by Piper Lawson
“Haley’s hot.”
Maybe he’s not gay.
“You stole my car,” I point out.
“Borrowed. I needed to get somewhere.”
“You have a learner’s permit. You can take the subway. Or get a friend to drive you. Hell, Mom will buy you a car when you get your full license, if you want.”
“No, she won’t. She doesn’t approve of my choices.”
“Which are?”
“My own.”
I give up on Beck and head for the dining room.
“What the hell is that?” my dad demands as I enter, Scrunchie at my heels.
“My skunk. You know that.”
“It can wait outside the apartment. With any luck, animal control will come for it.”
I settle for putting Scrunchie in his carrier by the door even though he protests. He hates being caged.
By the time the four of us are seated around the dinner table, it’s like old times. Dad talks about work. Mom drinks two glasses of wine while checking her phone. They argue about his travel schedule. Her caseload.
Partway through, she turns to me. “Emily Tremblay was just appointed VP of her PR firm. They assigned her to Tokyo.”
I reach for my wine. “That’s great.”
“She’s also engaged to Grant Howard. He just made partner.”
“In Tokyo?” I mumble because otherwise that’s going to get hard fast.
“I don’t understand why you’re not seeing someone. Even if there were no appropriate men in Philadelphia, surely there’s someone here. I heard Ellis Murphy returned from working with Barclays in London. He’d bring a lot to your relationship.”
Arrogance, a trust fund, and genital warts. The trifecta.
“Beck wants a car when he gets his license,” I say, changing the subject.
“That won’t be for a while.” Mom reaches for more wine.
I look between them. “What do you mean?”
My brother groans. “I wasn’t drunk last time I drove. I told you.”
I kick him under the table. “Did this happen before or after you drove my car all over the city?”
“That would be that time,” he mumbles.
My father ignores most of this, then sets his napkin down when his phone rings. “I need to take this.”
He’s gone.
My mother clears the table soon after, and when she ducks out with her and my dad’s plates, I lean across the table toward Beck.
“You can’t shock me, little brother, no matter what you think.”
“They’re hypocrites. All of them. You don’t see it because you’re not around. You don’t have to deal with them.”
I listen to the sound of Mom loading the dishwasher as I lower my voice. “I know Dad sexts his assistant and Mom fucks her trainer. I know they fight late at night. You think any of that’s new? It’s our own brand of normal. That doesn’t mean you need to get in trouble with school, or drive drunk, or do other stupid shit.”
His dark eyes flash as he shakes his head. “Right, because you’re perfect.”
My hands form fists at my sides, and the buzz inside me dials up a notch. “Can we skip the passive-aggressive and you tell me what’s going on? Are you addicted to pain meds? Gambling debt? Are you blowing the captain of the football team? Because believe me, I’ve seen it all.”
“You wouldn’t get it.” He stares me down before shoving out of his chair and heading down the hall.
I sigh, grabbing the last of the dinner plates.
“How was the lamb?”
I glance over my shoulder to see my mother hovering behind me. “It was good, Mom.”
9
Wes
“Dr. Robinson, I was going to ask you…” Carly stops in her tracks as I adjust my bowtie. “Wow. Are you going to the Met Gala?”
“Not exactly. But it might not be far off.” I check myself in the mirror. The tux isn’t me, but it’s not bad. I spend most of my workdays in a suit, but the tux has more pieces than my father’s pocket watch, most of them serving a subtle purpose I’d never thought of but don’t hate.
“You look incredible.”
“Thanks. What were you going to ask?”
She blinks. “Oh. Just that some of us go for drinks Fridays after work. I thought you might want to join us this week.”
I turn it over in my mind as I take in her hopeful expression.
I box with Jake Tuesday and Friday, but we typically finish before happy hour. Still, even though Friday’s two days from now, this week’s been stacked with one thing after another. After working on my research and looking out for my mom, I have almost zero free time.
But those aren’t the only reasons I’m reluctant to say yes to Carly.
Over the years, women have wanted to be my girlfriend. I get it—I’m not an idiot or a slob, and I work out, but the hours I keep aren’t conducive to dating.
Which, according to them, is why it ultimately fails—the best parts of me are poured into my lab, my computer, and staring into space trying to solve research problems over dinner at restaurants.
(Apparently, women don’t like that.)
And the reality is, my first love is always my work. At least until I achieve what I’ve been working toward for the last decade—getting hired at a good university where I can build a research program that’s respected and challenging—my priorities are fixed.
Hell, they’re not even up for discussion.
Which doesn’t mean you have to be a hermit. Its not healthy, Wesley. I hear my mother’s voice in my head as if she’s standing next to me.
“Sure,” I say. “Tell you what, this week’s out of hand, but next Friday, I’m there.”
“Great.” Her smile brightens another few watts. “Well, have an amazing time tonight.”
I take another look in the mirror and square my shoulders. You said you’d do this. Time to pay up.
Five minutes later, I step out of the elevator on Jake’s floor.
The lobby of Prince Diamonds struck me as grand the first time I saw it, but now, it’s like a festival for the rich and sensory-understimulated.
Men are in black tuxes, but the women are in every color imaginable—reds, blues, yellows.
A couple dozen booths are set up around the perimeter, each with its own signage and beaming host. A sign by the door declares the causes for the evening’s event. It looks like a list of national organizations, mostly supporting children and families.
“Say it.” Jake comes up behind me with two glasses of what looks like bourbon.
“I’m impressed. I had no idea you were such a philanthropist.”
We clink glasses, and I take a long sip.
“My family has always believed in supporting this country. At the end of the day, we’re all the same, though some have greater needs than others.”
Despite his words, I can tell these people—Jake’s people—have money, and it breeds. Even though I might look the part, under the surface, I’m not like any of the smiling, laughing men and women in this room.
I check my phone.
“Waiting on a call?” Jake asks.
“Figured I’d hear from Rena.” I told him she’d agreed to help, but didn’t add the part where she’s doing it for free. I can afford to pay her—maybe not six figures, but I don’t believe in getting something without giving something in return. It’s hard on my pride, and it feels like a secret between us. “Get this—she’s going out with someone from my app.”
Jake cocks his head. “You think you haven’t heard from her because something happened?”
The glass stops halfway to my lips.
Now that’s what I’m thinking.
The slick interface isn’t the only thing lacking. I didn’t security-screen the people on the app.
I rub a hand over my neck. I could’ve sent her out with anyone. All I know are nine of the guy’s alleles and that he’s between twenty-eight and thirty-five. I was too busy thinking about money
and my own shit to think about safety.
“Relax,” Jake advises. “I saw her earlier. She was getting set up. Let me show you around.”
Even though I’m not ready to take his advice, I follow him through the crowd, getting interrupted every few steps as he greets someone who knows him.
On closer inspection, the booths contain all kinds of casino-style games, plus some tests of strength, memory. There’s a fortune-teller and a fake archery range.
It’s not like any midway I’ve ever seen. It’s elegant. Beautiful. No discarded cups or laughing teenagers.
I take a sip and promptly choke on it. My gaze is focused on a figure behind a booth.
Here’s the thing about Rena—you’d have to be dead not to notice her.
I might disappear into my office for days at a time, staying isolated to the point where every friend and my mom are texting to find out if I’m still eating…
But a dead man I am not.
Her dress is white and frothy and fitted to her body, showing her long, lean waist and hips, but there’s a layer of sheer, gauzy fabric over it. She’s like a planet with rings, pulling everything—me included—into her gravity.
Her hair is up but not in the ponytail. It’s something fancier, twists and knots too complicated to have been done only for tonight.
Her eyes are green today, and I don’t even mind being wrong about their color last week, because they make everything else in the room fade.
And that’s what I was looking for as I drifted through this place. Something to anchor on to. Where everyone else is hollow, a Russian doll, she’s flesh and bone and matter.
“You’re wearing white in October,” Jake teases.
“Oh no. The club will never let me back in.” She taps a finger against a lower lip stained the color of raspberries.
I don’t eat enough raspberries.
Her amused stare finds me, doing a once over that’s too slow for this formal room, before returning to my face.
I’ve never wanted attention unless I had something to say. A false statement argued or a point needing to be made in a lecture or class. Now, there’s nothing on my mind or my lips.
She’s watching me anyway, with the kind of surprise and anticipation that has me wondering if she sees something I’ve missed.
I fucking like it.
“Dr. Strange. Don’t you clean up.”
I resist the urge to clear my throat. “All my tweed’s dirty.”
“Your mother seen this yet?” Jake asks mildly.
That’s when I notice the sign next to her.
Speed dates. $250.
“She couldn’t make it, but I’ll send her a picture.” Rena winks. “That’s where you come in, Dr. Strange.”
“You want my brilliant matchmaking expertise?” I step up to the table, resting my fingertips on the pale gold cloth as Jake excuses himself.
“I want you to document for posterity.”
“No one would pay that much for three minutes of company in the middle of a party.”
She lifts her chin. “People want to think someone’s listening.”
“And you listen to them.”
Rena’s gaze flicks to the room before coming back to me. Her lowered voice is just audible over the music and laughter. “Come on, Wes. It’s three minutes of company in the middle of a party. But yes, while they’re here, I listen.”
“I suppose it’s a lost art.”
“Company?”
“Listening.”
I scan the posters behind her—banner murals, really—and Rena gestures to the first. It’s a backdrop of cobblestones, flowers in a riot of pinks and whites, and a bustling street. “It starts at a little café in Paris,” she says, and I round the table to get a closer look. “Then goes to Prague, Sydney, Tokyo. It ends right here in New York.”
“Where did you even find these?”
“Oh, I had them printed.”
Her dedication impresses me. “You’re very committed to this.”
“I have to be. Jamie and I have a bet going for who brings in the most money for charity.” She turns, her shoulder brushing mine as she nods at an unrealistically giant man in a tux offering hammers to people who want to test their strength against a machine.
“I’m surprised he found a tux to go over his muscle suit.”
She laughs. “That’s not a suit. He’s a linebacker for the Patriots.”
Of course he is.
I turn back to her posters, my attention lingering on the final one. “So, what happens in New York?”
“It ends like every date. With a kiss.” She peers up at me, and desire snakes down my spine.
Now I’m thinking about the kiss.
Not how it felt.
How careless I was to waste it given I’ll never get to kiss her again.
Before I can process that uninvited thought, she gestures to one of the banners. “This one got injured in the line of duty.”
I go to pull on the top of it, and it unrolls a little. “We can fix it.”
“Or I’ll just leave it.”
“But… it’s Rome.” She raises a brow. “You can’t leave it there,” I say, exasperated.
“Fine. Let’s fix it.” She puts up a “Back in 10 Minutes” sign and grabs the banner.
I take it from her, and she starts toward the doorway. Her dress is low cut at the back, revealing inches of pale skin before clinging to the curve of her ass as she walks.
She glances back. “You coming?”
I follow her through the lobby and past a desk manned by a security guard, presumably to watch over the offices.
She leads the way to a supply closet.
Where the last room was luxury, indulgence, this one’s all efficiency, simplicity, packed to the brim with useful, unfussy things.
I prefer it immediately.
I set the banner down, and my gaze scans the closet.
“See anything?” she asks. “We need to tape it.”
“That won’t work,” I say, dismissive.
“Why not?”
“There’s too much force. It’ll snap shut again.”
My attention lands on a music stand. “I don’t know what this is doing here, but I can use it.”
I MacGyver the thing, and she watches in admiration. “Who says PhDs aren’t practical?”
The comment should chafe, but I feel a hit of warmth at her praise.
Ridiculous. I’m fixing paper Rome, not the real thing for fuck’s sake.
“Any luck scheduling a date?” I ask as we rig up the banner.
“Friday night.”
“Who is he?”
“You going to write it down or run a background check on him?”
“Both,” I say as I put the final touches on the banner.
Her teeth flash white against her red lips as she grins.
It’s cute that she thinks I’m joking.
We finish what we’re doing, and on the way back, I glance over at her.
“I like your earrings,” I say, nodding at the drops dangling from her ears. I didn’t notice them at first, but now I can’t stop looking. They reflect the light, like every silver surface in this kitchen but a million times brighter.
“Oh, these? They’re on loan.”
It takes me a minute to catch up. “They’re real diamonds?”
“Uh-huh. Jake always lends me some for the party.”
My father wanted me to move up in the world. I thought I had, with a PhD and everything. But as I watch Rena as we reenter the ballroom, I realize I’ll never be like these people. They live in a world of possibility, of delusion. Where money buys advantage and the ability to screen out the pain and loss and disappointment.
As we get back to the booth and I set up the banner, Jake reappears. “Wesley, I need to introduce you to someone. This is Ben. He collects interesting things, and I was telling him about your app.”
The man in question can’t have more than a few years on us. He’s i
mpeccably dressed with curly hair.
I shoot Rena a look, but she shoos me. “Go talk shop. I’ll stick to selfies for now.”
I watch her trail through the crowd before I turn back to Ben.
“I understand you have a technology,” Ben says, stepping out of the main pathway and between Rena’s booth and another so we’re not disturbed.
“It’s an algorithm, really.”
I explain it to him as best I can. For a non-expert, he seems to follow the concept.
He sips his drink, eyes brightening with curiosity. “What’s the platform like?”
“Right now it’s a website. It’s not fancy, but it’s functional.” My gaze drifts back to the booth, where Rena’s got another client.
“This a bad time?”
My gaze jerks back to Ben.
I’m tanking. I hate feeling like a total amateur. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want these people’s approval. But I need it.
Champagne appears at my elbow. I drink gratefully, pretending the vanilla scent accompanying it doesn’t trigger a Pavlovian tightening of my abs.
“Hi, Ben,” Rena says easily. “Wes is working on a demo. Give him your card, and he’ll give you a call when it’s ready.”
Ben raises a brow but reaches into his inside pocket for a card. I take it and murmur a thank-you as he walks away.
“What’s your problem?” Rena turns into me, hissing.
I yank at my collar. “I don’t know how to talk to those people.”
“You’re being a dick.”
My jaw drops, both at the description and the easy way she says it.
“I’m not being a dick. Nobody understands my work. Nobody understands—”
“You?” Her eyes flash, and I resist the impulse to carry her out the door and continue this conversation elsewhere. “Maybe they would if you let them. Unless you don’t want anyone to know you.”
“Why would that be true?”
“Because it makes you vulnerable. And no amount of good tailoring”—her gaze drops down my chest, back up—“can protect you.” I’m about to retaliate that’s she’s wrong on all counts when she lifts her pinkie between us. “The first rule of surviving a place like this? You need to know who has your back.”
“What’s that?” I murmur.