Later. I have to behave.
"Your people are up for top accolades this evening," the Witch goes on. "I have to say, we're all anxious to see if Kasha Elliot can swipe the McAfee for the fourth year running. Her reports from Syria earlier this year...as a woman, I was pretty damn proud."
"Kasha has that effect on people. She's very genuine." Kasha is the most underhand bitch I know, which is precisely why she's so good at her job. The only difference between me and her is that she's in possession of a conscience, albeit one melted and singed at the edges. "She'll be a little late this evening, what with recent events."
We chat politely about the horror of the JFK incident, with the Witch and then another crew. Leontine stays silent, smiling when nodded at and standing a measured hand span from my body at all times. Every inch of me is aware of her. I simmer.
Eventually, I'll reach boiling point. And what then?
***
The evening goes well. Leontine's seat is a few spots away from mine, so we don't talk a great deal after the red carpet. There's something about picking a woman up and then swiftly putting her down again which sets her nerves on edge; it knocks the confidence out of the most arrogant piece of ass. I love it.
Leontine sits with Finn and a few other members of her team, and the nominees on the table trade stories about car chases and war zone trips. I couldn't have picked a better place to impress her, and I know she sees me watching. All through dinner, all through the speeches, all through the awards themselves, my eyes drift toward hers, and where she first turned away with a shy flush, she now returns my gaze with a quiet curiosity.
Then it all lurches downhill.
While two of my other reporters win awards, Kasha misses out on her fourth McAfee for an Exceptional Contribution to Journalism. This does not please her, and before long, she's had a bottle of tequila and way too much champagne.
I learn all of this around midnight when Tuija peels me out of a conversation with a reporter from Montgomery's camp.
"Tuij," I hiss at her, annoyed at her lack of manners. "What the fuck?"
She tugs me out of the ball room, into the corridor toward the bathrooms. "Kasha."
"Get to the point."
"She's got her head in the toilet and she's muttering all kinds of shit. Won't listen to me, won't listen to Ryan." Her words are slightly slurred; even she's been on the champagne. Unwise. "Somebody needs to talk some sense into her before she becomes the Suicide Ball's latest victim."
Tuija herds several women out of the ladies' bathroom before ushering me in. We follow the sound of retching to third cubicle. The door hangs open, and Kasha is on her knees beside the toilet, a half-moon of vomit christening the marble floor.
She looks up at me and glares. Kasha could glare professionally; she's a dark-haired Beyoncé, cat eyes and all, but dresses with more class.
Usually.
"Boss." She gulps, her eyes bulging, and then turns back to the toilet to retch some more.
"Tuij," I call. "Radio Harvey and get a car out back for Mc Shitfaced here."
"Already done," she murmurs from the mirror, where she's touching up her red lipstick. She pouts at her reflection and winks.
"Kasha. Jesus." I go to step into the cubicle, but then the smell hits me—sour bile mixed with overly sweet floral air freshener—and I lunge back. "You look like a two dollar whore."
"I don't care," she slurs. "Fuck Oprah. Did you see she won that award for the...the thing? The thing. Fuck her!"
"Get your shit together. Come on."
"Fucking Aspen Paverley from GNS. She couldn't report on a kindergarten bake sale, let alone Syria. What the actual fuck?" She retches again, and my temper flares. I don't have time for this.
"I'm going to count to three," I say quietly, "and if you're not up, I'm dragging you up. Which is not going to be pleasant for either of us. One..."
"You come over here with that big smart mouth of yours and show me what you got, then." She laughs, lilting and bitter and uncontrolled. "Aspen Paverley. Well, shit."
"...Three." I reach behind and grab Tuija by the arm. "Give me a hand here. Get her against the wall."
Together, Tuija and I scoop Kasha up by the shoulders, circumnavigating the pool of cold vomit. Tuija, obeying my nod, steps away once I have Kasha pinned, and the sound of the door closing echoes around the bathroom as she leaves.
"Just me and you, now," I tell Kasha. I'd put my face in hers, but she stinks. So I settle for speaking from one side.
She flinches away from me, so heavy in my hands. "I deserved that award." Her voice cracks. "I did."
"You cry on me and I swear to God, I won't be responsible—"
"Yes. Boss." She sniffs. "My therapist warned me after Syria, you know. Said I should take some time off."
I snort. "Nice try."