“Sissy Mae Smith,” she ordered. “Act like ya got some damn sense.”
Mitch kept his grip on Sissy’s feet, afraid she’d get up and get into a full-on dogfight with her mother.
As quickly as she showed anger, Janie Mae just as quickly calmed down. She kissed Mitch on the forehead. “Hello, pretty kitty.”
Strange how Sissy’s mother had seen Mitch several times during the day, but this was the first time she’d greeted him ... and definitely the first time she’d kissed him. He got the distinct feeling he was being used here. Not that he minded. He actually liked the crazy She-wolf. Of course, not quite the same way he liked her daughter.
“Hi, Miss Janie.” Everyone called her Miss Janie, and Mitch was afraid to call her anything else.
She patted his cheek in that motherly way she had. “I met your momma. I just love her.”
Mitch blinked. “You do?” Even he had to admit his mother was not an easy woman to get along with. She was loud and raunchy and rude. But that didn’t mean anything to Mitch because the woman amazed him. Her dream had always been to own a high-end salon, but the Pride wouldn’t pay for that. They would, however, pay for her to go to nursing school. She ended up being a nurse for years, putting money away and taking stylist classes in her free time. It took her years, but eventually, she opened her own place and now had three of them in the Philadelphia area. With her own grit and determination, she’d moved the O’Neill Pride up in the ranks and had offered Mitch more than once to “help you get your ass in your own Pride.”
“She’s lovely. I’m planning a big end of summer party in August, and I invited her and that gorgeous baby sister of yours. I want you to come too. Okay?”
“You want us in Smithtown?”
“Oh, no.” Miss Janie shook her head. “We’ll be having it here somewhere. Lord, son, I’d never bring you down to Smithtown.” She gripped his face with one hand, long fingers on both sides of his face, and squeezed until his lips pursed out. His mother often did the same thing. Was it a maternal instinct like breast feeding? “This face is simply too gorgeous to have it ruined like that.”
Mitch laughed, and she patted his cheek and walked away.
When he looked at Sissy, she was glaring at him like he’d betrayed her somehow. “What?”
How did she do that? Sissy was thirty-one, and her momma still had a way of making her feel like a twelve-year-old. All the wedding planning had been kind of fun until her mother had practically moved to New York for the final preparations. For a month, she’d had to tolerate that woman on a daily basis. And every day, Bobby Ray had to talk her out of taking the first plane to Japan or Australia or anywhere her momma wasn’t—and that they legally allowed Sissy to enter.
It wasn’t that she didn’t love her momma. She did. But did she have to make Sissy look and feel so small? And did she have to do it in front of Mitch? True, doing it in front of any man was mean, but in front of Mitch, it was particularly bitchy as far as Sissy was concerned.
“All right, Shaw.” Trying to get her mind off Mitch, Sissy motioned to the three-hundred-plus crowd at her brother’s wedding. “I’m on the hunt for my next conquest. See anyone with potential?”
“Sure.” Mitch glanced around and pointed at a cheetah across the room. A female. “What about her?”
“What is wrong with you?”
“Don’t give me that tone. Have you even tried it?”
“Mitchell—”
“How do you know if you’ll like it or not if you haven’t tried it ... with me watching ... and filming?”
“Forget I asked.”
Sissy ran her finger over his tattoo. A four-inch green shamrock. “Could you be more Irish?” she laughed.
“Not really.” He grabbed her hand. “Come on. We’re dancing.”
“To the Go-Go’s?” Sissy had successfully managed only two dances, and both had been to slow songs. It wasn’t that she couldn’t dance but come on! The Go-Go’s? Did these wild dogs not have any music from the twenty-first century? Or even the nineties?
“We’re gonna rock out.” He dragged her toward the dance floor, stopping briefly so she could knock back the shot of tequila the waiter brought.
Once on the dance floor, she watched in horror as Mitch did something some people—no one she knew, of course—would call dancing.
“Mitchell,” she whined, “this is just embarrassing.” Mitch stopped, looking around at all the wild dogs dancing. Even the bride was doing the pogo like she was at a 1985 prom.
“As compared to what?”
He tragically had a point.
Mitch walked up behind his brother and slapped him on the back. The thing about Brendon was that Mitch didn’t have to hold back. His brother didn’t go flying across a room or snap like a twig from one little hit. Instead, Bren didn’t move a step, glancing at Mitch over his shoulder and asking, “What?”
“Are we having a good time?”
From the balcony overlooking the dance floor, Bren gazed down with that intense stare of his. He always looked like he was sorting out the world’s problems. Finally, he answered, “Yes. I am.” Twenty minutes to answer a simple question ...
Mitch leaned back against the railing. “You and Gwen getting along?” he asked.
“Of course. You know I love Gwenie.”
“And Marissa—”
“Takes a little longer to warm up to people,” Brendon explained about his twin.
“Gwen’s thinking about coming out here to visit in a couple of months. Maybe she could—”
“She’ll stay at the hotel.”
Mitch opened his mouth to say something, and Bren cut in, practically snarling, “And if you mention paying for that room, I will toss your ass off the balcony.”
Mitch looked over the rail and gauged the distance. It wouldn’t kill him, but it would hurt, so best not to push it.
“I just don’t want some people—I won’t mention any names—but some people who look like you, share similar DNA, and came out of the same womb ten minutes before you did accusing me of taking advantage.”
Now Bren laughed. “I wish you’d stop taking what some people say to you at face value. Besides, the hotels are as much yours as ours, and if you want to put up guests in one of the top floor suites that go for ten grand a night, that’s up to you.” Bren sipped his beer. Unlike Mitch, he went for one of those obscure label beers. “Besides, Mitch, Gwen is family.”
“You’re not related.”
“Your sister is my sister, shithead. If she ever needs anything, all she has to do is ask.”
Mitch nodded and felt relief wash through him. He’d been worrying about who would watch out for Gwen if—when—anything happened to him. Knowing Brendon would do it for him made Mitch feel more relieved than he could say.
“Thanks, bruh.”
“Shut up, Mitch,” Brendon growled.
And Mitch smiled.
Sissy held up her shot glass of tequila, and Ronnie did the same. “To good friends, good times, and the hope that we never have to do this again.”
Ronnie laughed as they touched glasses, then they took their shots in one gulp. Sissy kind of shuddered. Damn, that was good tequila. But no more. Not tonight. As much as she might want to get loaded so she could drown out the neverending criticism coming from her momma, Sissy had promised herself—
“Why do you drink that?” her momma snapped from behind her. “You know you can’t handle it.”
“My hope is that’ll blind me to you still being here.” Sissy motioned to the bartender for another shot, and she didn’t even have to look to know Ronnie had made a desperate escape. Not that she blamed her. Ronnie had her own mother to deal with. “You are still leaving tomorrow, right, Momma?”
A glass of champagne in her hand, Janie Mae Lewis rested against the bar. Her momma never had to try to look scary. She simply was. While at the same time, pleasant looking. No one had ever accused Sissy of being pleasant ... ever. Lookswise, she took a
fter her daddy’s side. Dark hair, light brown eyes—as opposed to her momma’s amber ones—and a square jaw.
The other Lewis sisters weren’t nearly as hard looking, nor did they work Sissy’s last nerve the way her mother did.
Mostly because her mother had the tendency to say things like, “You know if you tried not glaring so much, you could look real pretty.”
Sissy let out a breath at her momma’s words, remembering her promise to her daddy. She wouldn’t fight her momma no matter how much she wanted to. “I’m sure somewhere in there, you’ve hidden a compliment. So thank you for that.”
“I just want you to be happy, Sissy Mae.” And Sissy felt so proud she kept that snort all to herself. “And you won’t be happy if you keep scaring off every male that comes your way. I mean look how happy your brother is. And Jessie Ann’s already pregnant. So they’ll be happy with a passel of kids, and you’ll be their pups’ favorite aunt. You can visit them during the holidays, and maybe their dog will sleep on your feet at night.”
Sissy turned, ready to tell her mother to shut the fuck up when someone slammed into her from behind.
“Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry.” The lioness had gotten a bit of champagne on Sissy’s dress and was desperately wiping at it. “I’m so so sorry. Let me help you get that clean.” She smiled at Janie Mae. “I swear, I’m such a clumsy ass, Janie. Let me get her cleaned up. We’ll be right back.” Then she was dragging Sissy out of the ballroom and off into the darkness until she stopped at a marble bench.
“Sit, baby-girl. Sit.”
Sissy did, and that’s when she felt the wave of pure rage wash over her. If this lioness hadn’t pulled her away, Sissy would have broken her promise to her father—and possibly ended up going to jail for the night—and she’d never have forgiven herself.
“Easy. Just breathe. Here,” a firm hand against her back pushed her down until her head was below her knees, “breathe, baby-girl. Just breathe. Deep ones in and out until the ringing stops.”
How did she know there was a ringing in her ears? Because there definitely was ringing.
After a good ten minutes or so, Sissy finally felt strong enough to sit up. The lioness sat next to her, smoking a Marlboro Light, and Sissy got a good look at her.
“Miss O’Neill?” Mitch’s mother. Sissy had only had a chance to say a quick hello when she’d passed her in the Gaming Room. The lioness had been cleaning out some wolves, and Sissy had left her to her work.
“Oh, darlin’, call me Roxanne. Or Roxy. It’s not my real name, mind you. A nice Irish girl gets a nice Irish name. But do you know how many friggin’ Patricia Maries there are at Mass every Sunday? So when I was nine, I decided I wanted to be called Roxanne.” She grinned, and in that moment, she looked just like her son. “One of my aunts was a big reader, and when I told everybody at Sunday dinner that I was now Roxanne, she asked me if that was because of that book, Cyrano something. And I told her—and the priest who was having dinner at our house—that I got the name from the hooker who worked the corner near the ice cream parlor me and my sisters hung out at after school.”
Sissy burst out laughing while Roxy shook her head. “Let me tell you, baby-girl, that night, I did not sleep on my back. My ma tore my ass up.” She shrugged. “But everybody still calls me Roxy.”
She reached into her small Gucci purse and pulled out a half-used pack of cigarettes. “Here.”
Sissy shook her head. “I quit.” About twelve years ago, in fact.
“Do you want to get through the rest of the night without killing your own mother?”
Realizing she was right, Sissy took a cigarette from the pack and let Roxy light it up for her with her gold lighter.
As Sissy sat back and smoked her cigarette, she looked closely at Mitch’s mother. Like all lionesses, she was sort of gold all over. But her hair had lighter blond streaks and was combed out so it looked like a sexy wild mane. She wore a tight gold dress that may have been a few years too young for her and gold designer shoes that probably cost a fortune. Although Sissy wouldn’t know much about that since she was a boot girl. Work boots, cowboy boots, biker boots, whatever. If they were boots, Sissy wore them.
Mitch’s momma was beautiful, but there was a wildness to her that made Sissy take to her instantly. None of that stuck-up lioness shit she’d seen from the Llewellyns and the other East Coast Prides attending the wedding. This woman was classless and tasteless, and Sissy knew in that instant that she adored her.
“I gotta say, baby-girl, my boy talks about you all the time. But the conversation is definitely weird.” She turned a bit and looked at Sissy. “Did he really give you a wedgie the other day?”
Sissy laughed, remembering their tussle during the rehearsal dinner. She thought her momma was going to have a stroke she was so embarrassed. “Uh ... yeah. But I kind of deserved it.”
“So you and my boy ... uh ...” She wiggled perfectly waxed eyebrows, and Sissy laughed harder.
“God, no.”
Now the lioness looked insulted. “Why the hell not? Is my boy not good enough for you?”
“Miss O’Neill—”
“Roxy.”
“Roxy, trust me when I say that there are few Smiths who can accuse anyone of not being good enough for them. But we’re buddies. Friends.”
“Let me tell you something, baby-girl. My Mitchy—”
Mitchy?
“—I love him more than any woman can love her son. But me and his daddy, well ... let’s just say that was more about obligation to the Pride than any great love affair. But my pretty little Gwen ... me and her daddy ...” Then she purred. Seriously. Purred.
“Let’s just say I’ve never gotten it like that before and not since. Gwenie is my love child. And that’s what you want. Someone who makes you feel that way.”
“What happened with Gwen’s father?” Sissy knew something must have happened because Roxy spoke of him in the past tense. And she had no idea how Mitch made her “feel,” and Sissy was okay with that. No use analyzing everything. That had never been her style.
Roxy shrugged shoulders that looked strong and powerful. Typical swamp cat and probably why Roxy didn’t look scared of anybody. Why would you be when you’re built like a tank?
“I screwed that up. He had obligations to his family in Hong Kong and I was too scared to leave my Pride or Philly.” Gold eyes locked on her. “You weren’t afraid to leave your Pack, though, huh? Mitch says you’ve been damn near everywhere.”
“Smithtown has too many Alphas and not enough territory.”
“Plus, you didn’t want to have to take down your own mother so you could be in charge.”
“Like I could.”
“Oh, you could. And she knows it.” Roxy moved a little closer. “Take it from someone who does it to her own sisters, baby-girl. She does what she does to keep you off balance.”
“But I’m not in Smithtown anymore.”
“But until you settle down, until you have a mate and your mate is some place other than Smithtown, she’ll always worry you might move back. For good. When you meet someone as strong as you, you’ve gotta find other ways to keep control.”
She took another drag from her cigarette before carelessly tossing it. Sissy’s had already burned down, nearly singeing her fingers. “So when you gonna tell her you don’t want kids?”
Sissy froze. “Who says I don’t want kids?”
“Look, when someone mentions having kids to someone who wants to have kids, you see all sorts of longing and shit in their eyes. You know what I saw in your eyes when your mother mentioned kids? Impatience.”
Sissy laughed so hard she started coughing, and Roxy nodded her head. “I thought so.”
She patted Sissy’s knee and leaned in close, whispering, “Just FYI, baby-girl, but Mitchy doesn’t want kids either.”
“Stop.” Sissy pushed Roxy’s granite shoulder with a chuckle. “Please stop. And shouldn’t you be trying to hook him up with a nice Pride female or
a full-human? I thought most cats would rather see their cubs with a full-human than a canine.”
“I want my Mitchy to be happy, and he won’t be happy in anyone’s Pride. And he’s much too good natured to be around other cats.” She took out another cigarette, her face getting serious. “I worry about him, though. He’s not sleeping. Or eating enough. I can tell.”
“It’s this upcoming trial and everything. And now there’s the bounty on his head.”
Legs crossed, eyes focused on the sky, Roxy pursed her lips. “He’s had a bounty on his head. That’s why he came to New York, right? A few grand?”
“I think they raised it. Based on what I heard, it’s mighty.”
“How do you know this?”
“I was nosey and listened in to his conversation.”
Roxy nodded approval. “Good girl. What else did you hear?”
“He’s heading back to Philly on Monday.”
“And you’re going to miss him.”
Sissy answered honestly. “He’s my best friend, Roxy. Next to Ronnie Lee. So of course I’m gonna miss him.”
“I tried to talk him out of this, you know? Tried to convince him to keep his mouth shut and pretend he didn’t see anything. I’m from the neighborhood. I know what happens to snitches.”
“He’s not a snitch,” Sissy snapped, automatically defending him. “He’s a cop doing his job. And he’s doing a good job. Putting his life at risk to take down scumbags like Petey O’Farrell takes guts most of us don’t have.” Sissy took a breath to calm herself down. “You’re his mother, and I respect that,” she finished, “but watch what you say. I don’t want Mitch hurt because someone’s being careless.”
That gold gaze watched Sissy for a long time, and when Roxy moved, Sissy braced herself, expecting to get punched. Instead, Roxy kissed her forehead. Almost on the same spot her father had. What was going on with everyone today? Was it the wedding? Did it affect people the way funerals did?
“You are a darling, wonderful girl, and I’m so glad you’re Mitch’s”—she paused for a moment, but it said volumes—“friend.”