But this is Sloan’s house. Sloan’s rules. Sloan’s expensive cigarettes that probably cost more per pack than my weekly grocery budget.
Sloan herself laughs—not a big, dramatic laugh, just a small, satisfied sound that makes my skin crawl. A smirk curves her perfectly lipsticked mouth as she takes another deliberate drag, her eyes locked on mine, watching my reaction with the kind of detached curiosity you might show watching an insect struggle. Her designer yoga pants probably cost what I used to make in a week at Morrison Textile Factory. Her platinum blonde ponytail sits perfectly on her head, every hair in place, not a wrinkle in her silk tank top, not a care visible anywhere on her flawless face.
Deacon turns away from me as if I’ve already ceased to exist, as if the assault was just a minor interruption in his evening routine. He walks over to Sloan with easy familiarity, cups her face gently in the same hand that just struck me, and presses a tender kiss to her forehead.
