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Tod laughs. “Stop molesting my sister and talk to me about how you know this stuff.”
Fabian straightens waving his hands. “I’m a programmer.”
Tod’s eyes narrow. “A rather unusual one, I’m guessing,” he says. “Is it all true?”
Fabian studies the floor like he’s trying to work out what to say.
“Yeah,” Fabian says, looking at me. “Fuck, I’m sorry, Kate. I thought I’d do some research before I met everyone. It was superficial stuff to start off with, but then a couple of things came up, and when I pulled on those threads it was like opening Pandora’s box.”
I grin at him. He certainly has an interesting definition of “research.”
“Don’t apologize,” I say. “That was kind of amazing.”
“I thoroughly enjoyed that,” says Tod. “Dad’s an asshole.”
I frown at him, but he waves a hand at me.
“Why are you so disapproving? You know what he’s like. He patronizes everyone he meets. Do you think he’s involved in that South Africa stuff?”
Fabian opens his mouth and then shuts it again, and I catch his eye. I’m guessing that he’s found out more than he’s letting on and the answer is yes, my dad’s part of it. Fabian was holding back in not exposing him.
“I hope she doesn’t marry him,” Fabian mumbles, clearly wanting to distract us back to Javier. “He’s pretty sick.”
“Really?” Tod says, voice thrilled again. “Fuck, no longer do I need to hear from him, my aunt and uncle, or our parents about how much money that asshole has made. Hallelujah! Fabian, I can tell you don’t want to talk too much about what you do, but I’m getting you another whiskey.” He grins evilly, turning around to beckon to a waitress. “I think this amount of excitement in one evening requires us all to get totally wasted.”
12
Kate
Askinful of bluebird is right under my eye, and I blink at the ink and the delicate lines and shading before rolling onto my back. I’m in bed, withFabian? A dim light cuts through the gap in the curtains, and my eyes drift across his back to the script on his arm and the white sheet lying over his hips. He’s naked. The curve of his ass is just visible and my mouth waters: The urge to run my hand over it and squeeze makes me dizzy. He’s sex on a stick. I blink down over my bra and panties. Did we …? The previous evening shimmers just out of reach. This weekend has gone downhill so fast. I’m contemplating the ceiling rose when there’s a sharp rap on the door. When I sit up, the whole room swims alarmingly so I collapse straight back down again.
“I’m coming,” I shout, rolling over and shifting out of bed gingerly. Fabian doesn’t stir.
My phone says 7 a.m. I think I’ve had about three hours of sleep.
Staggering upright, my foot lands on something soft and slippery: my red dress. A vision of tossing it over my shoulder and collapsing face down shimmers through my mind. There’s no sign of a bathrobe so I pull the dress over my head, tipping over, and my hand shoots out to land on a chair as my head swoops. I remember Tod buying round of shots after rounds of shots, Fabian and I supporting each other up the stairs, bouncing off the stairwell to the banister and back again.
I prop myself against the wall, groping my way along to the door, and when I open it, my stomach drops. Cassandra is standing there in a black polo neck, black pants, and full makeup. Her mouth is a set slash of scarlet.
Before I can say anything, she grabs my arm. “Is he here?” she hisses.
“Who?”
“That man you were with.”
I nod at her, and she hustles in, eyes widening on Fabian in bed. She strides straight up to him and shakes his shoulder, bold as brass.
He grunts and rolls over, eyes opening then blinking fast when they latch on to her. He clutches at the sheet, pulling it up to his chest, and I grin at his bashfulness. His eyes sweep around the room and land on mine, and I grimace at him in apology, but really I want to bust out laughing.
“What did you find on his computer?” she snaps at him, and his eyes swing back in near panic to her, then he shakes his head, groaning and rolling over again and burying his face in the pillow, saying something that sounds suspiciously like “still drunk.”
So, we’re both feeling like crap. I sink down on the other side of the bed.
“You have to help me,” she says, planting two fists on the edge of the mattress as she leans over him.
“Your fiancé is an asshole. Don’t marry him,” he grunts into the pillow.
She tips her head down and breathes out heavily through her nose. When she lifts her head, her voice turns pleading. “You can’t let this wedding go ahead without me knowing what you found.”
