I rested my cheek against the silky skin of Paige’s back, inhaling the alluring mix of stale smoke and lotion. She stirred, her blue hair dragging against the pillow like a peacock feather. I didn’t fear the awkward goodbye that would inevitably follow, or her feelings. My genuine curiosity for what she would do with her life after me settled in the nonexistent space between us. I hooked my leg over hers, the full, smooth limb sticking out of the expensive wrinkled sheet that only covered her perfectly curved ass—the same one that arched and bucked against my touch until the sun cast pastels across the sky.

“I’m awake,” she whispered. “I’m afraid if I move, it will be over.”

I placed the camera in front of her face and clicked the display button, showing her the picture of her hand. Everything from her arm out was blurry, but her blue hair couldn’t be confused with anyone else. I was prepared for her to ask me to delete it, but she reached back to caress my face.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Can I keep it?”

“Yes. Is it over now?”

“It’s over,” I said. “I’ll have José drive you home.”

“Who’s José?” she asked. She sat up and stretched, not at all upset.

“An employee.”

She smiled, her sleepy, content twin pools disappearing behind her lashes several times before she focused. “I’ll get dressed.”

She hopped out of bed, pulling on her skinny jeans and sweater, and then her boots.

“Breakfast is downstairs. Maricela will get you anything you need.”

Paige nodded, holding her purse to her chest. She really wasn’t going to ask me to join her. She wasn’t going to ask anything.

“Maybe I’ll see you around,” she said.

I propped my head with my hand. “I won’t get that lucky twice.”

She didn’t try to hide that she was flattered. Her cheeks pinked, and she carried her coat out the door, disappearing down the hall. Her footsteps were barely audible as she descended the stairs, but my father’s voice carried when he greeted her.

I settled against the headboard, waiting patiently and without fear of his inquisition. He would be angry about the cleaning bill, but more so about his wrecked Peter Max painting than the money. He didn’t love anything more than he loved me, and that was fortunate because my mood swings and acting out had cost him millions. The Ferrari, the fire in his partner’s Italian villa, and the legal bills—also known as bribes—to keep me out of jail.

He stopped abruptly in my doorway, as if he were a vampire who had to be invited to enter.

“Hi, Daddy. How was your trip?”

“Ellison,” he began, his voice thick with contrived disappointment. “We’ve come home early to chat with you. It’s not that we don’t love you, bunny…”