She wasn’t me.
Just as Caroline painted sailboats, my heart painted hiking boots, and rivers, and snow-capped mountains.
A funky boom-shaka-laka-laka pounding down the hallway warned of what awaited in the Boom Boom Room, moments before we stepped past an anorexic-looking doorwoman and into its seventies decadence.
Oh sweet superfly.
White leather sofas. Wood paneling and starburst chandeliers. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows, the city glittering below. In the adjoining room was a span of glossy black tiling, broken by a sunken triangle-shaped hot tub, of all things. I’d have to watch my footing so I wouldn’t take a classic Kaye tumble into its bubbly depths. Celebs and authors, designers and debutantes mingled with martini glasses in one hand and shooters in the other. Tall models circulated with hors d’oeuvres and wine trays. Along one of the glass walls was an elaborate table highlighting local artists’ work for silent auction. And at the center of the space? A two-story, cone-shaped bar, golden and glowing.
It was Mick Jagger’s living room.
I gripped Samuel’s elbow and wandered through the A-list hideaway. It was like some trippy dream sequence, where everything’s a blur of dim lights and swirling people, and occasionally, you recognize a face, but you aren’t sure if you’ve actually met that face or saw it on a magazine rack in a check-out line.
“Cabral, good to see you.” A man in a leather jacket fired a finger gun at us. “Loved the new book. Cute girl.”
“Hey, Samuel, welcome home,” crooned a pretty little thing who couldn’t have been more than nineteen.
“Sam, can I buy you a drink? Ha!” Another man with freaky sunglasses and a trophy wife on his arm slapped Samuel’s shoulder. I felt him stiffen.
“I was just on my way to the bar, excuse me,” he mumbled, sidestepping the pair with a hand pressed to the small of my back. Sunglasses man stared after us, mouth gaping.
“I think you offended that guy.”
He snorted. “He’s a rat. Still bitter I’ve knocked three of his books off the number one slot on The New York Times’ bestseller list.” He snatched two wine glasses from a tray and handed one to me. “Drink half of this, please. If I want to be ‘socially acceptable,’ I’ll need a glass in my hand.”
I did as he asked, coughed, then swapped drinks. “Clever. Where did you pick up that trick?”
“Endless parties like this. Buitre likes to be up to their elbows in Lafite Rothschild. If you ever need to get on Jerome’s good side, ask his opinion of their cellars. It won’t matter if you don’t know what the hell he’s talking about; he’ll appreciate the chance to brag.”
I took a sip of wine and wrinkled my nose—too dry for my taste. I wiped red lipstick off the rim with my thumb. Oh, forget it. I snatched a cocktail napkin and rubbed the gunk from my lips, too. A man laughed heartily just behind us.
“What do you think of Buitre’s snazzy Grand-Cru, Ms. Trilby?” Patrick O’Malley greeted us, and I could have kissed his friendly face. His blinding white teeth glowed beneath the mood lighting.
“I think if they served the cheap stuff, no one would know the difference.”
“Agreed. You’d be surprised how many focus groups—wine experts included—prefer the cheaper bottle when labels are stripped away. Wine expertise is the biggest swindle in our society, along with academia and golf. It’s too easy to become snobbish about the labels.”
“Or snobbish about non-conformity,” Samuel came back.
Patrick raised his glass. “Very true.”
“Kaye’s accused me of being the snobbiest anti-snob in Manhattan.” He gave my hip a tender squeeze.
I rolled my eyes. “It’s our Colorado upbringing. They fed us granola instead of Cheerios. You don’t ascribe to labels, Patrick?”
“I do not.”
“Odd philosophy, coming from someone who creates images for a living.”
“Ah, Ms. Trilby. I don’t create them, per se. I simply highlight qualities which already exist in my clients. Fewer fraud perpetuations that way.” He clapped Samuel on the back. “You’ve got an enchanting one here, Cabral. Don’t let her slip away again.”
“I don’t intend to.” The warmth of his words burned through my limbs like the wine I drank. Then he nodded to someone behind me. Indigo Kingsley waved us over to her entourage. Among them were Nat and a gorgeous, tan hunk who could only be Marco Caldo.
“Excuse me for a moment,” Samuel said quietly, then turned in the opposite direction.
I tightened my grip on his elbow. “Where are you going?”
“To the little boys’ room. You’ll have to release my arm, Kaye.”
“Oh. You won’t like the restrooms. Rumor has it the floors are clear glass.” My fingers relinquished him for the first time tonight. He kissed my head and sauntered through the room, drawing every eye to his graceful frame.
Patrick shook his head. “He doesn’t even realize how much they watch him, does he? Amazing.”
My eyes stayed on Samuel until he disappeared. “He does. He’s just not comfortable being watched.” I took another sip of wine to bolster my courage. “Patrick, do you remember, on our flight to LA, you said I could call you if my client ever needed a consult? Well, I’d like to call you.”
He lifted a dark eyebrow. “Negotiating a change of guard in the old guards’ barracks? Now I truly adore you. Let’s talk in private.” He glanced around the room, then hustled me away from the crowds to a quiet table. I slid onto the stool and was about to swipe my napkin across the sugar-covered table when Patrick grabbed my wrist. He held it still, shaking his head.
“Best not to touch that.”
“The sugar?”
He chuckled. “I don’t think it’s sugar.”
My face reddened. “Crud, I’m so naïve sometimes.”
“It’s refreshing. Now, Ms. Trilby, won’t you tell me about Mr. Cabral’s career plans?”
Between my chat with Patrick and Indigo’s dragging me around like a show dog, the night went faster than I expected. Relatively uneventful, save for a disheartening confrontation with a very bitter Robin.
“Are you Kaye Trilby?” he sneered. I immediately recognized the effete voice from our ambiguous phone conversations. “You nearly cost me my job.” His knuckles tightened around the stem of his wine glass, and I was sure he’d snap it in two. An untamable cowlick made him appear even more boyish, poor kid, like someone’s little brother. He probably was. Mother cliff-hucker, I was a harpy.
I jumped into an apology before he had a chance to chew my lying behind. “Robin, I’m so sorry—”
“Save it,” he clipped, and stomped across the room to a circle of young New Yorkers burning holes in my back. It left me feeling like I was back in high school and a box of tampons fell out of my locker, or something equally embarrassing. I slammed back the rest of my drink, willing away humiliation as sangria thrummed through my veins.
Samuel came up behind me just as the kid stormed off. He rubbed my neck. I closed my eyes and leaned into his hand.
“I take it Lexi let him have it over BrownStoners?”
I grimaced. “At least he’s still employed.”
He gave my neck an affectionate squeeze. “Don’t dwell on it. Come with me—I want to show you off.”
I kept one eye on my wristwatch and the other on Samuel as we circulated. Eleven forty. We’d been at Boom Boom much longer than the promised hour, to Jerome’s delight. But now it was time to turn in. Samuel wasn’t well, though he wasn’t poor. He just…was. He hovered politely in conversations, offered terse replies when needed, coasted on autopilot. He kept the same half-full glass of wine in his hand the entire night, fooling them all.
I sidled up to the flamboyant bar for a watered-down night cap, ogling Samuel from across the room as he shook hands and said good nights.
“Samuel Cabral is as beautiful as ever, isn’t he?”
I turned at the dulcet voice by my side. My eyes widened. My mouth went dry. Sp
ank me and call me a slut. Her. Fluffed brunette hair, lethal dress, curling lips, it was as if she’d hopped from my nightmare and landed in the waking world. I’d know her anywhere. I’d never felt such a fanatical urge to gouge out someone’s eyes. It was the brunette of my brownstone nightmares.
“You,” I spat.
She blinked. “You remember me. I thought you wouldn’t.”
“How could I forget? Your little affidavit for Lyle Togsender sure hasn’t helped to block you from my brain.”
Her critical, eyelash-feathered gaze swept over me. “I don’t know if I would’ve recognized you, if not for Page Six. Your lack of hoodie and backpack threw me off. That, and a noticeable absence of drama.”
My stomach roiled in disgust, and I had to clutch my glass between both hands to keep from tossing red wine in her face. I wanted to yank that mane of hair from her scalp and hang it above my mantle. Like a Maury Povich episode, I wanted to scream that she was a skanky crack-whore and to keep her powder-covered claws away from my husband. But I managed to restrain myself. I’d learned my lesson with Caroline at Danita’s wedding, and I wasn’t going to embarrass Samuel in that fashion. I studied her again, the brittle face and bony shoulders, and decided she truly was human and not the insuperable vixen my nightmares made her out to be.
But my oh my, she was trying. “Damn, he was sexy when he was high.” Her eyes followed Samuel, drifting down his body. “He certainly was an intense, confused young man, like he was tied to the bumpers of two cars driving in opposite directions. I thought maybe he…you know. Had a wide stance.”
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. “He’s not—”
“Kaye!”
And Saint Patrick. You’ve got to be KIDDING me. I watched with disbelieving eyes as Mr. Avant Garde himself purposefully strode my way, arms spread for a hug. He was gaunter, and he’d grown out his hair. It was slicked back into a stubby tail and honestly, it made him look skeevy. A striped silk scarf was flung around his neck and he sported an intentionally rumpled blazer over an equally rumpled T-shirt with a print of Toulouse-Lautrec. I had a hard time recalling why I’d found him attractive. Could this night possibly resemble a French film more?
“I see you’ve met my date.”
The brunette. Oui.
When I didn’t accept his hug, he shrugged and wrapped an overly friendly arm around her shoulder. “Our magazine is publishing a selection of her coffee house poetry next month.”
“Congratulations,” I said acidly.
Brunette actually winked at me. “Kaye and I go way back. I knew her husband seven years ago.”
Mr. Avant Garde froze, hand raised mid hair-slick. “Husband!”
Yeah, probably should have left an hour ago, before Fate had a chance to kick me in the teeth. “Ex-husband, thanks in part to your frisky friend here,” I muttered.
The brunette pointed to Samuel. “That guy over there.”
Avant Garde followed her finger, and his eyes bulged like a bullfrog’s. “Samuel Caulfield Cabral? Oh shit, you’re that Kaye?”
To my horror, Samuel swung around at the sound of his name. His eyes caught mine, silently questioning the panic in my face. He was at my side in a moment.
“Kaye, are you ready to…” And then he saw her. “You.”
She flashed neat Chiclet teeth. “Hey, Samuel.”
His arm crept around my waist, as if he would throw me behind him like a caveman if the woman so much as puckered her lips.
Mr. Avant Garde sputtered something terrible. His hands seemed to have unfrozen and dug paths through his gel-encrusted locks. “You’re her husband! Oh crap, I slept with Samuel Cabral’s wife. Please tell me you don’t have kids.”
I felt Samuel’s shock before I even dared to look at his face. He released me as if I’d burned him. We downright should have left an hour ago.
“For the love of all that’s holy,” I hissed desperately, “lower your voice! You’re not a home wrecker.”
“You fucked him?” Samuel’s voice was low and treacherous.
“Samuel,” I begged.
His face grew wild. He growled. Then, it was as if all the energy quit the vicinity and concentrated in his clenched fist. It surged forward and before I knew what happened, Samuel threw himself into Mr. Avant Garde, pummeling him into the ground.
“You fucking stay away from her,” he bellowed. “Don’t you ever touch her with your filthy fucking hands again, or I’ll hunt you down and break every bone in your body!”
Blood splattered across the black tiles and Samuel’s shirt as he landed a second blow to the writhing man’s face. People screamed, and I think one of them was me. I was vaguely aware of Justin and Patrick leaping forward and grasping Samuel’s biceps, pulling him away from his victim. Then Mr. Avant Garde, blood smeared over his nose and cheek, grasped the opportunity to attack and dived, shoulder-first into Samuel’s gut. He was a lot feistier than his Toulouse-Lautrec shirt implied. The sheer force sent all four men skidding across the polished black tiles and, as fate would have it, into that bubbly, ill-placed hot tub.
Cameras flashed. Party-goers gasped and chattered excitedly as bouncers shoved them to the side, yanking the sopping wet men from the tub. Somewhere behind me, above the roaring crowd, Jerome demanded to know what had happened.
“Get him out of here!” Patrick shouted at me. The minute Samuel crawled out of the water, I latched onto his hand.
“Good night Brunette, Avant Garde—sorry about the nose,” I called, scurrying past the hot tub mess.
“You can forget about coffee, Kaye!” he howled after me as I dragged Samuel through the crowds before Jerome could find us.
The moment we stepped into the elevator, I pounced. “What the—? You can’t just go around punching people out, Samuel! What if he wants to press charges?”
He gripped my arms like a vice. “You slept with that man!”
“Yes, a long time ago.” Never mind his brunette also put in an appearance. His eyes, inches from mine, burned with hurt and rage as water streamed around them. “He was Number One—friend of a friend. I told you about him in the cave, remember?”
“You were going to meet him for coffee,” he accused.
“No, I wasn’t. He helped me get a copy of BrownStoners. I was being polite, and I am so sorry you found out about it this way. Samuel, listen to me,” I said calmly, “you need to get a hold of your temper. Look at you, you’re dripping a lake in the elevator.” For someone who hated to be the center of attention, he certainly was, tonight.
His grip on my arms slackened, and the blood rushed back to my fingers. I clenched and unclenched them as they tingled.
He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. “You could have told me.”
“I’m truly sorry for lying to you about contacting that guy. You have a tremendous jealous streak, Cabral. I didn’t want to risk it.”
“So who were you having coffee with Sunday morning?”
“Caroline. I wanted her advice on how to convince you to see a doctor.” I grabbed his shirttails and began to wring water from them.
“Don’t hide things from me, Kaye,” he snarled.
“Don’t be hypocritical, Samuel. Do you truly remember last night?”
He froze. “No. I don’t remember.”
“There was coke at the party. Have you been using again?”
“No! Quit with the fucking interrogation!”
The elevator doors opened and an older couple was poised to walk in. But one glimpse of Samuel, drenched and bloody, a towering psychopath in the corner, and they decided to catch the next one. When the doors slid shut, I watched with horror as his face crumpled. His hand shot up to shield his eyes from me.
I brushed sodden brown strands from his forehead. “Hey. Talk to me.”
“I’m…not in control. I terrified those people.”
“Well, babe, you’re soaking wet.” And a tad gory, but I somehow thought that wouldn’t help. “I’ll call your doctor right away and we’ll
sort this out.”
I let Samuel into the hotel room where we’d stashed our things. Digging out his dry clothes, I placed them on the bed. He looked utterly lost as he wandered through the room.
“Goodness knows what was in that hot tub; I’d venture a mixture of piss and booze. You might want to take a shower. Just leave your wet things in there and I’ll have someone launder them.” I gestured to the spacious bathroom and he padded in, shoes squeaking, and shut the door.
I crashed onto the sofa. Kicking off my heels, I rubbed life into my sore feet. Not the worst night of my life, but close. With a sigh, I grabbed my phone and punched in the number for Samuel’s New York psychiatrist.
“Dr. Vanderbilt speaking. Ms. Trilby?” said a sleepy voice. Yes, a Vanderbilt. There was a reason he got the big bucks.
“I’ll pay you a small fortune to make a house call tonight.”
“I’ll be there in an hour.”
I gave him the address of the Standard Hotel, along with the room number. Then I sat. And waited. And freaked out.
Stupid pride. Stupid, stupid need to prove myself. We should have left the party earlier. I should have told Jerome no to begin with. Heck, I should have called Dr. Vanderbilt the minute I arrived in New York. But I didn’t. So tomorrow morning, Samuel’s angry fists would be splashed across Internet sites, magazines, and TV stations worldwide. Togsy would get a boon for his book. Ace would warn about potential lawsuits and assault charges. Alonso would be on the first flight to New York. Any moment, the calls would start.
I heard the shower turn on. Samuel. That’s what hurt the most…The negative media blitz would utterly whip him.
My phone buzzed in my hand. So it begins. I answered, ready to woman up and do my job.
“Kaye Trilby speaking.”
“Flower?”
“Dad?” My voice cracked.
“Hi, baby girl!”
“Whose number is this?”
“Audrey’s brother’s. I was worried I wouldn’t get to wish you a happy birthday before midnight.”
“Actually, it’s two minutes after midnight here.”
Skygods (Hydraulic #2) Page 31
