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I look down and remind myself that yes, my dress is very pretty. Those nasty women can suck it. “Thanks, Vince. Rake got it for me,” I say loudly.
“Say, where is he?” Vince asks, looking around as if he might be able to see over the crowd. Poor guy. Maybe I can hoist him onto my shoulders. “Have you lost your husband already?” he bends over, laughing at his own joke.
I see from the corner of my vision the two biddies who were just talking about me turn our way, horrified looks on their faces. I abandon my plate on the buffet table and clasp my hands in front of myself like a little angel.
“Rake’s around here somewhere. I was chatting with the girls and he got pulled off by someone he needed to say hi to.”
It’s then that Vince notices the women. Had he heard them? “Hello ladies,” he says cheerfully. “Lovely to see you. I don’t think you’ve met Rake Hanson’s new bride.”
They grimace as I extend my hand with the biggest smile I can muster. “Hello. So nice to meet you. I’m Petal Parker. Well, I guess I should start saying PetalHanson, shouldn’t I? And what are your names?”
They reluctantly introduce themselves because they have no other option, and I excuse myself before I say what I’m really thinking.
30
PETAL
Fuck those bitches.
As soon as Vince wanders off, I give them my best stink eye and walk away without excusing myself. I roam through the crowd, partially hoping to find Rake and very grateful most people here have no idea who I am—yet. There’s a comforting anonymity in watching people when they’re not watching you back. I know it won’t last long, probably not even after tonight, when this whole crowd will eventually find out I’m Rake’s new better half.
But until they do, I’m going to enjoy slinking around, being ignored.
A crackling sound surges from the ballroom’s PA system, grabbing the partygoers’ attention. I look around and follow the glances of everyone toward a stage and podium I hadn’t noticed before. The team owner introduces himself and goes through the whole bit of thanking everyone for coming, and how much he appreciates their support and friendship.
Same as every event like this.
I grab another champagne from a passing waiter and stand patiently, listening to the owner, really just an old rich dude looking for a prestigious investment, drone on about how proud he is of the team and its staff and how much he loves San Francisco, even though I am pretty sure he doesn’t live here and has no plans to.
When he’s done blustering, he introduces a local sports reporter, who’s going to give out some awards or something. That’s when I zone out, and wonder if it would be rude to pull my phone out of my clutch and read something to pass the time.
But Rake’s name pricks my attention, and I look at the man on stage because something suddenly doesn’t feel right.
The crowd is murmuring, looking around like they’re trying to find someone. My mouth goes dry, really dry, and is not helped by the champagne, which, by now, I have chugged down like it’s a magic potion that will transport me out of the room and home to my own bed where I’ll be safe and warm.
A couple people around me look my way, and then a few more join them. Eventually everyone in my vicinity of the ballroom seems to be looking at me, staring, and whispering.
At first I wonder what have I done. Did I just sprout a second head? Why are people looking at me? No one here cares about me, at least they shouldn’t.
And then the words of the reporter behind the mic really register.
“I have it on good authority that Rake Hanson’s recent marriage is nothing more than a publicity stunt designed to clean up his hard-drinking, brawling image. His new wife is here tonight. You may have seen her, a lovely young woman with long brown hair, wearing a dark green gown. People, we need to know when sports fans are being manipulated, and we need to let the sports establishment know that their PR machines will not help them sell tickets…”
My God. They’re talking aboutme. Well, Rake and me. And the asshole even had to point out the color of my dress so I could be shamed. I wouldn’t be surprised if he tried to slap his version of a scarlet letter on me.
While I want nothing more than to find out where the hell Rake is, I look straight ahead at the man lobbing insults at not only Rake and me, but the entire ‘sports industrial complex,’ as he puts it, that wheedles more and more money out of its fans every year. I’m not going to let anyone see the tears filling my eyes or the way my body is cramping from forcing it to stand tall, like not a goddamn thing in the world is bothering me.
Who in God’s name would blab to the press? Not Rake’s friends, I know that. And the only other people who know are Vince and Rake’s agent.
At least, as far as I know.
Screw propriety. I pull my phone out of my purse and see I’ve missed several calls from Rake. I press his name and he answers right away.
“Where the hell are you?”
“I don’t know,” I gasp. “But can you come find me?”
31
