Oaths and Omissions (Monsters & Muses #3)(13)

“Yeah, or she’ll peck your eyes out,” Palmer snickers, pressing a kiss to my temple as he shuffles around.

Sliding onto the stool beside me, Palmer waves the bartender over, then combs a large hand through his sandy locks. If not for the shoulder-length hair and the hoop piercing in his left nostril, it’d be easy to mistake him for his identical twin, Cash.

When they were younger, they were practically interchangeable, which they took advantage of by switching places. We had a constant stream of private tutors replacing one another over the years because of the prank; while my brothers were identical in both appearance and interests, their personalities and academic abilities differed greatly.

Palmer had a mild case of dyslexia, and Cash struggled with algebra. Tutors were always getting mixed up and frustrated because they couldn’t keep track of what the boys were learning individually.

Eventually, they were shoved together and taught that way while I remained alone in my studies.

Serves me right, I guess, for gravitating toward my parents over them.

The bartender pauses in front of us, bracing his palms on the counter. The bottom half of an anchor tattoo peeks out from the sleeve of his Deftones T-shirt, and he cocks an eyebrow.

“What can I get ya?”

I open my mouth to decline anything, but Palmer interrupts. “Two shots of tequila, and a raspberry margarita.”

Nodding, the bartender doesn’t even spare me another look for confirmation before he spins away, heading to the other end to speak to more customers.

“What part of ‘I’m not drinking tonight’ did you not understand?” I ask, glaring at my brother.

He chuckles, brushing some lint off his acid-washed denim jacket. “If you don’t drink, you’re not gonna be any fun.”

“Very brotherly of you to peer pressure me.”

Daddy’s words from before we left this evening echo in my mind—his insistence I pick one of the men from his list, so he can move on with cleaning up my image—and I wonder if the men in my life are capable of doing anything but pressuring me.

Rolling his eyes, Palmer twirls his phone in his hands. “I’m just saying. You’ve been wound so tight since the party, you’re bound to explode any second if you don’t let loose a little. What better place than here, with your big brother and his lover to watch over you?”

My nose scrunches up at his use of the word lover, but I don’t argue. He’s not wrong, anyway. The events at the party the other night, coupled with Richard Stiles’s postmortem discovery and the whole dating situation, have left me on edge.

And not in a good way.

The bartender comes back and slings our drinks down, leaving a mason jar with pink liquid in front of me. I grab it with both hands and bring it close, if only to keep anyone else from touching it.

“Bottoms up,” Troy cheers, tilting his head back and downing his shot in one gulp.

Palmer mimics the action, pulling Troy in for a sloppy kiss to celebrate. My brother threads his fingers into Troy’s dark, braided hair, grinning into him. When they pull apart, they turn and look at me expectantly.

Chewing on my bottom lip, I scan the crowd again, searching for any semblance of recognition. A phone aimed in our direction, whispers between friends hidden behind hands—something that will not only alert our parents that I’m out being a delinquent, but Preston, too.

Not to mention the fact that we shouldn’t even be in this bar at all; The Flaming Chariot is strictly off-limits to Primrose family members, and after my encounter with its owner the other night, I have double the reason not to patronize.

“What happened to you, swan?” Palmer slides his arm around my shoulders, pulling me into his side. “You used to be fun. When did you become such a dud?”

Eight and a half months ago. “Probably around the same time I broke my ankle.”

“Jeez, Palm. She’s not a dud for wanting to be responsible.” Troy reaches across my brother, patting my hands.

Palmer waves him off, leaning into me. “Whatever. Tell me you’re at least hooking up with someone tonight.”

I just stare at him.

An exasperated sound escapes his throat, and he spins around on his stool. “I might as well have dragged Cash out.”

Like Cash would ever come out the night before he’s due in court.

Offering a sympathetic smile, Troy takes Palmer’s hand and tugs him into a standing position. “I’m gonna take this one to dance and blow off some steam. You okay over here on your own?”

Nodding, I watch over my shoulder as the couple disappears into the smoky atmosphere, blending in with the twisted limbs in the middle of the bar. A country song crackles over the loudspeaker, and I smother a grin when Palmer breaks free from Troy’s grip to begin a line dance.

Bringing the mason jar to my lips, I take a small sip. The acidic, fruity flavor bursts on my tongue, and I swallow it down before it has a chance to settle in.

If I let myself think about how much I enjoy it, I won’t be able to stop after just one drink. Out here, surrounded by people chomping at the bit to sell a story about Lenny Primrose losing control in public, I can’t afford to indulge.

See, Daddy? I can control my urges, after all.

I’m alone for approximately two minutes before I get bored, and the margarita becomes far more enticing than sitting here watching the dance floor.