Chapter Sixteen
Dinner is decadent and loud. I am one of twenty guests of honor the charity has invited and it is clear from the moment we arrive that I am there solely for the publicity it brings. Paparazzi line the entry, their cameras clicking and flashing like a bad percussion beat. I keep hold of Linc’s arm as he leads me through the throng.
His suit, which Maria altered as best she could, is a little long in the sleeves but tight across his shoulders. I suppose it should look awkward but I like the way his chest is pronounced in the layered charcoal and white. I focus my thoughts there instead of on the catcalls and demands of the photographers.
Per Linc’s instructions, I don’t answer a single one of their questions, nor do I make eye contact. I smile and look at each one without really seeing them. My high-necked coat swishes at my ankles as I step around each outstretched hand.
“Why do they love Raven so much?” I whisper to Linc.
“Three things. She’s wild and crazy and beautiful. She has enough money to get away with the first two. The third makes them hate her a little bit.”
“But why pay so much attention?”
“Because, love. They want to see her fall.”
When we reach the glass doors, three security guards with the restaurant’s logo on their shirts part to allow us passage and then quickly close ranks to keep out the rest.
Inside, the staff is bustling and the girl at the desk casts nervous glances at the crowd gathered outside the doors. “Right this way,” she says without even asking our names.
We pass the main dining room and I can feel curious stares, but the hostess continues her trek and I am grateful when she stops at the door of a private room that holds a single table. Several others are already seated. They smile a hello at me, glance curiously at Linc, and return to their conversation.
Linc chooses seats as far as possible from the others. Considering the length of the table, until more guests arrive, we are in relative privacy. The massive banquet table has been laid out with fine china and more silverware than I will ever need in one sitting.
“Wow,” Linc says, surveying the room. “This is being put on by a charity?”
“Yes. Senator Whitcomb sponsored it.”
“What kind of charity can afford this sort of setup?”
“It’s for an animal shelter, I think.”
Linc shoots me a look and I know we’re thinking the same thing. It’s a safe bet the charity in question didn’t pay for this, nor will they see a dime of whatever money is raised tonight.
Guests begin to arrive and I am introduced to more names than I can remember. Linc is reserved, speaking only when spoken to. Which isn’t often. This crowd would much rather hear themselves talk than listen to someone else. Senator Whitcomb is the only one who tries to draw Linc into the conversation.
“You work with Mr. Rogen, is that right?” he asks halfway into the third course. Several of the guests halt their conversations to listen.
“Yes, sir, that’s right,” Linc says.
“And what’s it like working for such a visionary?”
“Well, sir,” Linc says slowly, “I can honestly say it’s like nothing I’ve ever imagined.”
Senator Whitcomb smiles but there is a gleam in his eye that doesn’t match his expression. “I’ve no doubt about that, son.”
Abrupt laughter by another guest diverts his attention and conversations resume without us. I reach underneath the table and squeeze Linc’s hand. He squeezes back.
By the time dinner ends, my head hurts and whatever piece of Authentic Raven I’d mustered is gone. I can feel myself scowling as we make our way back to the car.
“You okay?” Linc asks.
“So much hot air,” I mutter.
He doesn’t reply except to help me into the waiting car. When we’re seated and moving, he opens a side panel along the wall and pulls out a long-necked bottle. He pours a glass of the clear, fizzing liquid and hands it to me.
“What is this?”
“Champagne.”
I open my mouth to protest, thinking of my experience in the coatroom with Taylor and all it led to, but he presses the glass into my hand. “It’s just one glass. And we still have the fashion show to get through. It’ll help,” he says.
I take a sip to appease him. The bubbles feel funny in my stomach. “When can we take a look at that address Obadiah gave?” I ask.
“I won’t have a chance to go until later tonight,” he says.
I don’t miss that he’s changed “we” to “I.”
“Linc, I want to go.”
He shakes his head, cutting me off. “I’m not going to remove you from one danger only to introduce you to another. I’ll go alone first. Then, if there’s anything there, I can bring you back when it’s safer.”
“But Anna could be there—”
“I’m not bringing you. Not tonight.”
I scowl and down the drink. Linc is right about it helping. I am relaxed again after so much tension building under the impossibly shallow conversations dinner provided. I know the fashion show will be just as bad—possibly worse as there is no pretense of helping the less fortunate.
“Do we have to stay the entire time?” I ask.
“No. But you should at least make an appearance.”
Our eyes meet and I wish the car were smaller. That Linc had been forced to sit closer. This backseat is huge; each of us has an entire bench to ourselves. I want to ask Linc to sit next to me but I don’t dare. The partition is up, sealing our conversation inside but the driver can still see through it and I don’t dare risk anything by moving closer.
As if he’s read my thoughts, Linc leans forward in the seat across from me and lets his hands dangle. Slowly, he inches his elbows forward. I do the same until our fingers brush and then intertwine. I look up and find him staring at me with the hint of a smile pulling one corner of his mouth. It’s such a simple, barely there expression but it sends a jolt of heat through me—a lightning bolt straight to my gut. It is an excruciating, lovely feeling.
“What are you thinking?” he asks.
I hesitate because my answer is truthful to the point of ruining the moment. “It is amazing how real I feel when you touch me.”
His expression darkens. “Then I never want to let go. You should feel real. You’re real to me.”
I smile but it feels sad on my lips. “Just because you think I am doesn’t make it true.”
“Just because you think you aren’t doesn’t make it true, either.”
I have nothing to say to that. Or nothing that won’t lead to an argument. Neither of us speaks again—only twirling and twisting the tips of our fingers together until we arrive at Grundy’s.
Before the car even stops, flashes go off. The paparazzi are thick here too. Now that it’s dark, the sight of them reminds me of the night of Melanie’s assault in the alley, how I passed by all of those flashing cameras barely able to walk. Seeing them flashing like strobe lights, all trained on me, makes the bubbles in my stomach swish and swirl.
This was a bad idea.
Behind the safety of our tinted windows, Linc slides his fingers free of mine, reaching up to run them over my cheek in a quickly affectionate gesture that goes a long way in calming my anxiety.
“Ready?” he asks.
“As long as you’re beside me.”
“In that case, we’re ready for anything.”
He climbs out, holding the door open and extending his hand. I take it, careful to keep my contact light and strictly business, but still not willing to let go as he leads me past the buzzing and flashing.
The cameras continue to click as we make our way inside and I’m not sure if it’s because of who I am or just who they think I am. The guest list for the show will no doubt include much more important people than me—even the Authentic version—and I can’t imagine they’ll waste digital storage space on me once the important players get here. But what do I know? Everything that should be important in this world isn’t—and everything that isn’t, is.
“You’re doing great,” Linc says when we’re inside the elevator. And I know he’s thinking of the last time we made this sort of trek together too.
I give him a grateful smile. “I’m glad you’re coming inside with me.”
“Me too.” He squeezes my hand. “I enjoy being your plus one.”
I make a face. “Even if it means answering idiot questions from senators?”
“Even then.”
I smile ruefully as the doors open. We step through and I’m swept up in the hustle and bustle of the show. We follow the crowd into a ballroom that has been transformed for the occasion. Billowing white sheets hang from the walls and move back and forth like ocean waves. I assume there is some sort of breeze being manufactured but I can’t find the source. White garland lights wind around vertical columns that have been erected in the aisles. To my left is a long runway raised several feet high with rows of chairs set around it. The walkway is lit with exposed bulbs on either side, each one a different shade of blue.
Guests mill about, wandering to and from their seats and exclaiming over each other’s inspired wardrobe choices. The bar along the wall is surrounded by people knocking back drinks and inspecting the rest of us in a serious sort of way. Men and women in black pants and white button-up shirts dart around glancing wild-eyed at clipboards and speaking hurriedly into their two-way earpieces. The overall vibe is harried.
“It’s crazy in here,” I say.
Linc makes a grand sweeping gesture with his hand. “Welcome to the world of fashion.”
“You sound like you know what you’re talking about. Come to these often?” I tease.
“More than you have.”
I poke him in the ribs.
Linc leads us to our seats on the edge of the stage on the far right. Within moments of sitting, the lights dim and people scurry to sit. I look over to see the chair next to me being taken by a woman with bleach-streaked hair and a dress that looks a lot like cellophane.
“Well, hello, Raven,” she says with a smile that is full of sugary fakeness.
“Hello.” I return her smile, hoping she doesn’t expect me to remember her name.
“It’s me, Floriana Duganfell? From the charity board? We worked together on last quarter’s polling dinner for Senator Ryan?”
“Of course.”
“It’s nice to see you out again. I trust you’re feeling better from your recent … experiences?”
I can tell by her open-ended sentence she is fishing but I refuse to take the bait. I say only, “Yes, thank you.”
She purses her lips, squinting at Linc as if trying to place his face against the list of names of who matter in her head. “And you are …?”
“No one,” he assures her with a brilliant smile.
The woman leans away, confusion dotting her features, and frowns. Before she can formulate a response, someone taps a microphone, the sound echoing, and the crowd hushes. I smother a giggle and in the darkness, I take Linc’s hand, tucking it discreetly between us.
On stage, a slight man in tight pants and a too-small sport coat smiles at the crowd. “Can I have your attention, please?” he says, his voice nasal and high. “My name is Egleston Hawthorne. On behalf of Jorge Estrada and myself, I’d like to welcome you to Grundy’s for the annual summer collection preview. I think you’re going to love what Jorge has done this season. Now, without further ado, the summer collection …”
The man scoots off the stage as pulsing music begins and the first model appears from behind the curtain. A tall statue of a woman who’s only proof of mobility is one foot in front of the other. Her face is a controlled mask. Uncaring, devoid of life. But her face isn’t what they’ve come to see. It’s her wardrobe everyone applauds for.
I can only stare in amazement. The woman on stage is decked out in some sort of metal contraption. It is strung around her body like rings on a planet. I can’t even see where they attach to her. The only fabric she wears is a piece of material stretched tight and thin over her chest and a pair of shorts, equally small and snug, that barely cover her hind parts. Her hair is done in an elaborate twist with more metal rings floating around her head.
“Whoa,” I say.
“Ditto,” Linc whispers back.
Beside me, Floriana claps excitedly, her attention glued to the contraption being modeled onstage. It shouldn’t surprise me considering the cellophane dress. I have a feeling this woman will be first in line when the metal-ringed outfit goes on sale.
The first model finishes her walk and disappears backstage. Right on cue, the next girl steps out. The applause pauses long enough for people to take in her ensemble. “Oohs” and “aahs” vibrate around the room. Then the clapping resumes and the words are drowned out.
This girl is slightly less over the top, but it’s still ridiculous to me. Her hair has been somehow plaited and set in place to look like a fan sticking out of the back of her head. Her outfit, done in white and shimmering gold, has the same shape. A large tail protrudes behind her, thick and stiff so that it is a plaited fan that wraps around her waistline from left to right. Her shoes are platform sandals that give her at least another eight inches of height.
“How can she walk in those things?” I whisper.
“You don’t like the shoes? I thought for sure you’d want a pair.”
Even in the darkness I can see his teasing grin. I stifle a giggle and catch my cellophane-clad neighbor giving me the evil eye. “Sshh!” she hisses.
“Come on.” Linc rises from his chair and motions for me to follow.
When we reach the end of our row, he pushes open an unmarked door and we slip through. The hall is dimly lit but empty. To the right, I can hear the hum of voices and assume it must lead backstage. Linc motions me left. We go a short distance before he pushes through another doorway. This one leads to a stairwell. As we climb, the layer of dust and grime coating the floor mutes the click of my heels. I am careful not to touch the railing.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“You’ll see.”
We keep climbing until we run out of stairs. At the top, Linc opens a heavy door and ushers me out. I wait while he wedges something in the opening to keep it from locking.
“What are we doing up here?” I ask.
He shrugs as we wander the space. “I couldn’t take much more of plastic-wrap Medusa. I figured you could use a break too.”
I curl my fingers around his. “It seems rooftops are becoming our thing.”
He smiles crookedly. “I like a girl who’s partial to rooftops.”
“I’m more partial to your motorcycle.”
“It doesn’t scare you?”
“No. Well, not in a bad way.”
“What do you mean?”
“It was a little scary at first but after the initial rush of fear, it was just … a rush.” I hesitate because admitting this feels like handing him a weakness. Something I was trained not to do, but it’s Linc and I want to share everything with him, not just facts. I want him to know how I feel. About everything. Or everything I’m capable of feeling. So I finish by saying, “Honestly, riding your motorcycle has easily been my favorite part of this new life.”
He stops. There is a small smile on his lips as he watches me. “You’ve never told me any of that.”
I wrinkle my nose. “I didn’t want to sound like an idiot.”
“Why would you sound like an idiot?”
“Everything I feel about riding your motorcycle sounds so … sentimental and poetic in my head, but I’m pretty sure if I say it out loud, it will sound ridiculous.”
“Try me.”
I sigh as I gather my words carefully. “Okay … I think, for me, riding a motorcycle is like running from something and toward it all at the same time. Does that sound ridiculous?”
He uses the backs of his fingers to trace a trail down my cheek. “No. It sounds exactly right. I feel that way too. It’s actually the only time I feel free of all of this.” He gestures to the building we are standing on but I know he means so much more than a fashion show at Grundy’s.
“I get it. Riding with you, I feel … bigger than I am. Like I could maybe matter. Like the universe notices me.”
“Ven, you do matter.”
I shake my head. “Not yet. But I will.”
We leave just before the show ends. Linc is subdued after our rooftop conversation. He seems distracted by his own thoughts and I am too wrapped up in mine to pursue it. I rub absently at the mark on my neck, the inked numbers raised slightly higher than the rest of my skin. I catch Linc watching and quickly drop my hand to my lap. We ride the rest of the way in silence.
Inside the elevator at Rogen Tower, Linc hits the button that will take us upstairs and then picks at his tie until it loosens and he pulls it free. He tilts his neck side to side and sighs.
“Better?” I ask, amused.
“Much,” he agrees.
The elevator opens and I step out. A single security guard is stationed nearby. He nods at us and we make our way down the hall and to my room. The hallways are empty of sentries. Most of them have been moved downstairs or doubled up on the exits and rooftop. Daniel as a prisoner trumps me as a prisoner, I suppose.
Linc stops outside my bedroom. “I’m going to find Titus and give my report. I’ll come see you before I go for the night.”
We both know where he’ll go when he leaves and I am already impatient at the thought. “No, just talk to Titus and get going as soon as you can.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I just need to know.”
“I’ll see you in the morning.”
“See you then.”
He hesitates a second longer and I wonder if he’s going to kiss me right here in the hallway. I can’t help glancing at his mouth as I think it. Instead, he lets out a quiet groan and then turns and walks away.