Incendiary

Incendiary by Kathryn Kelly Page B

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Authors: Kathryn Kelly
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pregnant. After Cassandra led Helen to believe I backed out of an arrangement between her and Parnell because of Georgie, Helen sought to avenge her daughter.
    I believed I could walk away and not care about Georgie’s pregnancy. Misery followed me around and the only time I didn’t suffer was when I was onstage or when I fucked. Through music, I spent my passion and emotion. In pussy, I shed my loneliness and my unending need for Georgiana.
    The snick of a closing door brings me out of my thoughts. Amika is gone, so I head to my closet for clothes. The luggage I had with me on tour was sent here, so I don’t have to worry about a new wardrobe for however long I’m required to remain in Houston. Under my father’s watchful eye.
    Fuck.
    Once I dress and shove away the irony of my predicament, I walk to the sitting room and find the cart holding silver chafing dishes. As I remove the lid, one of the containers slide and the Sterno flame crackles at the bottom. It reminds me of the fire at one of my concerts and I grimace at the misplaced memory.
    Resigning from the band was past due. I fought a losing battle for months.
    I slam the lid down again, shoving my hand through my hair, the whiff of mint, garlic, braised lamb, rosemary, and truffles making my stomach growl once more. I prepare my plate, then set it on the tasseled silk placemat. Wondering why the fuck I sent Amika away, I go to the bar and pour myself a scotch.
    Drink in hand, I return to the table and sit, ignoring the daunting silence. Cutting into the tender lamb, I shovel it into my mouth. The taste explodes on my tongue, satisfying me. I tear through it and add a second piece to my plate, where everything else is untouched.
    A knock sounds on my door.
    “Come in,” I grunt, in no mood for the company of any motherfucker currently at the house.
    Maitland walks in and shuts the door. Though he’s still capable of fashioning a man bun with the hair sitting on top, each side of his head is freshly shaved.
    “What?” I ask when he stares at me like a dickhead.
    Glowering, he digs in the pocket of his board shorts and tosses me a key. “Your Volante is in the garage.”
    I taste the basmati rice, flavored with saffron and chives. It’s delicious. World travel is a primary reason I’m able to identify ingredients, something I enjoyed teaching Georgie during our stay in Denver.
    Glaring at the roasted baby zucchini because I can’t escape thoughts of her, I suck my teeth. “Did my Aston drive itself here?”
    My fucking car is a much easier topic than Georgiana. It’s a cut-and-dry topic. She’s never been so easy.
    Maitland’s blue eyes narrow on me. “I flew to Denver three days ago and drove it here,” he explains with a touch of indignation. He scratches his jaw and my eyes stray to the enormous gauge in his earlobe. He’ll have deformed earlobes for the rest of his fucking life. Knowing me and my train of thought, he scowls. “Fuck, Sloane. I don’t get high anymore. I stopped years ago. Long before you did.”
    “Said this, heard that,” I point out, resentment rising in me. “You must’ve known I’d bond out before me, so you wanted to do me a favor and get my car.”
    We’d gotten past the bullshit. During the tour so rudely interrupted by my arrest, we’d hit all types of music records. Moot point, right now. Someone has to take the brunt of my blame and anger.
    “It’s a mystery why you went through so much fucking trouble on my behalf.”
    Fists balled, he looms in front of me, only a small dinner table separating us. “Dude, fuck you.”
    Not wanting to fight just as I didn’t want to fuck, I sigh. “Thank you for my car. Now, get the fuck out of my face.”
    “What the fuck are you angriest about? Georgie? The band? Your daughter? I didn’t make you leave the fucking band,” he reminds me as if I don’t know. “You quit.”
    Standing, I stalk around to him. We’re nose-to-nose, in perfect range to pummel each other.

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