by Fiona Archer
Her mom parked less than a block from the restaurant. When they entered, Harper and Cleo were already seated at their table. The establishment’s décor was rich browns and plums and yellow toned light bulbs hanging from the ceiling on long black cords. High-backed upholstered booths kept each group of diners secluded from the next, adding a sense of decadence.
Cleo grinned as they slid into the booth. The silver threads in her black threaded top shone from the glow of one of the light bulbs. Teamed with thick silver hoop earrings and her long ultra-straight black hair, she looked sleek and stylish. “Ladies, you’re all looking fine tonight.” She grabbed the cocktail menu and scanned the choices. “I need to find myself a rich husband, divorce him and then live off the alimony.”
London “Bad day?”
“No, just weird.” She looked about to say more, but shook her head. “Don’t listen to me. I’m just hungry.”
As if on cue, the waiter arrived and took the new arrivals’ drink orders plus a few shared appetizers for the table. Right behind him were Jinx and Mercy, who added their drink orders too.
Harper’s sun kissed complexion glowed against the warmth of her burgundy boat-neck satin top. “Okay, ladies, who’s updating first?”
Jinx didn’t wait for a second invitation. “We scored big time at Henry’s apartment building. There were three listings for rent, not just two. The third is the doctor’s apartment across the hall from Henry’s.” She waited as everyone made surprised comments. “He and his wife don’t want to live so close to…well, a murder scene. They’ve moved out and are putting the place up for rent. The building supervisor took us there last.”
“Jinx and I were standing outside the apartment after the tour as the supervisor checked all the lights were off inside and the elevator binged.” Mercy glanced around the table. “The doors opened, a guy walked out a few steps, saw us, turned around and got back in. He kept his back to us as the elevator doors closed.”
“And there’s a chance we could just be paranoid,” Jinx shrugged.
“That’s true.” Mercy agreed. “Anyway, we thanked the building supervisor, got the next elevator down and tried to take a picture of him with our phones, but he was nowhere to be seen. For all we know, he could have got off on another floor.”
London’s mom frowned. “There’s so many ways to interpret what happened.”
“And all subjective.” London was beginning to sense a feeling of doom about this item on their grand action plan. “Did you find out anything about Henry from the supervisor?”
“Honestly, no. We used showing the doctor’s apartment as an opening for discussing Henry, but all the man would say is what you already knew. That Henry was a conspiracy theorist who all the staff thought was a bit strange, but he could write one hell of a thriller.”
Harper absently ran her fingers along her thin gold necklace. “I’m betting his employers warned him not to comment to anyone but police.”
“That’s was our take,” Jinx agreed. “God, I’m so disappointed. Mercy and I were feeling our Nancy Drew groove but the wheels fell off somewhere along the way.” Jinx gave a self-depreciating grin.
“I’m imagining both of your Nancy Drews going off to sneak some cuddle time with the Hardy boys.” London reached over and squeezed the hands of both women. “I’m grateful you were both so willing to get involved.” She turned to Cleo. “And what tales of intrigue and mystery can you share?”
“More than you can imagine.” Cleo nodded at London’s surprised expression. “Let me start with Henry. His publisher was, as you’d expect, more than happy with his work and their future plans. I’d say the staff are devastated right now, and not just because of loss of future stories. Henry may have been a little paranoid, but he was an excellent writer and well respected by everyone who worked with him.” Cleo gave London a soft smile. “And I know hearing that is a comfort to you. It was for me, too.”
“Thank you for that, honey.” It would be easy in all the drama that had surrounded her the last week to forget that Cleo had known Henry even longer. Though Cleo and Henry were not as close, and sometimes disagreed, they shared a deep mutual respect.
London remembered a couple of their debates. Fierce trading of ideas in the back of A New Chapter, both proponents passionate about what gave them joy.
What gave them…joy.
What fulfilled them.
What mattered.
London sat staring at her glass of wine. The driving emotions and complex motivations that had governed her, especially over the last week, disintegrated into dust.
Her world had distilled down to two words.
What mattered.
Her family.
Her friends.
Her writing.
…and Heath…and his family.
For the last few weeks she’d tortured herself over her decision whether to take a chance and try writing in another genre. What if this group of readers didn’t want to read her book? And those bloggers who’d followed her from the start? Would they now abandon her? And even when she’d informed Gloria of her decision to go ahead, she’d held off announcing anything. Because she didn’t really know…people could leave, ignore her, move on.
A decision matrix based on fear and self-doubt.
How the hell could she achieve her dreams with those ideals as her foundations?
Surely…
Didn’t courage and determination, the need to fulfill a dream, a desire that nothing else can satisfy, take precedence?
Of course, and London knew this truth. It had been bred into her by a proud and loving family.
So when had she moved from center field to the sidelines when it came to trusting her gut instinct?
She had no fucking idea. Only that the behavior ended now. Here. Right now.
God, she’d been an idiot.
How much had the guilt and panic at her own inaction on the choices she could change made her push herself to find answers to the events and issues of those she could not?
Like the murder of her friend.
A fellow author using her for their own gain.
And whether falling head over heels for a man this quick was normal. When had love ever been normal?
It was time to move forward. And let others know she had.
“Babe, are you with us?” Cleo asked.
London gathered herself and nodded. “Yep, sorry.”
Cleo nodded and continued. “Moving on to Angelique, she did approach her contracted publisher first with her new series. They passed for reasons unknown but much speculated. She and her agent looked elsewhere. She came close to a contract, but apparently the advance was below expectations. The rumor now is she’s re-writing the premise and trying to shop the updated model. Her agents advised her to increase her profile.”
“So these maneuvers of hers against me are purely for publicity purposes.” Talk about feeling used. “Okay.”
Cleo sat back, a deep V formed by her dark eyebrows. “That’s it? Okay?”
“What’s there to say? I’m either going to move on with my life, or get irrationally upset and waste precious angst better left for my characters on someone who doesn’t give a damn whether I exist or not, only that she can be better than me or whomever she puts in my place.”
“But don’t you want to kick Angelique’s ass?” Jinx sat forward, her expression curious, not frustrated.
“Yesterday? Yeah, I did. A week ago? For sure.” London lifted a hand, palm up to start to explain, but let it fall. “Honestly, there comes a time you finally realize not everyone is going to like you. Even worse, sometimes people are mean to you when it’s undeserved.” She shook her head. “I need to apologize to you all.” She let her gaze fall on each person in the booth, letting them know she was speaking to every one of them. “I just had one of those weird as heck epiphanies, but basically, I’m moving on from my panic of not having any control. I do, I have all the control I need. My problem was I wasn’t using it on th
e things I can manipulate.”
She felt the tug of her mom’s gaze and looked over, past her grandma to the woman who knew her so well. “Thank you for waiting this out with me.”
Her mom’s eyes glimmered under the lighting. A few blinks later, and so did her cheeks. “Anytime, sweetheart,” she whispered, her voice craggy.
And as for her grandma. “I’m afraid your covert shenanigans on this team have come to an end, Gran.”
“No problem, honey. I’m thinking those Justice fellas are the kind of men who find plenty of adventures. Just hanging near one of them is bound to include us sooner or later.”
All the women laughed.
Harper lifted her glass in salute. “Estelle, no truer words were ever spoken.”
Over the next two hours, the amount of laughter at their table seemed to increase with the consumption of wine. None of the women were drunk, especially not her mom who, as designated driver, limited herself to diet coke.
From there, it was a quick trip next door to the nightclub Jinx assured them was exclusive as all get-out. They stood in line for what seemed like hours, but in reality, was around twenty minutes. Once inside the four-story glass and marble structure, Jinx led the way like a great explorer marching off into the unknown. The women all followed each other like new kindergarteners on their first day. Any minute now, London expected them to join hands.
Her grandma—at the center of the line to make sure she wasn’t pulled away by the crush of bodies and left to fend for herself—swayed her hips and waved her arms in the air as they made their slow progress. She received many smiles and “Go Granny” mouthed compliments. One young man decided he’d like to dance behind her but the wave of humanity made it look like he was brushing himself up against her, at which point, London’s mom whacked him with her handbag. Go, Mom!
London and Cleo, the last two in the line, burst out laughing, earning them a ‘mom glare’.
Outside the club, Jinx had told them their goal was to reach level four—the most exclusive in the club where permission was required to pass a gold rope. By level three, London was ready to apply for citizenship and never move again after they found enough seats for everyone and obtained drinks at the bar. This level was awesome in that she could actually see the décor—arctic white ceilings, white marble everything, and white leather sofas with the same colored lights strobing and flashing as downstairs. Clubs this expensive and stylish were designed for the patrons to be seen. No dark corners in this establishment. The drinks were more expensive as they went up each floor—great way to sort out the herd—and there was more seating, although the dance floor was smaller.
“We’ll take a break here and push on in twenty minutes,” Jinx called out from her vast distance of three feet away.
London laughed to herself. Trekking, club style.
From the corner of her eye, London swore she saw a familiar face. Well, familiar in the sense she knew the woman. Tall. Stunning. Wearing a white dress that shone iridescent under the lighting, Cashmere La Croix walked with a sway of her hips up the staircase. She was just passing, turning to go up the next flight of stairs when she turned and looked over in London’s direction.
Their gazes met, and to London’s surprise, Cashmere waved, turned and started to make her way over.
London leaned in to Jinx. “Behind you.” She pointed in Cashmere’s direction.
Jinx rose and went over to her client. They performed a quick hug, and Cashmere pointed toward upstairs and nodded a few times.
Jinx spun to face them and pointed to the stairs, a huge smile on her face. Everyone stood, not because they were dying to get to the top, but Jinx’s business as a stylist worked on word of mouth recommendations, and even though London knew her friend had a formidable reputation, keeping that profile high would only add more luster.
Nobody bothered with introductions considering the noise level. Their group made it up the stairs to the golden rope area. A skinny short guy in a smart suit and wearing dark rimmed glasses stood at the top. He wore an earpiece and tiny mic, held a clipboard, possessed a haughty stare and more attitude then Aretha Franklin demanding some R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Behind him were two burly guys in black suits who looked like they tossed giant Redwoods as if they were matchsticks.
Cashmere leaned in close to the shorter door bitch and did some explaining. London was amazed at the huge smile that transformed the man’s face from pinched to warm and—dare she say it—friendly.
In no time, they were escorted to a seating area to the side, warm ambient light from lamps and specially placed globes in the ceiling illuminated their area. The décor on this floor would best be called Goldeneye. Black leather arm chairs, smoke glass tables and gold ottomans were scattered in groups over a black marble floor. Semi-sheer gold curtains wafted down from a high ceiling around each clump of chairs, forming a huge two-sided square. In layers of three, the curtains provided the idea of privacy. London counted twenty squares in all over the floor.
Alas, there was no dance floor, but she could see groups of people dancing within their semi private squares.
The women settled in the chairs, and with the volume way lower than level 3, Cashmere explained without having the shout that this floor was strictly waiter service. Drinks were free as you were a guest of a patron of the club.
Further, she explained she was there with a gentleman tonight who liked her full attention when on this floor, so she had asked Randolph, the floor manager, to see to their needs.
As she went to move away, she smiled at London. “I told him how your books have made the bestseller lists. He loves that sort of thing. Expect him to come over at some point to say hello.” And with that, she walked across the floor to a square two rows to the right.
London had a cocktail, then another. She was having a fabulous time and danced with all the other girls in their ‘square’. The illusion of privacy was so strong a person would have thought they couldn’t be seen by the other guests or patrons on the floor.
But that proved wrong.
“Hello, London,” a deep, gravelly male voice said behind her.
She turned, drink in hand, and nearly fell as Declan Bishop stood before her.
Dressed in black pants and shoes, white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal muscled forearms and an open collar that showed off his tanned skin, he stood around a foot taller than her.
“Declan.” London couldn’t keep the surprise from her voice. Not that he’d be here, but that he’d approach her. She glanced at Jinx, who’d lowered her glass to the table and moved closer. “Can I—“
“Jinx, get your friends together, you’re leaving.” He spoke quietly, but with undisputed authority that had the women gathering their belongings. Taking London’s upper arm in a firm, but not painful grip, he moved to the stairs, but seeing the crowds and her Grandma, he apparently changed his mind. “Randolph, elevator.” The shorter man handed Declan a keycard, and he led their group to the far side wall. “This isn’t the night for you to be here.” He swiped the card, and the doors opened. Everyone piled in. Silent. Nervous.
The trip down was swift.
The doors opened to a basement garage.
A man, tall and broad shouldered, stood ready to enter the elevator. He stared back at them.
“That’s him!” Mercy and Jinx yelled in unison.
Surprise washed over the man’s features before he turned and ran.
Declan Bishop chased after him, nearly catching the guy before a car backed out of a parking space and cut him off from his quarry. The driver sat, hands on the wheel, mouth open, staring at Declan.
“Fuck!” Declan bellowed as the man ripped open a fire door and disappeared.
A squeal of tires, then another, came from the opposite direction. Three vehicles, Heath’s SUV, Adam’s Explorer, and Seth’s Tesla roared to a stop in front of their little group that had spilled out of the elevator.
Heath and Seth flung themselves out of their vehicles. Ad
am and Zach joined seconds later.
Ignoring the people around them, Heath pulled her into his arms. “You okay?”
“Yes. I’m fine. I’m just not sure what’s happened.” Or why he was here.
“Declan called Adam. We were at his place.” Heath spared Declan a glance and kept talking. “Said one of his men overhead one of the bouncers here get orders they needed to quarantine a group of women on the top floor. One of them some big name author and that they thought she might have drugs.” He ran his hands over her hair, across her shoulders, starting down her arms. “Did any of them touch you?” He looked over her head at the other women. “Any of you?”
“No, Heath, they never got a chance.” London’s head spun at the mention of drugs. “Declan had us in the elevator and then we got here and saw the guy.”
His brows drew into a frown. “What guy?”
“From Henry’s apart—“ Jinx broke off, closing her eyes and hanging her head.
Fuck. Fuckity fuck.
Heath’s body stiffened. His grip on her upper arms tightened. “What’s she talking about?”
“It’s my idea. My fault,” Jinx threw out. She stepped close, but Zach pulled her back by her arm, earning him a glare for his troubles.
“I decided I needed to not be a victim and, instead, get back some control over what had happened to me with Henry.” At the anger banked in Heath’s gaze, she went to step away but was held fast by his grip. “You explained why that wasn’t smart, and I should have listened, but I didn’t. I could have said no to Jinx’s idea.” She closed her eyes for a second and gathered up her courage. “I asked the girls if they wanted to help me find some answers.”
A muscle ticked in Heath’s jaw. “Exactly what did that entail?”
Jinx gestured with elbow bent, one hand, palm up, in front of her. “I suggested going to Henry’s apartment building and looking at vacant listings to see if we could ask the building supervisor any questions. Maybe he’d let something slip.”
“You could have all been seriously hurt tonight.” Adam’s voice rumbled with his anger.
Seth wasn’t much better, having a hold of Harper’s arm like he was escorting a prisoner to their cell.
