by Stacy Gail
“Oh my God, you did not just say that.” Scout turned to stare at her. “Where the hell did that come from?”
“Well, you guys have been together almost from the time I’ve known you.”
“Not like that.” Then she reconsidered. “Okay, we were really awkward fuck-buddies around the time his mom died and I felt bad for him, and he was in a weird place. But seriously, no. Just no.” The very thought brought on a full-blown ick-face, because Payne was like family. They got along great, just as long as she didn’t have to put up with his impulsive, not-completely-rooted-in-reality artistic side twenty-four hours a day. He was the grand visionary while she was the grounded pragmatist, and that was why their relationship worked. She didn’t have an artistic bone in her body, no doubt because she preferred to look at the world through the eyes of a hardcore realist. Dreams were what happened when she was asleep. Everything else became reality because she chased it down and beat the crap out of it until the goal was achieved.
The way she saw it, that was the only way to live.
Sass gave her a worried look. “I can’t believe you’re actually going to do it. You’re really going to go stag to the party this year.”
“So what? It’s no big deal.”
“Girl, have you forgotten how Mama Coco and Papa Bolo are? Whenever one of us shows up without a significant other, they freak out like it’s their fault you haven’t happily paired off like you’re one of the Ark animals. They take it as a personal rejection of the Panuzzi family lifestyle.”
Realization washed over Scout in a slow, icy wave of horror. “Oh. Fuck.”
Sass rolled her eyes upward. “Finally, she sees the light.”
“I can’t believe I forgot about that.”
“How could you possibly forget about that nuclear-family garbage they’re so convinced is the thing that’ll make all of us strays happy? Everyone knows we’ve all got to put on a show of normal at these get-togethers.”
“Shit shit shit shit.” She’d been so wrapped up in piecing together the perfect anniversary party that she forgot to take care of the most fundamental rule of at least appearing happy with a plus-one in tow. With a growl, she began slinging cookies that had already cooled into a plastic container. “I’m doomed. Maybe I can call in sick at the last minute.”
“It’s your turn to throw their anniversary party this year. You can’t call in sick.”
“Ugh, I’m so stupid.” Snapping the lid shut on the cookies, she just stopped herself from dragging her hands through her hair. It was up in twin victory rolls, so messing it up wasn’t an option. “I’m so screwed, girl. Oh, my God.”
“No. Well...kind of, yeah.” Sass did some hair-pulling of her own by tucking long dark strands of straight hair behind her ears, making her look like a twelve-year-old. “There’s got to be someone you can call.”
“There isn’t.”
“What about the psycho guy at work? Doesn’t he owe you?”
“Twist?” Scout shuddered delicately. “Yeah, he owes me, but I’d rather go stag than go with him.”
“Yikes. That bad?”
“Only when he’s conscious. Or not concentrating on his work,” she added fairly. “The man’s a genius when it comes to Goth body art. Not my personal taste, the whole darker-is-better thing, but he’s got a huge following and he’s arguably the best at what he does. Which probably explains why Payne hasn’t fired his ass after all the shit he’s pulled.”
Her former foster sister scrunched her nose in irritation. “Okay, so no Payne and no Twist. Anyone else? How about someone with a regular name, like Bob or Mike?”
“Why would I know anyone like that?”
“Right. What was I thinking?”
“Who do I know who could be my plus-one at a moment’s notice?” For a full second her brain helpfully coughed up the image of Ivar. But that came just a little too close to playing with fire, considering what her instincts told her about him. “This is pointless. The only people I know have weird names and are unavailable. Feel free to call me pathetic.”
“Pathetic,” Sass said, obedient for the first and only time in her life. Then she shook her head. “Let’s look through my phone and go guy-shopping, what do you say? I have pics on most of them and some are hot enough to make you want to strip down until you’re wearing nothing but a smile.”
“Sounds great, but I’m not that desperate.”
“The party starts in three hours.”
Oh, man. “Okay, I am desperate, but I’ll figure it out.”
But by the time Scout made it back to her place, showered and changed into a white wiggle dress with cherries all over it, the answer to her predicament hadn’t miraculously appeared. The real problem was that every time she tried to figure out who she could bribe, coerce or otherwise trick into being her date for the evening, Ivar and his exquisitely chiseled face popped into her head.
No. Just no.
Damn it, she had to find someone, fast. But not Ivar. Since she didn’t know why she felt she couldn’t trust the man, bringing him into her personal world would be like inviting an animal that may or may not be rabid into the dance hall.
So, no Ivar.
No matter how many times he popped into her head.
“Darius, I don’t suppose your wife would mind if I borrowed you for an evening, would she? I need to drag someone along to a family get-together in the worst way.” She stopped at the security desk in her building’s lobby and handed over her valet ticket to Zed, who looked happy to bail once she popped her question. Usually she parked her own car, but with her hands full of cookies and party decorations, she needed curb service and a helping hand.
Darius, one of her favorite doormen, bugged his eyes out at her. “I don’t even go to my own family get-togethers. Why would you want to torture me with yours? What did I ever do to you?”
“I’m so screwed.” With a groan, she dropped her forehead to the high counter. “I need a warm body as a plus-one, like, immediately. I’m thinking I’m going to have to either call an escort service or kidnap someone off the street.”
Darius tried—and failed—to stifle a laugh. “Do they have guys at escort services?”
“No idea, but at this point I’d be happy to rent anyone with a pulse.”
“Renting a person. Is that legal?”
“Since I’m also open to kidnapping, I think it’s pretty obvious that at this point, I’m not too picky about legalities.”
She heard Darius snort without a shred of sympathy. The jerk. “Wait. What about your nosebleed guy?”
Her head came up as if it worked on a spring. Ivar again. “No.”
“If you’re really that desperate, you might want to rethink that.”
“Why?”
“Because he just walked through the front door.”
Her attention snapped around to the building’s entrance. Sure enough, Ivar was making a beeline right for her, looking coolly polished in tailored dove gray pants and a matching slim-fit vest, a blue long-sleeved button-down shirt with a starchy white collar and a casually knotted navy silk tie. With gleaming leather boots and gold watch strapped to his wrist, he looked like he was ready to hit the runway.
Or a party.
“Kidnapping it is,” she muttered.
Ivar had attended far too many family gatherings to be happy about going to another one. The only good thing about finding himself at this particular get-together was that this family wasn’t his. The moment Scout had told him she needed a date for a family celebration, his blood had iced over and it hadn’t thawed out yet. From his experience, hell’s cruelty was usually unleashed when biologically related people were forced to meet within the confines of the same room.
That he’d agreed to go was a measure of his desperation to get what he needed from Scout.
It was odd, though. After an hour of what he’d thought would be a tension-filled hate-fest, there still hadn’t been a single cruel comment, moment of poorly veiled hate o
r agonized silence of unbearable tension.
The Panuzzi family was clearly very different from his.
With his social mask firmly in place, he looked around the venue that had been chosen for the anniversary party. The cavernous dance hall wasn’t much to look at from the outside—just a long, industrial-type box of a building that could have passed for a warehouse. But on the inside, two dance floors were ringed with linen-covered banquet tables and draped in lush garlands of flowers. A large stage with a hyper, micced-up DJ—currently exhorting the crowd to join in something called the Electric Slide—stood opposite a busy open bar. Overhead, a disco ball, soft lights and multi-colored spotlights assaulted the eyes without mercy. In one area off to the side of a crowded dance floor, a kitschy photo booth had been set up for the partygoers, and beyond that, tacked up on the wall was a massive piece of heavy-duty paper. On this paper someone had painted the depiction of a leafless tree at least six feet tall, its many bare branches stretching out in all directions. Beside this tree mural were three tables marked Biological, Strays and Friends. Each table had its own roll of paper towels, a box of wet wipes and a bowl containing what Scout had told him was water-soluble finger paint, a different color for each table. As he watched, partygoers chose whatever color described them, dipped a hand into the paint and created a “leaf” on the Panuzzi family tree with their handprint.
The mess it made was shocking. No one in his family would even dream of doing such a thing. But people here were lining up to make messes of their hands, the wall and, in some cases, smearing it on their faces like war paint.
And laughing about it.
How bizarre.
The guests of honor—an elderly couple with the improbable names of Papa Bolo and Mama Coco—were busy holding court at the head table lavishly decorated in white string lights and yards and yards of flower garlands. Again he tried to imagine his grandmother in such a setting, surrounded by family and friends who constantly streamed by to visit. He couldn’t do it. Family events at the chateau, with its intricately painted murals in the formal dining room, high chandeliers and gardens where not even a blade of grass was out of place, were icily civilized. Silent servants served seated guests at a long table designed to keep everyone at a distance from each other. Small talk was cool, calm and edged with poison.
As far as he knew, finger paint had never made it across the chateau’s threshold.
A group of children raced by, holding balloons and streamers and shrieking with laughter. Either he didn’t understand what a family get-together was, or one of the families—the Panuzzis or the Fourniers—was doing it wrong.
“Hey there.” Out of breath from her turn at the Electric Slide, Scout skipped over to him, holding her shoes in her hands and apparently unembarrassed to be barefoot in public. Then he noticed that many other women were also barefoot, either holding onto their shoes or ditching them entirely along the edge of the dance floor. “Sorry I abandoned you for a bit, but this crowd digs its special dances, and I couldn’t resist. I wish you’d given it a try.”
As far as he knew, no Fournier had ever done the Electric Slide. “Perhaps another time. It did look fun.” A lot of fun, actually.
Her smile made the disco ball overhead seem dim. “Oh man, it so was. You hungry?”
“I could eat.” He watched her dump her shoes in a pile by the dance floor before she grabbed his arm and hauled him in the direction of the buffet tables manned by white-jacketed caterers. “This is an exceptionally organized party for such a large gathering of a diverse group of people. Your handiwork, I presume?”
“Guilty. Papa Bolo and Mama Coco’s kids—both their biological children and their fosters—take turns putting this annual shindig together. We all chip in and somehow make it happen. And every year the guest list gets bigger.”
He looked around the crowded dance hall as they got in line for juicy slices of prime rib. “How many were invited this year?”
“Let me think… there are the five Panuzzi kids, now adults, and their spouses and children, some cousins, aunts and uncles thrown in. One of their kids wasn’t able to be here tonight—some kind of snafu with the military, or so I heard—but there are still about sixty or so blood relatives who managed to show up. Can you imagine?”
“No.” And he didn’t want to. Imagining that many Fourniers would make him vomit, he was sure of it.
“Then you have the strays. Foster kids,” she expanded when he shot her a questioning glance. “Over time, Bolo and Coco took in about a dozen or so, and several of us managed to stay in touch after we became adults. There are seven of us here, along with the friends and families we now have, so that’s almost twenty people. So, with random friends of the family thrown in, it’s close to a hundred.”
He’d been to parties where the headcount had been many times that amount, but attending those bashes were a matter of seeing and being seen—necessary networking events with insanely debauched backdrops as the settings. This gathering, however, was something so beyond his experience, he could only shake his head. “Ironic, that there are more foster children than biological, yet not nearly the number of people associated with the so-called strays, as there are with the biological children.”
“Yeah, well, that’s why it was so important I had a plus-one tonight.” As they got closer to the servers, she snagged a couple of plates and handed him one. “A lot of us who grew up in the system aren’t all that terrific at making lasting attachments.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well… take Tonya, for instance.” She nodded toward a beautiful woman who appeared to be an exotic mix of African, Native American and Caucasian, with cheekbones so perfect he knew instinctively that the camera would worship her. “It took her husband Adam freaking years to convince her that the world they’d built together wasn’t going to disappear out from under her. Instinctively that’s what she kept thinking would happen, because that’s the only life strays like us have ever known. Stability, home, belonging… that’s not for us. That’s for other people with real families and real blood ties.”
His mouth flattened. “Blood ties are not all that they appear to be.”
She glanced at him curiously before lifting a shoulder. “I wouldn’t know. What I do know is that many of us strays haven’t settled down yet. Maybe we’re just too scared to let anyone close because we’re afraid that the bottom will fall out—because trust me, the bottom always falls out. Or maybe that’s just the luck of the draw and things simply shook out that way. But there’s no denying that while all but one of the Panuzzi kids are happily married with a minimum of three kids apiece, there are only two Panuzzi foster children out of a dozen who are currently married, and those two couples have each produced only one child.”
That didn’t sound like the luck of the draw to him. “So… you needed a date tonight to prove that you are well-adjusted, and not an emotionally stunted commitment-phobe?”
“Geez, the way you say it.” She wrinkled her cute little nose, and all at once his hands itched for his camera in a way that almost never happened. “I’m not emotionally stunted, or a commitment-phobe. I just don’t have anyone in my life at the moment. Big difference.”
“Ah.” Personally he couldn’t understand why she wasn’t exhausted from beating lust-maddened suitors off with a golf club. A woman with such lush curves and the sexiest self-confidence he’d ever seen was a treasure any man would want for himself. “So why did you need me to come along with you tonight?”
She grimaced. “Papa Bolo and Mama Coco seem to think that being paired up somehow equals happiness, especially when it comes to us strays.”
That one word was starting to grate on his nerves. “What does it matter, whether you are alone or not?”
“Whenever one of us shows up without someone in tow, drama immediately ensues. They jump to the totally wrong conclusion that they didn’t give us enough stability or love or whatever. Then it’s all about taking the blame for not raisin
g us foster kids to be happy and whole.”
“Are you? Happy and whole, I mean?”
She lifted a shoulder as they moved up the line, and she held her plate out for a slice of pink meat done to perfection. “I’ve got a great life. What’s not to be happy about?”
“I do not know if I would be happy about being called a stray.” But maybe that was because he’d been called so much worse. That didn’t stop him from getting pissed off at the label that had been slapped so carelessly on her. It made her sound like she was an unwanted and unloved thing. He knew what that was like all too well, and it was a feeling he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy.
Though, of course, his worst enemy was the very person who made him feel that way in the first place.
The corners of her mouth curled. “The Panuzzis didn’t come up with that, actually. A social worker called me a stray when she thought I was out of earshot—dehumanizing me to the point where I was nothing more than an animal. I called her on it straight away by telling her that I was proud to be a stray, because strays are survivors. With no home, no one to love them or take care of them, a stray has to be smart enough and strong enough to take care of themselves. I was yelling all this when the Panuzzis walked through the door to drop off some paperwork to take in Sass—another foster sister,” she explained when he frowned, and she pointed to a petite woman with long black hair out on the dance floor. “They refused to leave the building until it was agreed that I would also be going home with them.”
“Unlike that ass who compared you to an animal, I am glad the Panuzzis were able to recognize quality when they saw it.” Fury whipped up hard and fast at that long-ago social worker. He looked deep into Scout’s eyes to see how much damage those careless words had caused, but for some reason all he could find was surprise at his statement. “Now I begin to understand.”
“Understand?” She shook her head, her gaze clinging to his as if she didn’t have the power to look anywhere else. Dear God, but he liked having her undivided attention, much more than he probably should. “Understand what?”
