By the time we return to the pack house after a day of manicures, pedicures, window shopping and going into more clothing stores than I can count, the sun has set, and streaks of blue have begun to paint the sky.
We pull up through the gates, into the driveway and stop near the front doors, where it’ll be easier for Sayah to carry the gazillions of clothes she’s bought; half of which are basic white tees.
Kate is singing along loudly and off key to the indie song playing as the car slows to a halt. She takes off her seatbelt, glances out the window. “Oh oh, someone’s in trouble.”
I follow her gaze to the front porch, and there I find Dmitri standing with his arms crossed. He kinda looks menacing. Maybe it’s the stance and the crumpled shirt; sleeves folded, but skin still inked with tat
