Spin (Songs of Corruption #1)(5)

“I’m not a good buffer.”

“You’re perfect. You keep me on my toes.”

She sighed. “All right. You’re buying, though. I’m broke.”

“No problem.”

We hung up, and I fist-pumped the ivory Sartorial Sandwich in the last window. I needed Deirdre there to give me a reason to escape the WDE crowd, especially if the breathtaking man was there.

four.

ow many have you had?” I asked Deirdre.

“My second.” She took her hand off her mop of curly red hair to hold up two fingers. All eight of us shared the red hair, but only she had the curls. “Not that it matters.”

“It matters,” I said.

“No,” Deirdre said, putting down her glass. “It doesn’t. Do you know what matters?”

“Let me guess. The poor and hungry?”

Deirdre huffed. I’d caught her before she could make her speech. She hated that. “You’ve got more money than the Vatican. You’re cute as a button. Yet you think you have problems.”

“Looks and money aren’t the whole of a person.”

“Don’t pretend they don’t matter. They do. If you saw what I saw every day.”

My sister was sweet and compassionate, but she was a belligerent drunk. If I let her, she’d tell me my sadness came from material idolatry and that it was time for me to give all my money to charity and live in service to the poor. I’d often considered the possibility that she was right.

The musicians had come by and then disappeared again. The lights dimmed, and she appeared by the piano singing “Stormy Weather” as if she wanted to rip the clouds from the sky but couldn’t reach high enough. Monica Faulkner, a nobody singer in a town of somebodies, stood in front of the piano singing other people’s songs in a room built for other purposes. She moved from “Stormy Weather” to something more plaintive. My God, she was fully committed to every word, every note.

There was no halfway with that woman. I’d seen her sandwiched between my brother fingering her and f**king her, and I’d felt bad. But not today, she had control over me. She sang in the tempo of keys clacking and printers humming. There was an open place inside me, past where the professionalism cracked and the weariness fissured and the sadness throbbed. She caressed that place then jabbed it.

I missed Daniel. I missed the hardness of his body and the touch of his hands. I missed his laughter, and the way he cupped my breast in his sleep, and the weight of his arm on my shoulder, and the way he brushed his light brown hair off his face. I missed calling him to tell him where I was. I was an independent woman. I could function fine without him or anyone. But I missed him, and I missed being loved. Once he’d cheated on me, all my delight in his love drowned in bitterness. I was wistful for something dead.

“You all right?” said a male voice.

Gene had left the table to come talk to me at the bar. He was my “type”: dark blonde, straight-laced, ambitious, easy smile, confident. But he was awful. Just the most awful Hollywood douchebag.

“Yeah, thanks.”

“She’s good. The singer. ”

“Great.” I felt an absence to my right, where Deirdre had been standing.

“I think we could do something with her. Little spit and polish, shorter skirt. Use the body. Sammy’s got Geraldine Stark under contract. She’s trying to move into fashion. Could be a tight package.” He winked as if I might not get his double entendre.

“I hope it works out,” I said. “I’m off to the ladies’.”

“See you back at the table.” He picked up his glass. “Don’t be a stranger.”

Deirdre wasn’t in the bathroom. I ended up looking at the same roll of toilet paper from two weeks ago. Still one square hanging. A different roll, obviously, but the same amount. Not enough.

Just not enough.

The hall outside the bathroom led outside, where a little seating area with ashtrays was blocked off from the parking lot. I heard yelling and repeated calls of “bitch.” Though I normally avoided disagreeable behavior, I went to look.

A red Porsche Boxster was parked in the handicapped spot, and on the hood, all five-eleven, hundred-and-fifty pounds of her, Deirdre sprawled on her back. The man yelling was six inches shorter and twenty pounds lighter—if I didn’t count the weight of the petroleum in his hair products. He wore head-to-toe leather and had a voice like a car screeching to a halt.

“Get. Off. The. Porsche.” He pushed her as he yelled, but she was dead weight.

“Excuse me,” I said.

He may have heard me. I had no time to think about that; the rest happened so fast. He pulled at Deirdre’s lapels, yanking her forward. Like a baby with a bellyful of milk, she projectile vomited. It splashed on his jacket, the ground, and the car. He squealed and let her go. She rolled off the hood, puking as she went, and landed on the ground.

“Fuck!” he yelled as I tried to sit my sister up against the wheel. “Shit. God. Puke? Puke is acid! Do you know what that’s going to do to the paint? And my f**king jacket?”

“We’ll pay for the damage.”

I was too busy with Deirdre to bother looking at the creep. She was unconscious. I squeezed her cheeks and looked into her mouth to see if she was choking. She wasn’t, because she threw up right down my shirt. I leaned back and said something like ugh, but it was drowned out by the man in leather.