

She wanted to fight the sting, to let the words slide right over her, but she failed. It was a reflex, this feeling, left over from a childhood with two dead parents and a stepmother who never really wanted her in the first place.

“Shit,” Astrid said, her tone regretful and irritated at the same time, as though Delilah had made her forget that Isabel had been Delilah’s sole guardian after her father, Isabel’s second husband, had died of an aneurysm when Delilah was ten years old.

“There’s that mouth again,” Delilah said, laughing through a thick throat. “I think I might like this new stressed-out Astrid.”

Her stepsister didn’t say anything for a few seconds, but the silence was long enough for Delilah to know she’d be on a morning flight out of JFK.

“Just be here, okay?” Astrid said. “It’s too late to find someone decent to replace you.”

Delilah wiped her hand down her face. “Yeah.”

“What was that?”

“Yes,” Delilah practically yelled. “I’ll be there.”

“Good. I already booked your room at the Kaleidoscope—”

“What, I’m not staying with Mommy Dearest?”

“—and I’ll email you the itinerary. Again.”

Delilah grunted and hung up before Astrid could hang up on her, then dropped the phone on the counter like it was on fire. She twisted the lid off a half-full bottle of gin that sat next to the sink and took a shot, no glass required. The liquor burned all the way down, searing her nostrils and watering her eyes.

Two weeks. It was just two weeks.

Two weeks and enough money to get her through three months of rent.

She snatched up her phone, the damn traitor, and went back into the bedroom. Lanier’s robe hit the floor, and she found her own strapless black jumpsuit that showed off the tattoos inked all over both her arms in a rumpled pile next to the dresser. After slipping it on, she spent about ten seconds looking for her underwear, her favorite purple lacy cheekies, but they were nowhere to be found.

“Fuck it,” she said, slinging her bag over her shoulder and pulling her mass of dark curls into a messy bun. She located her red four-inch heels by the huge black-and-white framed photograph leaning against the wall. The image showed a white woman in a thin white dress, mascara running down her wet face as she stared at the viewer. She was in a bathtub, gown completely soaked and sheer, nipples barely visible above the milky waterline while her fingers curled around the rusty white tub. It was Delilah’s, one of the four pieces in the Fitz show. Memories of Leila-Lucy-Luna forking over actual money and then promptly shoving her tongue into Delilah’s mouth drifted into clarity. The damn name still played hide-and-seek.

“Hey,” the woman said, lifting her head from the pile of pillows and squinting at Delilah in the city-light, hair a tousled mess. “Wait, are you leaving?”

“Um, yeah,” Delilah said, popping on her shoes and double-checking that her wallet was in her bag, her keys, her Metro card. “Thanks, this was fun.”

Leah grinned. “It was. Sure you don’t want to come back to bed?” She lifted an eyebrow as the covers fell just low enough on her chest to reveal a lovely swell of skin.