Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 118309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
“Maybe.” I shrug. “It’s my go-to material when someone is feeling down.”
I realize I said too much when concern hardens Zoya’s features. “Aleena was feeling down?” I only hold my pointer finger and middle finger half an inch apart, but she acts like my arms are stretched from one side of the cabana to the next. “What happened?”
“Nothing happened. She just seemed a little—”
Before I can find an appropriate word, Aleena rejoins our conversation. “To men who think with their dicks.” When she holds up her glass, ready to toast, I accept one of the shot glasses Riccardo recently refilled. Zoya declines. “And the women stupid enough to fall for their tricks.”
My double shot of bourbon almost slides down my windpipe when Aleena clinks her glass against Shevi’s with enough force it shatters. When she tries to down the shards as if they’re ice, I forcefully swallow the liquid burning my throat and then shift on my feet to face Zoya. “It’s time to call it a night.”
She sighs in relief before making a beeline for her little sister.
Aleena is so drunk it takes Riccardo, Zoya, Shevi, and me to get her to our room and then just as many limbs to direct her to the secondary suite instead of the in-room bar.
I’m not the greatest help since I’m just as intoxicated, but I’m well-versed on pretending my head isn’t muddled and my limbs aren’t the weight of trunks.
While Zoya switches Aleena’s clothes for pajamas, Aleena mumbles something about how not all men think with their penises and that if given the chance, we could show them how they could have the best of both worlds.
“They could have love and money. We-we could give them that.” She shoots her bloodshot eyes to me, then swallows like the brisk movement almost causes her to vomit. “You just need to tell Maksim the truth. That you’d never intentionally hurt his mother.”
“He knows. He was there.”
She stumbles away too quickly for Zoya to hinder. “No, he doesn’t. They told him it was a ruse”—a smelly burp breaks up her reply—“and that you knew he was there. They’re putting all the blame on you.” She grips my arm firm enough to bruise. “You have to tell him the truth. They need to be told when they’re wrong.” This could be my drunk head talking, but I feel like a lot of what she is saying resonates with her as much as it does me. Her next lot of words proves my theory. “They only treat us this way because we let them.” Her spine straightens as determination sparks in her eyes. “If we don’t like how we’re treated, we should stand up for ourselves. Tell them to either ship up or ship out.” Her grit rises along with the sturdiness of her legs. “And we should do it now.”
“Now?” Zoya and I radio in sync.
“Uh-huh.” She gets so up in my face that my intoxication level rises from the alcohol on her breath. “Let’s get it out of the way. That way, if he’s not interested in what we’re offering, we can do whatever the hell we like all day tomorrow. Stuff the consequences.”
“Stuff the consequences,” I echo, too drunk to realize I am accepting the advice of an intoxicated woman. “I’m going to confront him and give him a piece of my mind. If it weren’t for me, his mother would most likely still be admitted.” My leap of determination almost ends my campaign, but I swallow down the vomit surging up my throat before chickening out with more dignity. “Tomorrow. I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”
“No! Not tomorrow,” Aleena says. “We need to do this now before it’s too late.”
For someone who could barely stand minutes ago, she charges for the door without a single stumble Shevi uses to trace her steps.
“What do I do?” Zoya asks, unversed in dealing with family issues since she left home at fifteen.
“Go with her,” I suggest when Aleena disappears into the hallway and takes a left instead of the expected right. Maksim’s suite is on the right. “I’ll be right behind you. I just need to grab my bag. It is the equivalent of a first-aid kit. It may come in handy.” When Zoya groans, I push her toward the door, almost stumbling when dizziness overwhelms me. “I’m joking. Go.” I’m not, but she doesn’t need to know that. “Your baby sister needs you.”
Since they’re the words she’s needed to hear for years, she throws her arms around my neck and breathes in my scent before sprinting after Aleena. “I’ll meet you down there!”
“I’m right behind you.”
When the entryway door of our suite slams closed, I flatten my palms on the drawers and suck in some big breaths. I’m not feeling well at all, and although my symptoms mimic ones similar to someone who has drunk too much, I don’t believe excessive alcohol consumption is solely to blame for my woozy state. I’m having memory issues of events that happened earlier, such as, why am I wearing a frumpy coverup?