by Amy Patrick
“This young lady is a last minute addition to our program, but once you meet her, I think you’ll see why the night would not have been complete without hearing from her,” the emcee says. “Laney recently arrived in Los Angeles, and her first stop was the Starting Steps clinic in Chesterfield.”
Murmurs filter through the audience as attendees no doubt express their shock, admiration, and perhaps dismay over Laney’s decision to visit that infamous neighborhood.
“I don’t need to tell you this young lady is fearless. But her courage doesn’t stop there. You see, Laney came to the city alone, without a place to live, without knowing a soul, not because she wants to be a star or pursue fame and fortune, but because she wants to help stop this epidemic we’ve come to know as the S Scourge. Perhaps most impressive... she’s done all this, without... being able... to see.”
A gasp rises from the crowd.
“Come on up here, Laney—I’ll let you tell them the rest.”
Laney stands, and Shane guides her to the stage and up the two steps toward the podium. As she steps into the spotlight, there is another collective gasp, this one for a very different reason. Her silver dress dazzles in the bright light, and the glow seems to extend to her hair and face, as if she’s in the center of a halo.
Her eyes, her skin, everything about her is beautiful, and I’m clearly not the only one who thinks so. Nicole’s producer father leans to the man next to him—an Oscar-nominated director—and whispers something, gesturing toward the stage.
“Hello everyone.” Laney’s voice is shaky. She gives a tremulous smile that only makes her more appealing. This crowd probably hasn’t seen much humility lately. She’s got them eating out of her hands already, and she’s only said two words.
“Thank you for letting me come here tonight. I’m grateful for the chance to tell you about someone who means a lot to me.”
She tells the audience about her brother Joseph. I’ve heard some of the story already, of course, but this time she adds more details, tells more about their shared childhood. As she speaks, pictures of Joseph—with her, with her parents, hamming it up for the camera with silly faces and big, All-American boy smiles—appear on the video screens around the room. She must have allowed someone, Shane perhaps, to download them from her phone.
The thought irks me. She hasn’t let me get near the thing. Of course, Shane isn’t trying to send her home at the earliest opportunity.
Laney has the audience mesmerized, alternately laughing and tearing up. Then her voice gets quiet, and she speaks close to the mic. The rest of the room goes silent.
“The last time I ever talked to my big brother was on the phone. He sounded sad, and I remember being worried about him. I thought maybe he’d auditioned for a part he didn’t get or had some trouble with a girl or something, but he was never one to talk about problems. He kept them to himself and always tried to stay positive. Right before he hung up he said...” Laney’s voice grows thick with unshed tears, her pretty eyes glistening in the spotlights. “He said... ‘I’m sorry baby girl.’”
She stops and swallows hard. “When I asked him what for, he told me he had to get off the phone—and that he loved me. He said he wanted to make sure I knew that.”
Laney pauses and lets the words sit there a minute before continuing. “I will never get over losing Joseph. My parents will never get over it. Our home is a different place without him. We are different people without him. The world is a little less bright without him. He was the kindest, most generous, most loving person I’ve ever known. And he is gone. Forever.”
The pain in her voice is so real—the emotion on her face so raw, so unguarded. I’m battling an overwhelming urge to run up to the stage and grab her, to whisk her away somewhere private where she’s not so exposed. But I can’t. We are on opposite sides of an unbridgeable gulf.
She is purity and light. I am darkness. And I am frozen in place, completely powerless to stop this heart-wrenching display of grief and suffering. Or the lethal damage it’s doing to my soul.
I haven’t cried since I was thirteen years old. But there is an aching pressure building behind my eyes, and the lump in my throat grows more painful with every word Laney says.
“Joseph wasn’t perfect. My brother made a mistake by trying S—like so many young people do. But one moment of bad judgment should not be deadly. It shouldn’t destroy so many lives. Recreational drugs have existed probably as long as human beings have. This one is different. S is merciless. It is sneaky. It is evil.”
Standing in the back of the room, I feel as if her unseeing eyes are staring directly at me. A shiver passes through my entire body.
“If this evil substance can steal the life of a smart, kind, good, loving guy like Joseph, it can get to anyone, anywhere. No one’s family is immune. No one’s friends are safe. I ask you to consider that and do whatever you can to help stop it before it reaches yours.”
The room bursts into raucous applause and chants of “Stop. The. Scourge! Stop. The. Scourge!”
Laney smiles and holds up a silencing hand, leaning in close to the microphone once more. “Thank you. I’d like to say one more thing.” The crowd goes quiet again. “I’ve only met one other person in my life who’s as kind and generous as my brother, and I can’t leave the stage without thanking him. He has done more to help me since I arrived in L.A. than anyone could reasonably ask...”
No.
“... without expecting anything in return, and I truly don’t know what I would have done without him.”
No. No. No.
“Without him my personal fight against the S Scourge would be absolutely nowhere. In fact, I probably wouldn’t be here tonight if not for him... and I certainly wouldn’t be wearing such a pretty dress.”
She gives a winning smile as my heart sinks to the soles of my Brooks Brothers wingtips. “My friend... Culley Rune.”
Oh God no.
Chapter Sixteen
Dance With Me
I have never felt so dirty in my life.
I want to slink from the room like the snake that I am, slithering between the pairs of designer shoes to the exit door. Around the ballroom, heads turn, searching for the paragon, this shining example of altruism.
Unfortunately, Nicole stands and points directly at me, beaming and then clapping her hands above her head, gesturing for the rest of the gala attendees to do the same. To my utter mortification and shame, they do, rising from their chairs one by one then en mass to give me a standing ovation.
I feel like I’m standing alone on the fifty yard line of a football stadium in front of a capacity crowd. At the Super Bowl. Naked.
Thankfully, the emcee steps back onto the stage and takes the mic. “Isn’t she something? Another round of applause for Laney.”
The crowd turns and faces the front of the room again, shifting their adoration back to where it belongs—on the truly kind and selfless girl standing there.
“If Laney can overcome her own challenges to make a difference for the S victims in our community and around the nation, I think the rest of us can make some time in our ‘busy schedules’ to help, or do our part by finding a few extra dollars to contribute to the fight,” the emcee says. “The silent auction tables will be open until eleven, and there are envelopes on your tables if you’d like to make a direct contribution. Our live auction will take place at ten. The band is getting into place, and the dancing will begin soon, but first, I’d like to ask you to direct your attention to the screens around the room for a short video presentation put together by another generous benefactor—Mr. David Turgeon.”
Nicole’s father lifts a hand and dips his head in humble acknowledgment, the room goes dark, and I take a direct line to the hallway.
Locating the men’s room, I knock the door open with a forearm and go inside, enter a stall and lock it behind me, then turn and lean against the door, tipping my head back and breathing hard, battling a surge of queasiness.
I ha
te myself.
Out of all the times in my life I’ve felt like a fraud—and there have been many—this is the worst. No contest.
It’s one thing when people look at me and see an illusion. That’s the curse I was born with. It’s another thing altogether to have fooled this sweet, trusting girl into somehow thinking I am a good person.
How did things get to this point? What am I even doing here with her? How did I let myself kiss her and even think about going further with her? The very last thing Laney needs is to be shackled for life to the likes of me.
I should leave. I should let her spend a pleasant evening with Shane, talking, getting to know each other, dancing.
That’s the mental picture that propels me out of the bathroom and back into the ballroom. As much as it sickens me to think of degrading her with my touch, I hate the idea of him touching her, holding her close, even more. He’s too old for her. Too smooth. And too... whatever. He’s not right for her, and she’s probably too innocent to even realize he’s making a play for her.
Entering the ballroom I spot Laney immediately. She’s surrounded by a group of people, and Shane is close by her side—of course. I reach the group, pushing through the throng none too gently.
“It’s time to go,” I say into Laney’s ear.
She jerks her head back. “Culley—wha—why?”
“It’s late. You’ve done your speech. Let’s get out of here.”
“And go where?”
“I dunno. Home. Cupcake has been alone too long. We need to check on him.”
One of the women who was crowding Laney turns her attention to me. “Culley? What are you doing here?”
Her eyes flare with a look I know all too well. My mind ricochets to the past, searching desperately for how we met, for what happened between us, and how far it went. Her cat-that-ate-the-canary smile makes me fear it was pretty far.
“Don’t you look yummy in a tux?” she purrs. “The last time I saw you, you had on much less—”
“Excuse me,” I interrupt. “I need to have a word with my friend.”
Dragging Laney to the side, I say, “I’ll get the car from the valet. Tell all your new fans good-bye.”
“Why are you in such a hurry? Afraid of a cougar attack?” Her teasing tone drops as she pulls back from me. “You can go if you want to, but I’m staying. I’ve never been to a fancy party like this. The band is good, and I want to dance.”
Something in her tone concerns me. It’s too free and easy, and her words have become softened around the edges, slurring slightly.
“How much champagne have you had?”
“I don’t know. Shane poured it for me.”
“I’ll bet he did,” I mutter. “Come on. We’re leaving.”
I pull at Laney’s arm, but like a baby mule being forced back into its pen, she digs her heels in and refuses to walk with me. “I told you—I want to stay. I want to dance.”
She reaches out for my other hand, and unable to resist, I give it to her.
“Dance with me Culley,” she pleads and leans back, pulling me toward the band.
“I don’t dance,” I inform her. It’s painful to be even this close to her. Full body contact and rhythmic tandem motion will put me right over the edge.
Her lower lip juts out. “Okay, fine. I’ll ask Shane. Where is he?”
She won’t need to search for him. Glancing over her shoulder I see the wanker heading this way.
“Fine.” I heave an exasperated sigh. “We’ll stay a bit longer.” Sliding an arm behind Laney’s back, I attempt to draw her away from the dance floor toward a table in the corner. “Let me get you something non-alcoholic to drink, and then we’ll sit and listen to the band a while.”
“I. Want. To. Dance,” she insists. Then she calls out, “Shane! Where are you?” in a sing-song, very tipsy voice.
As if conjured from thin air, Shane appears and takes her hand. “Did someone order a dance partner?”
“Yay!” Laney throws her arms around his neck, and they leave me, heading for the dance floor.
Standing at the edge of the parquet floor, I watch them find a spot and begin to move together to the beat of the Latin-inspired song the orchestra is playing.
He’s good. Of course he is. He couldn’t just be a clean cut, handsome Good Samaritan, he also has to be trained in ballroom dancing.
As I watch the two of them turn and spin across the floor, talking and laughing, a strange new feeling comes over me. A blend of resentment and unease, the discomfort of it is nearly unbearable. With a startle, I recognize it as jealousy. I’ve never experienced that particular emotion before, but that has to be what it is.
Laney and Shane are made for each other, two of a kind, both do-gooders and activists, both self-sacrificing and generous. Both human. They even look good together—a matched pair.
I hate him.
I hate this man I barely know with a ferocity that’s almost fanatical. As I stand fuming and fermenting in bitterness, other party guests approach me and make conversation. I greet them and strive to be polite, to act interested, to laugh at their meager attempts at humor. But my mind, my body, my entire being is concentrated on the dance floor. On Laney. It alarms me to realize how much of my attention she commands.
Oh shit. I think I love her.
This is what Ava was talking about. This is the way Lad and Ryann feel about each other, the way Nox and Vancia feel. It is real.
This discovery does not make me happy. I’ve never wanted to love someone. And yet here it is. Everything that’s ever seemed important, everything I’ve ever desired, valued, or enjoyed is like worthless refuse compared to the way I feel about Laney.
It takes all my self-control to act calm and unruffled. My hands literally shake with the desire to march out there and grab her and carry her away from all these people—from Shane—like some kind of belligerent caveman.
The sane, levelheaded, more evolved part of me orders me to stay on the sidelines, let her enjoy his company, get to know him better, to bow out and let her be with someone who’s better suited to her. It’s not like she’s my bond-mate or even my girlfriend. I should leave her alone. I should let her make her own choices about whether to stay in L.A. or go home, about whom to dance with and talk to, and even whom to go home with.
Screw that.
Striding out to the center of the floor, I tap Shane on one shoulder. “Mind if I cut in?”
“Actually—”
“I thought you’d never ask,” Laney interrupts. “You don’t mind, do you Shane?”
His scowl defies his amenable words. “Of course not. I’ll go refresh my drink. Would you like more champagne?”
“Oh, that sounds good—”
“She’s had enough,” I say and pull Laney close, sweeping her into a simple waltz box step and leaving Shane standing alone in the center of the floor wearing a very perturbed expression.
“If I want more champagne, I’m going to have it,” Laney informs me. “You are not the boss of me.”
I can’t help smiling as I speak right next to her ear. “You are a very stubborn girl—maybe even a brat. Has anyone ever told you that?”
Her cheek rises to meet the side of my mouth as she grins. “Maybe,” she says. “And you—are a big, fat liar. You said you couldn’t dance.”
“No, I said I don’t dance.”
“You do now.” She giggles.
As irritated as I feel, I laugh along with her. I can’t help myself. “Apparently so. You’re an excellent dancer by the way.”
“Eight years of lessons,” she says with a triumphant smile.
Taking one of Laney’s hands in mine, I spin her, then pull her in close again. It’s just as bad—just as good—as I knew it would be, being close to her like this. We move together easily, fit together perfectly.
She’s just as soft, and warm, and delicious smelling as ever, but now, she’s also relaxed in my arms instead of tense, thanks to the champagne. She
laughs freely, molds herself to me as we move across the floor, sighs with pleasure as our cheeks touch.
Her lack of inhibition is doing terrible things to me. I find myself responding to her every motion, matching them with moves of my own. We’re in the middle of a charity gala, in the middle of a crowd, but the dance feels... intimate. I can’t seem to stop myself from imagining this same level of closeness without all the observers, without the layers of evening wear. If our rhythm is this good on the dance floor...
Stop. Just stop it.
Consciously putting some space between our bodies, I search for something to say, words that will break the dangerous spell that has fallen over us, a virtual bucket of cold water.
“You seem to get along well with your boss,” I sneer.
“Yes, Shane’s a really nice guy.”
“He’s a wanker.”
Laney retracts her head. “What? No he isn’t.”
“Trust me. He is. You don’t know guys like him. He’s been trying to get a look down your dress all night.”
“Really?” Her tone and smirk express her disbelief. “Well, at least he’s not publicly announcing he’s slept with me.”
My feet stop moving as if I’ve hit a brick wall. I can barely force the words from my constricted throat. “You slept with him?”
“No!” She laughs loudly. “No—I’m talking about you—and that woman who was drooling all over you a few minutes ago. Clearly you two had a ‘relationship.’”
“I wouldn’t call it a relationship.”
“You had sex with her.”
“No. I did not.”
“Are you sure? I’ve gotten pretty good at reading voices. That lady was certainly convinced you two had a thing going on. Maybe you’ve forgotten.”
“Um... I’m quite sure I’d remember that. Wait—are you jealous?” Her answer matters more to me than I’d like to admit.
“Are you?” she counters. “You were pretty unfriendly toward Shane.”
