The Marked Men 3-Book Collection: Rule, Jet, Rome. Jay Crownover
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their love just as much as Remy had. I wore a ridiculous outfit to work and put up with silly girls and drunk customers because Ayden deserved a solid roommate she could rely on. And mostly I acted like interacting with Rule, watching him plow his way through the greater population of young adult women in Denver, didn’t bother me and didn’t kill something inside me. And doing all these things day in and day out was starting to turn the little bits that were really me into a shadow.
I knew the reason I had initially agreed to go out with Gabe was because he, in a very vague sense, reminded me of Rule. He had dark hair and light eyes, and although he was preppy and clean-cut, he still had a little bit of mischief in him that just got past my normal reservations. I had known within the first few dates there was no spark—there never was. I was always looking for something, or rather someone, that wasn’t there. Gabe was polite and comfortable until he realized I didn’t want things to get physical. Six months was a long time to string someone along, I knew that, but it didn’t justify the bizarre obsessive behavior he was showing now, and it was just one more burden I felt I had to shoulder.
I was so ready to just let it all go. I changed into a pair of sweats and curled up on the bed to watch some Netflix. Knowing that Ayden wouldn’t be home from her shift until after two, I was left to pout alone. I should be out and about, should have a phone full of friends I could call to spend a rare Friday night off with, but I didn’t, and that was just sad. All I needed was a couple of cats and a pint of ice cream to make the pathetic picture complete. Sometime after my second romantic comedy and Chinese delivery I vowed to fully embrace whatever Ayden had in store for me for my birthday tomorrow because what I was doing now was depressing. My roomie was right; I needed some fun, needed to lighten up, and I was on board with however she decided to make that happen. I fell asleep watching yet another dorky girl get a fantastic makeover because for whatever reason the guy she longed for couldn’t see how beautiful she was under her glasses and messy hair.
I woke up the next morning to happy birthday texts from Rome and my father. As usual, there was nothing from my mom and I hated to admit I was sad that Margot didn’t send one. I decided to make breakfast and headed to the kitchen. I was surprised by a beautiful bouquet on the kitchen table and recoiled when I saw who the card was from. I was seriously going to have to do something about Gabe.
Ayden was an early riser and she went running every morning no matter how late she got in from work the night before. She motioned to the flowers with her mug and scowled. “They were on the porch when I got back from my run.”
“I think I might have to get a restraining order.”
“Isn’t his dad a judge or something?”
I sighed. “Yeah.” Getting Gabe to back off might be harder than I thought. “Do you want me to make breakfast?”
She shook her dark head and her eyes glittered at me with excitement. “No, I have the best birthday planned for you in the history of birthdays. First, we’re going to Lucile’s.”
I loved Lucile’s. It was a popular Cajun restaurant in Washington Park and probably one of the few places outside of New Orleans where you could find an honest-to-god beignet.
“Yay! Sounds good. What else is on the docket for today?”
“Shopping.”
I made a face because I hate shopping. I lived in a ridiculous uniform for work and expensive, name-brand clothes that my parents insist I wear because I’m supposed to be dressing for the job I want and not the job I have—apparently doctors of any sort don’t walk around in jeans and T-shirts even when they’re off the clock.
Seeing my face, she grinned evilly. “No, we aren’t going rich-girl shopping, we’re going normal, everyday college-girl shopping. We’re going to the mall, we’re going to my favorite thrift store, we’re going to that cool vintage store on Pearl Street, and you, my friend, are not allowed to spend more than fifty bucks on any one thing. There will be no two-hundred-dollar heels, no five-hundred-dollar cashmere sweater sets, and no perfectly tailored slacks that are hand-stitched by blind monks in the Andes or whatever. We’re just going to be two normal friends spending a day blowing our tips on useless crap.”
That actually sounded like fun and something I’d never done. “And then,” she said, her whiskey-tinted eyes widening dramatically, “we’re going to the salon and getting our hair done and mani-pedis. One of the girls in my inorganic chemistry class has this great hair—she looks like Rainbow Brite—she swears by this place. So we’re going to get all pretty, put on our new, normal-girl clothes, and go have dinner at that Brazilian place we’ve both been dying to try.”
It sounded awesome—all of it sounded awesome. I was about to launch myself at her in a huge hug of gratitude when she held up a hand. “I’m not done.” She disappeared into her room for a minute and came back out with a card in a pink envelope. “Then you are going to take this very cool, very necessary birthday present I got you, and come out with me. I don’t mean out to Dave and Buster’s or Old Chicago, I mean out out. I will cram a good time down your pretty little throat if it freaking kills me.”
I opened the card with mild trepidation. I didn’t know what she meant by out out. Inside the card was a shiny wrapped present that at first glance looked like a credit card. After I read her sweet birthday wishes I carefully pulled the paper off and gasped when I saw what was looking back up at me. “Ayd, I can’t use this.”
The ID had my face on it, my birthday—only one year older—and looked exactly like a Colorado driver’s license. In fact, it looked so much like the one in my wallet there was hardly any difference.
“Oh, yes you can. You’ve spent twenty years being everybody’s good little girl, and I’m sick of you killing yourself over it. Most girls your age go out, sneak into clubs, kiss boys, have sloppy one-night stands, get into ridiculous, drama-filled fights with their girlfriends, and you, Shaw, you don’t do any of that. Tonight you are taking that ID and coming out with me and you will act like every idiot twenty-year-old I know. We’re going to drink too much, act silly, and have fun—you deserve it. I can’t remember the last time I saw you smile or laugh. You’re letting your soul wither away trying to be someone you’re just not and I can’t stand by and watch it happen anymore.”
“I turn twenty-one next year.” I’m not sure why I thought that was a valid argument to all her more-than-accurate points, but for some reason it’s what popped out of my mouth.
She shook her dark head. “Who cares? You’re twenty today and you’re living like you’re fifty.” It stung because on the last trip to Brookside, Rule had said pretty much the same thing. With a sigh I remembered my resolution last night to just turn myself over to Ayden’s plan, to for once just let go. I tucked some hair behind my ears and squared my shoulders.
“Okay.”
Ayden looked up under raised eyebrows. “Okay?”
“Yep. Let’s do this. Let the birthday fun and debauchery commence.”
She squealed loud enough to make my ears hurt and rushed around the table to wrap me up in a hug that squeezed the life out of me. “Trust me, Shaw, you will never forget today.”
And she was right, because by the end of the night this birthday would prove to be life changing.
Breakfast was amazing. We stuffed ourselves so full of fried goodness that by the time we hit the mall I needed to do a few laps just to keep moving. I tried on a million pairs of jeans and ended up buying quite a few. I grabbed a pair of Chuck Taylors that I’d always wanted but had never had the nerve to buy because they would immediately be deemed inappropriate. I stocked up on boring old T-shirts and tank tops. At the thrift store I scooped up an awesome old-school leather jacket and a couple Western-style shirts with pearl buttons that I knew would look awesome with my new skinny jeans. At the vintage store I went a little crazier because I just fell in love with all the fifties- and sixties-style dresses. I looked like a character out of Mad Men in a few of them and like Bettie Page minus the height in a couple more. I bought a pair of heels that were peacock blue