It’s just fantastic knowing any bit of friendliness I get in this crowded room is offered under threat of maiming rather than because, you know, they enjoy my company even slightly.
But I’m used to that too. I lift my mug of beer in a million toasts and toss back exuberant gulps as if I’m having the time of my life.
The cold, bitter liquid tastes pretty flat after I’ve sneakily alchemized most of the alcohol out of it. When I grab a refill, I pause near the sink to make a joke to one of my gazillion cousins and propel more of those particles down the drain.
These are the last people I want to get actually drunk around.
They’re all watching too. Hoping to spot a weakness in me they can exploit, a misstep to give them an excuse to complain. It’s all fucking politics.
Is this what it’s like at the dinner parties the Devines and the Worths would host, just with less shouting and significantly fewer knives and pistols on the premises?
I don’t know if I’d like the snooty version better.
From what she said, Elodie hasn’t actually experienced much of either type. Not the Elodie who’s here now, the one who grabbed me by the heart and hasn’t let go.
If she grew up all wrong-side-of-the-tracks, she’d probably fit in with this crew better than her dad’s.
The thought passes through my head, and I immediately wince away from the idea of bringing her near any of these people. I don’t want my parents setting one eye on her. I don’t want any aunt, uncle, cousin, however many times removed, having a clue how much she matters to me.
Because the first thing they’d do is plot how to get their claws intoher.
I sway around on the dance floor with Gabe and Riley and a couple of the other cousins around my age. If some of my beer sloshes onto the floor or my clothes, oh well, it’ll look like I’m properly sloshed. Shiv won’t be a stranger to sticky floors.
Simone lurks in a corner, nursing a cooler and shooting mournful glances my way. Why does the one person here who might actually want to hang out have to hinge her interest on getting into my pants?
Not a situation I ever thought would be a problem, but here we are.
I trade my mostly empty mug for another full one and make one more circuit of the room, giving my hellos and thank yous to anyone I missed before. I’m just coming around to the back again, thinking I might give the jukebox a push for the hell of it, when Uncle Tony slings his arm around my shoulders and pulls me in like he’s about to share a secret.
“You shoulda been there for the beat-down this weekend, kid. We showed those Russian pricks good. What were you doing anyway?”
I was spying on a coffee shop, but that’s none of his business.
I skew my voice with a drunken slur. “Just taking care of some other stuff. What’s the deal with the Russians?”
I don’t really care that much, but it’ll make him happier if I let him talk a little. And I don’t remember hearing about recent problems with the local Russian mob.
It’d be good to know if there’s someone new I need to be extra careful not to get shot or stabbed by.
Tony grunts. “We got a tip they were gearing up to hitone of our spots. Can’t take that lying down. We hit ’em before they even got the chance. Ha!”
Huh. Mom and Dad don’t usually approve a smackdown over only hearsay.
I laugh along and make a show of supposedly chugging more beer. “Who’s giving us these good tips? We gotta talk to them more!”
“Oh, they’re definitely good. Same guy warned us about a couple other assholes trying to creep up on us too in the last month, and it all panned out. It’s because of them we caught those Triad fuckers I heard you put in their place!”
The Triad guys we jumped a few weeks ago seemed confused, but they were definitely intruding on territory known as ours. Maybe we have stumbled on a snitch who’s really in the know.
“Youtalked to this guy?” I ask, like I’m impressed he got the dirt.
“Ah, nah, just heard about it. Romina’s giving it all due attention now. You should have seen the arsenal on those Russians. Fuck, but we messed them up good.”
Romina is my mom. She probably knows more about this source than Tony does.
I’d rather not make it my problem anyway.
“Maybe I’ll be there next time.” I shrug Tony off as gently as I can and toss back an actual gulp of the beer. It turns my whole mouth bitter, but it’s better than worrying about who my parents might expect me to maul next.