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As her head started to pound, Bitty sat down carefully on the sofa, keeping her skirt in place as best she could, and she was just as cautious with the test sip she took of the pink drink that had been bought on a round. As she grimaced, someone made a joke—not directed at her—and she didn’t get the punch line. After that, there was more laughter—and an inside reference to a movie she hadn’t seen.
She pinned a smile on her face, under the fake-it-’til-you-make-it doctrine, and then remembered that faking it was not part of the Resolve2Evolve list of progressions.
Not honest enough.
Trying the drink again, she coughed as it stung the back of her throat, and God, she just couldn’t manage another try. As she leanedforward to set the glass on the low table, she closed her eyes. Which made both the sounds and the smells louder—
Everything suddenly retreated.
All her life she had been able to sense things, as if the center of her chest were some kind of tuning fork. The strange incidents were so much a part of her that she couldn’t have isolated when she had first noticed them, but what she was clear on was that sometimes, she knew that things were going to happen… or needed to.
And she was feeling that right now.
The truth that she hadn’t been able to tell Nalla earlier, that she had hidden behind the argument about R2E, was that something had told her to come here tonight, to this club, to these people.
She just had no idea why—
From out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Mharta going over to L.W. The way the female walked, with her hips rolling at the base of her spine, and her long legs extending out like she was taking a piece of the club and pocketing it with every step, was like, enough already. And then Mharta put her hand on the back of the sofa, leaned into it, and whispered into the male’s ear.
Her cascade of straight blond hair swooped off her shoulder and went right between L.W.’s legs, the strands clinging to the black leather that covered his heavy thighs and his…
Well,thatpart of him, too.
Bitty looked away sharply. Then she reached out for that cocktail and took as much of a drink as she could. As she coughed and sputtered, she had one and only one thought:
Man, she really didn’t like that female for some reason.
Across the VIP section, in a whole different world, Evan Montiere didn’t dare sit down as he was presented to his uncle like something that had been found out in the street. He really wanted to take a load off. His body was weak inside his bones and his head was light as a balloon, andseeing the man he dreaded more than anything in life made all of that worse: Richard Montiere was leaning back on a white leather sofa, one of his usual black three-piece suits open at the jacket, buttoned up tight with the vest and the shirt. The white tie was knotted precisely at his throat, and his shoes were so shiny, they glowed in the turquoise light that bathed him.
The red handkerchief in the breast pocket made it look like he’d been shot through the heart—and was such a tough guy, he refused to give in to his own death.
The lieutenant who’d brought Evan into the sit pit wouldn’t let him go any farther. No hugging. No reassurance as he fought not to break down. Not even a handshake you might give a stranger. But he’d never had much in common with his family, and they’d never really liked him.
True to form, Uncle stayed silent in the awkward pause that followed, although his narrowed, cold eyes sure as hell were talking. And when Evan glanced around at the men seated on the couches, all of whom were extended cousins, he got nothing better. They all just stared back like they were picking out his coffin in their heads. He hadn’t expected them to be helpful.
But he would have liked… something, from somebody, in his family, though.
“Mickey is dead,” he croaked loud enough to carry over the music. “He’s… gone. And I know who did it.”
The lieutenant standing next to him, his third cousin once removed, drawled, “Yeah. Who.”
You don’t even care, he thought as he didn’t look away from his uncle’s face.
“It’s that enforcer you’ve been using. Nathaniel.”
Uncle finally moved, holding up his hand to silence his lieutenant’s muttering. Then he pointed to the floor in front of him.
Evan had to sidestep around his escort, then squeeze through the runway between the coffee table and all the shoes of the other men so he could front-and-center.
“How do you know this,” Uncle said.
“I saw it happen.” Evan sniffled and rubbed his nose. “It was out on the guy’s property. In the sticks.”
“What were you doing there.”
“Mickey wanted to go see him.” Evan wiped his eyes. “He said he had business with him. I told Mickey we needed to leave. He didn’t listen—and I saw it happen.”
“You saw it.”
