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Rex wouldn’t appreciate my views on love. Not when he’s still mourning the loss of his.
Instead, I say what I know to be accurate, hoping it’s enough to sway him from talking about a sentiment as chaotic and unpleasant as love.
“Martha was one of a kind, Rex.”
“That she was,” he mumbles, and I feel Rex’s happy-go-lucky mood take a darker tone. “But now that she’s gone, I must admit that I’m a little lost without her.”
“I’m sure that will change once the season starts,” I try to assure. “You’ll be far too busy to think about such things.”
“If only things were that simple,” he grumbles under his breath.
My brows furrow at how his steady gaze shoots across the large room to where a group of people are huddled around a well-dressed man, one that I’ve never seen before. They are hanging onto his every word and laughing on cue at some joke he must have said like a pack of hyenas.
“Lately, I feel like I need a change,” Rex continues to say as his gaze stays fixed on this stranger. “This city holds far too many memories for me. And it’s starting to take its toll.”
My hackles rise at the ominous statement, but before I can question Rex about what he means, he slaps his hand on my shoulder and gives it a good squeeze, his cheerful smile back on his face.
“But that’s an issue for another day. You’ve had enough of hearing an old man whine about his life for one night. Best I keep mingling about and leave you. I’m sure you’ll find more pleasurable ways to fill your night than listening to me vent.” He smiles affectionately. “Ah, to be young. How I envy you, son.”
“You’re not that old, Rex. You still have plenty of years in front of you.”
“God, I hope not.” He smiles, but it never reaches his eyes.
With a pat on the back, Rex walks away from me towards a stranger that everyone seems to be fawning over tonight.
As a waiter passes by me, I stop him in his tracks before he can take a further step.
“Is there anything I can get for you, sir?” he asks politely, but his Southie accent gives him away.
“I think you can. What’s your name?”
“It’s Timothy, sir.” He forces a smile.
“You’re as much a Timothy as I’m George fucking Washington. Give me your real name, kid.”
“Connor. What of it?” he replies with a deep South Boston accent.
“Much better.” I grin. “Now, Connor. Do you want to make a couple of bucks tonight?”
“That depends. What do I have to do for it, and how much are we talking about?” he asks suspiciously.
“There’s a crisp hundred-dollar bill with your name on it if you can find out who that guest over there is,” I point to the man in question. “I need a name.”
“That’s it?” he asks, eyeing the man attentively.
“That’s it.” I nod.
The young waiter quickly snaps to attention and starts walking towards the other side of the room, secure in his abilities to get the job done. I crack a smile when he returns five minutes later, looking all smug and confident.
“You have a name for me?”
“Yeah, I got a name for ya. Do you got my money?”
I pull out my wallet and flash the hundred-dollar bill in his face.
“Name first,” I order before snatching the bill away from his grasp.
“Lawrence Preston III. By the sound of it, he’s some big shot who arrived from England a few weeks ago. Just another snob to add to the pile. That’s all I got.”
