Stay(22)

Putting our physical attraction to the side, the Bartons and the Hastings have been friends for years. And dammit, what’s the point of having vast sums of wealth if I can’t use it to help people in need?

Emmy should understand this. Her father used his legal expertise to help others. It’s not such a foreign concept. As I walk, I anticipate her objections and my response. She’s so fucking stubborn with all this I hate you bullshit. What is she? A child? And clearly she does not hate me. She moans like a sex kitten when I kiss her. I have to adjust my fly at that memory.

The neighborhood grows more colorful as I approach the bar. Glancing at my watch, I see it’s only seven.

“Name?” A young woman with a severe black bob and multiple piercings in her face looks at me expectantly. She’s dressed in a black leather mini and a silky beige tank that shows off her sleeves of ink.

“Stephen Hastings.” She holds out a clipboard, but I put a hand up to stop her. “I’m not on the list. Can I buy a ticket at the door?”

“Sorry. Invitation only. The tables are sold and all set up for the dinner.”

A group strolls up beside me, and I move so she can check them in. As they enter, I peer into the space. It’s an exposed-brick courtyard beyond this wall, and I see several tables in the back unset and unoccupied.

The girl returns to me, frowning. “I’m sorry, you’ll have to come back after the event. It ends at eleven.”

“How much for a table?” I take my wallet out of my back pocket.

“Sir, we’ve already set up for the—”

“I understand, but I noticed empty tables in the back. How much?”

Her lips press together, and she tilts her head to the side. “Eight hundred.”

“Can you run my card?”

“Cash only.” She points her pencil over my shoulder. “There’s an ATM on the corner there.”

“Be right back.”

Five minutes later, I’m inside, strolling around the brick-lined courtyard, hoping the girl at the door puts the cash I gave her into the fund. Groups of people stand in circles chatting softly, champagne flutes in hand. Oversized palm trees and Ficus are arranged throughout and white Christmas lights are draped from the columns, over arches. It’s an elegant, low-key affair.

Picking up a program, I learn that it’s a fundraiser for art programs in public schools. Good cause. A waiter passes through to what looks like a backstage area, and I drift over to take a peek. Bingo. I’ve found her.

“Yeah, so I asked him, if you’re not banging your secretary, then why are you working late every night?” A very long young woman with a thick New Jersey accent sits in a chair waving her hands as she speaks. She’s wearing a brown tube dress, and her hair is parted right down the middle in a stick-straight bob.

“What did he say?” Emmy’s blonde waves are piled on top of her head in a bun. A few tendrils hang around her pretty face. She’s in a tight black dress with a white men’s shirt over it tied at her waist.

She looks way hotter than the toothpick she’s working on.

“He said he doesn’t even have a secretary.”

A fine line forms in the center of Emmy’s forehead, and I watch as she rubs a thick black brush over the girl’s whole face.

“Do you believe him?” She drops the brush and picks up a purple sponge shaped like an egg and starts dabbing it around the model’s nose and eyes.

“What choice do I have?” The girl lifts her bony arms. “But I tell you what. My uncle Artie knows a guy who’s a detective, and he’s going to do some digging.”

Emmy steps back, gives her a compassionate look, and picks up a pink bottle. “Close your eyes.” She sprays a light mist in the air above the girl’s face, and then touches her leg. “You’re all done. Good luck with Lenny.”

The girl stands and hugs her. “Oh, Em, you’re the best! You come back with Lou again, okay?”

“If they let me!”

No one else sits in her chair, and Emmy leans her head to the side, rubbing her neck. Lulabell waves at me from the other end of the room, and I wave back. Busted.

Emmy turns to face me, and as usual, her smile melts away.

I release the curtain and walk to where she’s packing up her kit. “Good evening.”

“You’re early.” She doesn’t look up from her progress.

“I got tired of waiting, so I walked. Made pretty good time.”

Her eyes travel from my leather shoes up to my neck. “Do you always dress like a GQ model when you go out walking?”

Casting my tan suit a glance, I shrug. “I like this suit. It’s comfortable, and this is an eight hundred dollar per table fundraiser.”

“How did you get in? You’re not on the guest list.”

“It seems like a good cause. I bought a table. Although, if they really want to make money, they should let you be a model.”

Our eyes meet, and energy flashes between us. I feel it low in my belly. I’ve got to sleep with her again. It’s the only way to get this out of our systems.

She turns away, but her cheeks are flushed. My throat tightens. Yes, tonight.

“Are we sitting at your table?” She blinks those pretty eyes up at me.

“Good God, no. The food at these events is awful. Rubber chicken and mushy vegetables. I’m taking you back to my place.”