The Address(38)

And not only Tristan but Wanda and a couple of assistants from the firm, who hovered in the background, trying to look bored and cool.

“What are you talking about?” She knew it was better to go on the offensive with him but couldn’t think of any other response.

He glowered at her. “You took over Melinda’s job, did you? How’s that going? Everyone knows your cousin can’t pay up. And how do they know that? I told them myself.”

That explained the missing crew. Tony’s money would solve that problem, but for now she had to deal with Tristan.

He’d given her so much, had taken her in and trained her, made her feel smart and talented. She’d once been a lowly assistant, but he’d noticed that she always made the extra effort by staying late and doing whatever it took when an emergency cropped up.

“Look, Tristan. I’m sorry for that. Really. Melinda’s throwing me a bone here. Like you said, she can’t even afford it yet. Why would you even want to be bothered with that?”

“You’re doing me a favor, is that how you justify it?”

“No, I don’t mean that.”

Wanda thrust her long neck forward. “She totally scooped it out from under you, Tristan. I was there.”

Tristan sniffed. “I got you to rehab, and this is what I get in return?”

He was right. Whatever defenses she had left crumbled. “You’ve done so much for me, Tristan, I’m sorry. I should have come to you first, but it all happened so fast. I was desperate. I didn’t have any money, a job, a place to stay. Melinda offered all three. At least temporarily.”

He cocked his head, mollified for the moment. “You can have your cousin’s apartment. But it’s the last job you’ll ever do. I won’t have you poaching my business. Remember, I can ruin you in this town.”

They left Bailey shaking, one hand on the balcony and the other over her heart, which beat as if she’d inhaled an eight ball.

Tristan had the power to shut her out of her career completely. Why hadn’t she seen that? In rehab, her counselors had advised her to make a plan for when she got out, and she’d considered moving somewhere else, like Los Angeles or San Francisco, to make a fresh start. But that was hard to do when you had no money, no contacts.

She should call someone from AA. Or her roommate from Silver Hill. Confess that right now all she wanted was a shot of tequila. Something searing and quick to take the pain away and the edge off. But the idea of standing on a street corner, putting quarters into a pay phone and waking up a girl she barely even knew, was pathetic. Desperate. She wasn’t that. Not yet.

One drink. That’s all she’d have. Then she’d walk out of here and never come back.

Her purse held only a few subway tokens and a five-dollar bill. She went through all of the side pockets and almost cried with joy when she spotted a twenty. Her emergency fund.

The tequila was as good as she’d expected it to be. No, better. Hot fire. She would leave after saying good-bye to Melinda and Tony, warning them that Tristan was pissed. She found them in what used to be the undercroft of the church, now decked out with funky couches and low lighting. A line of coke was laid out on the table in front of them, a bottle of champagne in a bucket on the floor.

“Bailey, where have you been? Sit here, give me a kiss.”

Melinda was sloppy, happy, and a mess.

Bailey sat beside her. “Tristan’s on the warpath. He’s mad that you hired me. Really mad.”

“Screw him. I’ll take care of you. Don’t worry about a thing.” She poured Bailey a glass of champagne, spilling some on her lap but not noticing.

“No, I’m not having any more.”

Tony leaned forward, a curled-up dollar bill in his hand. “You’ve already partaken?”

“Just one.”

Melinda let out a cackle. “Go on, have a glass of champagne.”

The warm feeling from the shot was beginning to dissipate. She could sneak out the back way and catch a cab, go home thinking about the steak she never got to finish. Or she could stay in this one room, deep in the bowels of a building where generations of New Yorkers had found absolution from their sins, and make herself feel good for the next hour or two. Feed that particular appetite.

It wasn’t even a toss-up.





CHAPTER THIRTEEN



New York City, November 1884


As promised, the carriage stood waiting on Seventy-Second Street in front of the Dakota at precisely eleven o’clock. Once inside, Sara removed her long cape, glad that the evening was quite temperate, and smoothed her dress. She’d spent the past three nights hard at work at the tailor’s sewing machine, narrowing the silhouette and adjusting the sleeves to bring it up to date, and while it wasn’t perfect, it would do. Her hands were clammy in her gloves.

At Fifty-Ninth Street, the carriage stopped abruptly. The door opened and Mr. Camden appeared, lit from behind by the lamplights.

“Are you ready to see the worst of society?” He took a seat next to her and handed over a delicate mask decorated with peacock feathers, the blues and greens iridescent. His was painted an antique gold.

Even in evening dress, he looked like he’d just come from a fight. With that crooked nose, there was no getting around the fact that he wasn’t at all like the upper class. But the delicious discord between his fine clothes and his rugged build took her breath away.