Oh. My. Fuck.
It’s less than ten seconds, but she’s waving her hands, clearlyangry. Beau’s animated, too, but he looks a little unsteady on his feet. Drunk and still holding a tumbler I can only assume is half-full of bourbon. The room around me fills with a low chatter that I am working hard to tune out.
This is hell. I am in hell.
I catch Ardell’s steely gaze and clear my throat and try to read the cards, hoping to draw attention away from the screens. But people are already looking back and forth between me and the screen, whispering to each other.
I try to find Beau again, but he’s already slipping through the exit, his head tipped low.
“Um,” I say in a shaky voice.
Judging by the rising whispers, though, the damage is already done.
I’m not supposed to be here. Gemma’s not supposed to be dead.
I have a little screen in my bathroom mirror so I can watchBelow Deckreruns from my freestanding stone tub.Thatwas the dream.
And now absolutely everyone in Central Florida has seen video evidence of Beau and Gemma together. Fighting.
Glee sparks in the eyes of the crowd swarming the Tartan Lounge—quiet but unmistakable. I am a spectacle, and every person in this room will get to say they saw the look on my face when the surveillance footage rolled.
They live for this shit.
By being here when the news breaks, I’ve handed them a fresh story to perpetuate the rumors about Gemma and Beau. I can already hear the whispers at tomorrow morning’s tennis lessons. “Did you see her face?” “Do you think she’s in on it?”
Beau and I are as good as cannon fodder.
The TV flips toSportsCenter.I blink and look around, hoping I’ve only hallucinated what I just saw. Darl is in the corner of the bar holding the remote. The room falls silent, and there’s a pregnant pause, as if everyone is waiting for me to do something.
What? Run off the stage screaming?
Chills run down my spine as my cheeks heat. Everyone in the room is looking at me. Everyone except Nora, who’s already moving toward the stage. The concern on her face is clear.
From somewhere in the front, I hear Carol clear her throat, trying to get my attention to move things along. “The trophy,” she mouths.
Like that will save this.
Carol tries to salvage the ceremony by handing a trophy to me, but I put it on the bar like I’m placing a live grenade.
Before anyone can speak, Nora appears and slips her arm into mine, ushering me along.
“What the fuck just happened?” Polly catches up to us outside. “Why was Beau on the news with Gemma?”
“I don’t think you’re allowed to say ‘fuck,’ ” I admonish, but the words lack authority. I’m dazed, replaying the footage of Beau in my head.
Polly protests. “That’s not fair. You say it.”
“I’m allowed. I have a mortgage and an aesthetician and a husband who’s in deep shit.”
“Let’s go,” Nora says, not breaking stride. “Give them a minute to cycle through the gossip. This will blow over.”
It’s a nice idea. But as we push through the front door of the club, the air scrapes down my throat in jagged breaths, and I realize I’m panicking.
“I could go back and pull the fire alarm,” Polly offers. “That would change the subject.”
“We commitonecrime together, and now, you’re a delinquent? Sorry, Polly. Not today,” I say. “Today we go home.”
“What about tomorrow?” she jokes.
