Retail Therapy by Roz Bailey Page A

over my shoulder but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.
    â€œIt’s just so typical,” she said, snapping a corn chip in half. “I think my father called in his spies.”

12
    Alana
    W hen I saw them walk in, I was so annoyed that I considered slipping out the back door of the restaurant. Please! To send them here to watch me now—it was all so controlling, I wanted to barrel through the crowd at the door and pummel Trevor on his chest.
    However, I have always been conscious of the image I cut in society, and my impeccable reputation does not come from sneaking out of establishments—save for the one time when I was aiding the escape of a well-known rock star who shall remain nameless. But I was only twenty then, and he was incredibly gorgeous, and sometimes you have to compromise a little and know that you’re on a roller coaster ride that’s going to end, but not without a thrill of satisfaction.
    â€œWhere are the spies?” Hailey hissed as she studied the people waiting in the reception area.
    â€œJust my cousin Trevor and his friends. I’m sure my father sent him to keep an eye on me and report back.” I gritted my teeth. “I’m going to scream. Can I scream here?” The restaurant was crowded now, every table filled, and with the festive acoustic guitar music playing over the sound system, I wasn’t sure anyone would notice an isolated shout of anguish.
    â€œI remember Trevor,” Hailey said. “He’s the party animal, right?”
    â€œBig coke hound. Partied his way into rehab a few times. His mama, my Aunt Nessie, even sprang for the Betty Ford Clinic, but it didn’t stick: he fell into the cocaine again and nearly got himself a year in jail.” I had to admit, he didn’t look the druggy type tonight, his face a little more filled out, his dark eyes mellow instead of that hopped-up, nervous, glassy appearance. He wore a fine gray suit with a darker gray shirt that complemented his dark brown skin. Trevor is tall and lean, with the mile-high stature of a pro basketball player without that stretched-out look.
    At the moment, he was flirting with the hostess, who seemed charmed by Trevor and his right-hand man, Xavier Goodman. Let me tell you something about Xavier; if you give him an inch, that brother wants a yard. He is a pushy, smooth-talking piece of work who makes it his daily mission to charm the panties off sweet young things. Consider X a living example of the damage a pretty face can do: give a man perfect teeth, dimples, and sympathetic eyes, and he will never bother to use the brain in his head.
    â€œDo you recognize his friends?” Hailey asked.
    â€œThat caramel cool brother with the killer smile is Xavier Goodman. He calls himself a comedian, but I beg to differ.”
    â€œI think I’ve seen him on HBO,” Hailey said.
    â€œOh, he’d love to hear that. And the third dude is a sweetheart. I adore Kyle. He’s always polite and witty and dressed to kill. I don’t get why he hangs out with those two losers, but he sticks around for some reason.”
    As we talked, Trevor spotted us at our table. He made a motion to join us, but I shook my head and swiped my hand over my neck in a cutting gesture.
    But did Trevor listen?
    He was already pushing past the hostess, borrowing a chair from a nearby table, and tucking into the head of our four-seat table. “I should have known you’d be out doing the party thing on Cinco de Mayo!”
    â€œRight.” I gave him a cold look as he kissed me on the cheek. “Pretend it’s a coincidence.”
    Bulldozing over my comment, he turned to Hailey and extended his hand. “Hi, I’m Trevor Marshall-Hughs, Alana’s cousin. Haven’t we met before? You do look familiar, sweet pea. These are my friends, Kyle Dexter and Xavier Goodman. Like to call him X-man, if you know what I mean. I hope you don’t mind if we join