“How do you know her?” I asked.
“We went to high school together. Most of us did, or we met in college, and the ring rippled out from there. Other friends. Significant others. You know how it is.”
“Sure,” I said, having no idea how it was. I could count my close friends on one hand, and I’d never had a crew, or at least not like this. I didn’t call them when I needed something. Hell, I didn’t even call Billy—I just handled it. But Stella seemed to collect friends and people, and what an odd and beautiful thing that was.
“How long have you and Ash been friends?”
I glanced over at where he’d been standing to find him gone. I huffed a laugh. “Ten years.”
“High school?”
“College.” My smile tugged higher on one side. “We went to Columbia together.”
She squeezed me tighter. “Oh, you’re one of those people.”
“Now who’s the snob?” I teased.
With a laugh, she said, “Come on, smartypants. Let’s get you a drink.”
Stella took my hand and led me away, affording me a view of the back of her, which was bare all the way down to the small of her back other than the tiny strings that kept her dress on. The thread ran over her shoulders and down her back, through loops at her waist to tie in a bow, the ends swaying with the weight of little tassels.
One tug, and she’d come undone.
I made it an objective to do just that.
We wound our way through the house, greeting people along the way, and when we made it to the kitchen, she poured me a scotch. Once the glass was in my hand, she guided me into another room I hadn’t seen, one colored in navy and emerald and gold. People lingered and lounged, and we found a blue velvet loveseat and sank into it. Into each other.
Her head rested in the crook of my neck, my arm around her waist and hand high on her thigh.
“How was work?” she asked.
“Long, but I’m glad it’s over. How was your day?”
“Well, I spent most of it bitching about that fucking article Vagabond published. Did you hear about it?”
My heart tripped. “I caught a little something about it, yeah.”
“Can you believe the nerve? God, whoever did this better hope I never figure out who they are.”
I frowned. “It wasn’t a bad article.”
“No, which is why I might spare their life. But someone infiltrated us. They snuck in and wrote up a piece that went viral. And sure, they might love us now, but what about later? Are they going to turn on us? Villainize us like Warren does? Worse—if a reporter can get in, who’s to say a cop can’t?”
“You just jumped conclusions so fast, I’m dizzy.”
She huffed, sitting up and turning to face me. She brought a knee up to rest on the couch back, her hands in her lap to keep her dress down, but her leg was exposed completely. I tried not to stare. It wasn’t easy.
“I mean it. The implications are huge. It means someone in the group betrayed us. We have a mole. I don’t feel like I’m crazy to be upset about that.”
“Nobody said you were crazy. Maybe a little paranoid, but not crazy.” When she gave me a look, I chuckled. “What I read of that article was a salute, not a teardown. Nothing about it felt aggressive or predatory. Did it?”
She nearly pouted. “No, it didn’t. I actually thought it was beautiful when I finally calmed down enough to read it. But you have to understand, Levi—our walls were breached. And with Warren sniffing around, it’s not insane to think he’ll put in a mole of his own.”
“I get it. I do.”
A dramatic sigh. “Did you read all the bullshit about Warren yesterday and today? They searched everyone on their way out, even had drug dogs, for God’s sake. They collected everyone’s spare joints and coke and whatever, arrested everyone they could for whatever they could. But no one even had over an ounce on them. There weren’t any dealers there. I mean, walk into any bar in New York, and somebody has an eighth on them. It’s ridiculous.”
“What’s his problem?”
“The million-dollar question. It’s got to be political. Or personal. Or for money.”
“You’ve got it narrowed down then,” I joked.
But she sighed. “I wish somebody knew. I’d love to crack that so we could put a stop to it.”
“Maybe we can sleuth it out. Any of them know anything?” I jerked my chin at the crowd as a guy got behind the grand piano in the corner and started playing a swingy jazz riff, a cigarette hanging from his lips and his fingers dancing across the keys. Those standing started to wiggle and sway a little to the music.
She turned to them, smiling, and nestled back into my side to watch. “I don’t think so, no more than you or me. It adds to the excitement of the parties to think we could get raided by the Morality Police at any moment. Everything feels forbidden. Taboo, you know? Between the exclusivity of it, the secretive nature of the thing, and the threat of prosecution, it’s a real rush.”
“Figured that out the other night when we were running from the cops.”
Stella laughed. “I wasn’t ready for the party to end, but I can’t pretend like that wasn’t fun.” She paused. Sighed. “But I don’t know if we’re going to be safe for long. One little fuckup, and Warren is going to make a serious example out of somebody. Nobody wants that. All we want is to … I don’t know. Connect. To be a part of something, like I said before. And what a thing to belong to, isn’t it?”
“A very bright thing.”
“A very bright thing indeed.”
“So who are all these people? I recognize some of them, but others …”
“Well,” she started, “over there are the Cooke sisters, Juno and Nixie. Their father manages hedge funds and has more money than God. When Jared Leto dumped Juno, she piled up a bunch of his ugly old man sweaters in the sidewalk in front of his house and set it on fire. Barely got away before the cops came. I heard Jared wouldn’t come down, just screamed What the fuck? at her and pinged her with ice cubes from a second-story window until they heard sirens.”
“Charming,” I said around a laugh.
“Over there is Tuesday Morrison. Her dad is—”
“The bronze sculptor. He just had a huge exhibit at The MoMA.”
“The very one. I swear, she got suspended every couple of weeks for something. Vandalism mostly. But she’d always get back in after her dad appealed to the dean, citing artistic expression. I don’t know how spray painting the lockers with Dean Hensley is a bag of dicks—surrounded by a dozen illustrations of phalluses with hairy balls—could be considered art, but there it is. You’ve got Poe Nelson and Scout Neil—kid actors from Nickelodeon. Atticus Abrams, behind the piano. His dad is—”
“Remy Abrams. His coverage of Desert Storm is one of the reasons I picked up photography.”
“Some of them are famous on their own merit. But mostly, we’re trust-fund kids.” She paused. “Does that offend you?”
“That everyone here has more money than I’ll make in my entire life?”
“That we’re not … I don’t know. Normal.”