“Excuse me,” he says tightly, spinning on his heel and stalking away away.
Half a second later, Denise makes a strangled sound in her throat. “I’m just going to go to the powder room,” she stammers, and follows after him.
Striker squeezes my waist. I try not to giggle, half-mortified, half-gleeful.
“If you two will excuse me for a second,” Striker continues, nodding at Mr. Hadley, “I’m gonna go grab myself another drink. Can I entrust my date with you for a moment, sir?”
“Certainly, my boy,” Fletcher chortles. “She’s safe with me.”
Striker gives me a wink and moves off to the bar.
“Well, that was a little awkward for a moment, wasn’t it?” Fletcher says merrily. “I’m sorry to say I had no idea you and Mark had split.”
“It’s fine, really.” I smile widely, the champagne finally starting to take effect. “Mark and I hadn’t been announcing our separation publicly, but we decided it was time.”
“I must say, divorce is a nasty business. I hope there’s no tension between you,” Fletcher continues.
“Not at all, I assure you,” I lie.
“Well, good. I’d hate to think that my financial adviser was treating his spouse — or ex-spouse — poorly. Especially because he’s such a miracle worker. I’ve been bragging about how much money Mark is making me to everyone I know, referring clients to him left and right.”
“Is that right?”
“Oh, yes. It really is quite amazing — I don’t know how he does it.” Fletcher chuckles, then leans in, lowering his voice. “Confidentially, I don’t know if I’d have the strength to divorce someone who was making me this much money, no matter what the circumstances.”
“I— I’m glad to hear that,” I stammer, trying to mask my confusion at his words. As far as I know, Mark has always been reasonably competent at his job — but if he’s doing so well right now, why would he have needed to borrow from our joint investments to pay of his great uncle’s property tax bill? Surely his clients’ successes should be translating into big payoffs for him, too, shouldn’t they? It doesn’t make sense.
I’m spared having to continue the conversation, though, as Striker comes up to rejoin us seconds later, a refreshed drink in hand. Mr. Hadley chats with us a bit more, then moves off as Miranda Fortier steps up onto the stage, welcomes us all to the gala, and tells us that we have half an hour to peruse the silent auction before dinner is served.
24
Striker
We stick around at the gala for as long as we can stand it.
We wander around the silent auction, and Ember bids on a few things, including spa package and a gift basket of candles and shit. Just for laughs, we bid on one of the grand prizes: a fancy vacation package for two to some fancy resort in the Turks and Caicos, which I think are some islands in the Caribbean or something. We eat a shitty dinner, at a table filled with stiffs. I even take her out on the dance floor for a couple dances afterwards, just to see the steam coming out of Panty’s ears.
The whole time, it’s pretty fucking obvious that all eyes are on us — or at least all the eyes of the people who knew Ember and Panty as a couple. Curious glances and outright stares start to accumulate. Ember handles it like a champ, but as the evening wears on, I can see a line of tension forming in her forehead. Eventually, she leans over to me and tells me in a whisper that she wants to make a break for it.
“Don’t you wanna stick around and find out whether you won any of your bids?” I ask.
She huffs out a laugh. “I doubt it. The people who are here make a big show out of their generosity. Miranda reads out the winners’ names at the end of the evening. I guarantee you, there are lots of guests who would pay quadruple what I bid to be publicly acknowledged like that.”
“Damn,” I deadpan. “I was really counting on that Turks and Caicos trip.”
As I guide her out of the ballroom, hand pressed against the small of her back, I catch Panty staring daggers at us from over behind a pillar, where he’s talking to a bunch of silver-haired geezers. I shift my body between him and Ember so she doesn’t see him. I get the Mercedes back from the valet, and settle Ember in the passenger seat. My pack of smokes is still sitting on the dash where I left them, and I grab it.
“You mind?” I ask her, holding it up.
“Actually, could I bum one?” she asks.
“Really?” I raise a brow at her. “Didn’t know you smoked.”
“I don’t. I used to.” She makes a face. “Mark made me quit. He said it was trashy. Unbecoming of a woman in my position.”
“What position is that?” I pull two out of the pack, light them both, hand one to her.
“Wife of an ‘important person’.” She puts the words in air quotes.
“Not an important person in your own right?” I scowl. “Shit, you’re a lawyer. That seems plenty damn impressive to me.”
“Nope. A lawyer is a great catch as a girlfriend. But as a wife, less so. I was supposed to quit working once I got pregnant,” she tells me. “Except I never got pregnant.”
“Sounds like Panty spent a fuck of a lot of time deciding what you were supposed to do.”
She takes a long drag on the cigarette. “Lord, that tastes good. Too good. Promise me that after tonight, you won’t give me another one, even if I beg.”
The words just slip out: “Hearing you beg, I wouldn’t promise anything, sweetheart.”
In the silence that follows, I hear the soft hitch of her breath.
Yeah, that probably wasn’t the smartest thing to say.
I put the car in gear, pull away from the curb. We both pretend the last ten seconds never happened.
“Striker,” Ember murmurs after a moment. “Would you mind taking me for a drink somewhere, instead of going straight home?”
“You’re not tired?”
“I guess I’m a little wound up,” she admits. “I just don’t feel like going home yet, I guess.”
“Sure.” As long as she’s in that sexy as fuck dress, Ember can ask me pretty much anything she wants and I won’t say no. “Where to?”
She gives me a quirk of her lips. “I have just the place.”
“This ain’t exactly my scene,” I remark as we stroll in. “But hell, at least I’m dressed for it.”
The lobby of this expensive-ass hotel is already the nicest goddamn room I’ve ever been in, and we haven’t even gotten to the bar yet. For the second time tonight, I’ve just handed the keys to the borrowed Mercedes from Twisted Pipes to a valet, who treats me with practiced fake respect, like I’m some kind of fuckin’ rich prick.
Ember laughs low in her throat as she walks next to me, holding onto my offered arm. “Not mine, either, if you can believe it,” she says as she points toward the bar. “Mark used to take me here when we were first dating, to impress me. But the thing is, they make a killer gin martini. And right now, I need one.”
I signal to the bartender, who makes a ‘sit anywhere’ gesture. I expect Ember to choose a booth on account of her dress, but instead she goes to the far end of the bar and slides up onto a stool. I take the one next to her. Ember orders her martini. I ask for a coke.