Page 4 of Married to the Devil

There’s a shriek from the hotel room followed by laughter followed by the low thump of terrible techno music, and I drag myself into the party, putting thoughts of that man behind me.

2

JUNE

Islip out into the hall several hours later with the ice bucket and make my way to the vending machines.

The hotel room is quiet. Except for Marnie puking and Beth holding her hair, everyone’s passed out. I feel a headache coming on.

I want something cold to press on the back of Marnie’s neck while she yaks up all the alcohol she dumped into her stomach.

The stripper was a hit. Party Bill really did come through. The guy wasn’t much to look at, but he was funny, high-energy (especially after taking a snort in the bathroom one of Marnie’s party-girl friends offered him), and willing to degrade himself for dollar bills. His show lasted an hour, then there was the club, and another club, and the lounge, the afterhours bar…

Now we’re back and I’m ready to drop.

In all that mess, I’ve had a total of two drinks. Enough to keep me going, but not enough to get me impaired. Someone had to be sober, and that someone’s usually me.

It’s my job. Or my self-imposed role, anyway. The party mom, the responsible one. Out late and lost your keys? Call June. Got lost and need a ride? Call June.

I’d say I hate it, but I don’t.

It’s who I am. Grandma Hattie taught me young. Or really, forced me to learn.

Someone’s got to take care of everything. And that someone might as well be me.

I reach the machines and scoop ice into the bucket. I feed some cash into the soda machine and push the button for a Diet Coke. It thumps down loudly. I bend over, grab it, and straighten again.

A shadow’s on the far side of the narrow room, blocking the door.

“You never asked my name. Some people might think that was rude.”

I go very, very still.

That voice. That smell. The same cologne. The dull musk, clean and fresh.

I turn and he’s there. Alone this time, lingering close by. The jacket is gone, though he’s still in a dress shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbow, the top two buttons undone. Black tattoos etch every inch of his skin. What kind of businessman has that much ink? His watch glitters in the low light. His gray eyes gleam as he drinks me in.

I shiver and that fear comes back, but not as strong this time.

“I’m sorry about that. I mean, about the whole thing.” I plunk the soda into the ice bucket.

“Nunzio thought I should have taught you a lesson. Do you think he was right?”

My eyes widen a fraction. “Who’s Nunzio?”

“The unhappy-looking man who was reaching for a weapon. I know you noticed it.”

I lick my lips. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The man steps closer. “You still haven’t asked. It’s starting to get rude. Maybe Nunzio was correct.”

“No. I mean, sorry. What’s… what’s your name?”

“I’m Rafe Corvino. It’s very nice to meet you, June Ashworth.” He offers a hand. I stare at the ink on his fingers. A-S-H-E-S.

I’m dizzy as I slip my palm against his. He dwarfs me like I’m nothing. His grip isn’t as menacing this time, though it’s firm. “How did you know my last name?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he holds onto me for longer than he should. “I have a room here. I don’t make this offer often, so please don’t be offended, but if you want to get away from your party for some quiet—“ He lets that dangle between us.