“Mom said the last thing she really remembers is taking a drink that was brought up to you in the VIP.”
“To me?” I ask, confused. All night, drinks were brought to the VIP section to each and every one of us. More than once, I turned a drink away because I didn’t want to get drunk. “Are you telling me that drink was meant for me?”
“Sweetheart.” Gaston captures me around the waist as I attempt to pull away from him.
“I cannot believe this.”
“Security at the club has already gone over the footage from the time you entered the club to when the paramedics showed up,” he says, and I notice his jaw is clenching in anger. “I know who laced the drink, and the police have already been notified and are probably already arresting her.”
“Who? Why would someone do something like that?” I ask, and his eyes close. I grab hold of his biceps and squeeze until his focus is on me.
“It was Georgia,” he finally answers, and I stare at him.
“Georgia? Your bar manager?”
“Yes,” he says, sounding angry. “She . . . fuck! I thought we talked shit out and that she was over whatever shit she had in her head.” I can tell he’s not even talking to me; he’s just talking, and I want to shake him.
“She had a thing for you?” It’s a statement, not a question, and he nods.
“I don’t even know what to say,” I admit, wrapping my arms around him.
“Me neither,” he says, and I feel his breath at the top of my head.
“I’m glad your mom is okay.”
“Yeah, me too,” he murmurs, holding me close, and my eyes slide closed. I soak in the feeling of being in his arms and the warmth of knowing his mom is okay, and I pray that Georgia, whoever she is, gets what she deserves.
Suggestion 17
REMEMBER: THIS IS FOREVER
GASTON
“I’m home,” I call out, shutting the door behind me, and then I drop my keys into the bowl on the table near the door and shout, “Chrissie!” When I don’t hear her shout back from wherever she is, I walk down the two steps into the sunken living room, no longer really noticing the colorful art on the walls, the bright pillows and throws tossed on the couch, or the photos and what Chrissie calls “knickknacks” littering every surface.
She officially moved in six months ago, about a month and a half after Georgia tried to drug her and instead drugged my mom. I found out she told one of the waitresses that her plan was to drug Chrissie, place her in a compromising position with a guy, and get photos that she would later show me. In her mind, I would see the evidence of Chrissie cheating on me and turn to her for comfort. The waitress thought Georgia was joking when she told her the plan, so she didn’t come to me and tell me, which she regretted after she saw my mom being loaded onto a stretcher.
I also found out Georgia was the one behind the missing alcohol. When the police went to her apartment to search for evidence, they found bottles on top of bottles of liquor. Knowing I owned a club and two bars, they looked into things and realized she had stolen the alcohol from the club and was selling it on the side at half the price—something she had apparently been doing for a while but had never gotten caught, because she never took more than a bottle at a time.
That is, she didn’t until the order I placed before New Year’s. She got greedy then and thought she would be able to make a huge chunk of change if she could get rid of it. She didn’t consider that most people don’t drink top-shelf alcohol, and almost no one is willing to spend a few hundred dollars on alcohol they aren’t even sure is legit.
I shake off those thoughts and look around. With LeFou and Chrissie not being in the kitchen or living room, I stop at the balcony doors to look out and see if they are sitting outside, where I sometimes find Chrissie in the mornings or evenings curled up with a book or a glass of wine.
Not seeing her there but knowing she’s home, because her car was parked in the spot next to mine, I walk back by the kitchen and across the living room to the bedroom at the end of a short hallway. A hallway that is now lined with photos of us, our friends, and our families. I reach the bedroom and open the door, finding the room empty. My gut tightens as I look around until I hear the bathtub jets going and notice the door to the bathroom is closed. With an altogether different kind of tightness in my gut, I pull my shirt off over my head and walk across the room.
As soon as I enter the dimly lit room, I know something is up. Chrissie is in the tub, and like normal when she has the jets going, LeFou is at the side making sure she’s okay. I get close, and when I do, her eyes pop open and her startled gaze meets mine. That’s when I notice she’s been crying.
“You’re home.”
“You’re crying.” I feel my heart twist at the sight of her wet cheeks, and my mind races as I try to think of what could have her upset, but nothing at all comes to mind. For the last six months, everything in our lives has been good. Better than good. Anna, Chrissie’s new shop manager, has settled right into her role without any kind of issues, and Chrissie has been able to take time off each week.
Chrissie has also been rebuilding a relationship with her dad, who’s made it a point to call or show up at her shop just to spend time with her, and she and I even had dinner with him and his wife, Tammy. Her mom is still happy; she started dating and has been traveling a lot. Her brother and Sam got married four months ago, and two months after they said “I do” they got a call in the middle of the night from their adoption caseworker telling them that a baby had been abandoned at their local hospital. She explained that the child’s mother was a drug user, which meant they would have to be open to taking care of a drug-addicted newborn who might not make it. They didn’t even think about it; they went to the hospital that night and quickly fell in love with their daughter. At first things didn’t look good, but the little girl they named Destiny fought while we all prayed, and after six weeks they were able to take her home. Just last week we flew up to spend a few days with them, and just like they had, Chrissie and I fell in love with her on sight. My mom is still my mom—wild, crazy, and always on some adventure but healthy and living her best life. My sisters are both doing great. Just a few months ago, Chrissie and I flew down to Florida so she could meet them, along with my stepmom. It was a great trip, and it was nice to be able to share a piece of my dad with Chrissie, even if he wasn’t there.
Then there’s Chrissie and me. We are still falling in love, and every day I learn something new about her that makes me love her even more, which seems impossible.
“No, I’m not.” Her whispered words pull me from my thoughts, and I watch her wipe her cheeks.
I ignore her absurd lie and move LeFou out of the way to kneel down next to the tub. “Why are you crying?” I ask, touching her face with the backs of my fingers. I hate her tears.
“I’m not. The jets are going, so the water is splashing on my face, making it look like I am.”
“What happened?” I ask, skimming my fingers down the side of her face.
“Nothing.”
Knowing how stubborn she can be, I stand up to get undressed so I can get into the tub with her. I start to kick off my shoes when a bag with a small white box inside it catches my attention. I shouldn’t even notice it, not with the amount of stuff she has lying out on the counter, but I still do. Without thinking, I pick up the bag and absently hear her say my name as I pull out the opened box to read the front of it.