Gilt: By Invitation Only (Gilt #1)

by Geneva Lee

  Meanwhile, she doesn’t miss a beat. With a snap of the fingers a new morning-appropriate cocktail is on the way. “I thought we could discuss your summer plans.”

  “You know my summer plans already.” I force the words past the lump in my throat. “I’m going to help dad at the shop and visit you in a few weeks.”

  “It's not necessary for you to waste your entire summer babysitting your father.”

  Actually it is if I want to have a house to return to this fall.

  “I don't mind. I like an honest day's work.” I can’t resist the dig. Since she remarried my mother’s occupation can best be described as economic developer. Show her a store and she’ll help it stay in business.

  But if she catches my none-too-subtle jab, she ignores it. “Filtering through other people's junk is hardly an honest day's work. You need to be focused on yourself right now, Em. With senior year coming up you should be thinking about extracurriculars, not haggling with your father's customers. Have you thought about what colleges you'll be applying to this fall?”

  “Maybe Las Vegas Community College. I don't have a lot of options.” I shrug, hoping that we can just pretend this subject away. Obviously Hans has been talking to her again. Until he came into the picture a few years ago, my mother's idea of a major was finding a husband. It can’t be a coincidence that she’s making other plans now. Although if I had to guess those plans still included me finding a husband, just one that would help her indoctrinate me to her lifestyle instead of the one I’d chosen.

  “You aren't graduating from one of the premier prep schools in the country to go to community college. This is exactly what Hans and I are worried about.” Her voice takes on a blustery tone, the one she uses to dismiss maids and bad foie gras. That means I’ve landed somewhere between the help and duck liver on her priority list.

  I grip my salad fork and butter knife, because I need something to hold onto—something tangible and solid. Between dead bodies and college applications, this weekend is quickly becoming anything but relaxing. This is exactly what happens when you bypass Netflix in favor of living people. The only person who would understand isn’t here. Her memory isn’t even allowed.

  “What are you worried about, Vivian? Having an embarrassment for a daughter? That would be a tragedy. Oh wait. You actually lost a daughter.” I don’t stop when she sucks in a pained breath, because I hope it hurt her. She needs to prove to me that she can feel something other than disdain and chemical dependency. “Did it even occur to you that Becca should be graduating this weekend?”

  “Of course it occurred to me!” she snaps in a low voice. It takes a lot of skill to be pissed and still maintain your face in a crowd. “Do you think a day goes by without thinking of her? But Becca isn't here. You didn't die that night, Emma. I wish I could be discussing her college plans with her right now, but I can’t.”

  So now what? I’m supposed to feel sorry for her. No freaking way. The utensils clatter out of my hands as I stand up in a rush, searching for the next way to needle her. Angry feels good. Vital. It’s like a dose of adrenaline straight to my blood, and I can see it’s having the same affect on her.

  “Sit down,” she hisses.

  But maybe she’s not ready to jump from practiced oblivion to all-consuming rage yet. I consider my options. I can storm out of here and hope it provides even more of a shock to her anti-depressant-riddled system or I can prove that I’m the adult she’s afraid I’m becoming.

  I sit down. Nothing rattles a parent’s cage like fear.

  “Accepting that she’s gone might sound harsh to you,” she whispers hurriedly, her eyes darting around the room to see if people are watching our little scene, “but it's the truth. I miss her, too. I've already taken two Xanax this morning. Truthfully, she is the reason that I'm here. I never should have left you two with your father.”

  “Is that why you want me to come to Palm Springs this summer?” I ask. Her guilt is misplaced. She shouldn’t feel bad that she left us with our father, she should feel bad that she didn’t want to be our mother anymore.

  “Partially,” she admits. Her new drink arrives and she clutches it like a security blanket. “Honey, you're a teenager. You shouldn't spend all your time taking care of your dad.

  “Someone has to.” It's supposed to be your job. Apparently my mother had missed the whole for richer or poorer line in her wedding vows. She might have been able to walk away from her marriage with no regrets but I couldn't give up on dad. He'd already lost one daughter.

  “Consider it. I want you to have a nice time this summer.”

  I do, too. Working at Pawnography isn’t exactly my dream vacation, but I’d chosen where my loyalties lay a long time ago.“With all the has-beens? Palm Springs isn't exactly a happening place, Mom.”

  “It’s quiet,” she corrects me, and she has a point. Vegas isn’t exactly known for its calming presence. No, it’s energy is exciting at best and frantic at worst.

  It’s one of the reasons I usually don’t mind going to Palm Springs. Yes, the population skews toward senior citizen, but it lacks the stimulus overload of my hometown. Usually, I spend my time there each summer reading by the pool. Hans would stay in L.A., shooting dailies or overseeing edits so Becca and I could hang out with mom. We'd get our nails done and shop for the new school year. We stayed just long enough to pretend that our family wasn’t a dysfunctional mess.

  “I know your sister won't be there this year,” Mom says in a quiet voice. I don’t miss the slight tremble she’s trying to hide. It’s possible she’s hurting more than she lets on.

  That doesn’t mean I can run away from my obligations here, though. “Exactly, I—”

  She stops me. “That's why I need you to come.”

  “I’ll be there in June like I promised, but I can't stay longer.”

  The prodigal waiter arrives with our breakfast entrees in time to soften my proclamation. I’ve never been so happy to see a stack of pancakes in my life. Across from me, my mother doesn’t touch her chicken salad. Instead she stares directly at me, but her eyes remain vacant. Her mind is elsewhere even though she’s sitting at the same table.

  I cut into my food slowly, wondering if I should clap my hands or shake her. But after a few minutes, she blinks rapidly. Taking one look at my plate, she frowns. “Careful with the carbs, darling.”

  She’s back. I pick up the syrup and pour more onto my plate. So much for the acting like an adult plan. If it means being as checked out as she is, I think I prefer to stay at my current level of maturity.

  “Were you at the party at the West's last night?” She picks up her fork but doesn’t bother to use it.

  But it had the unsettling effect she, no doubt, hoped for. All the questions I’d left at the door when I came in race through my brain. There goes my appetite. “I thought we were avoiding morbid topics at breakfast.”

  It doesn’t make sense to me that she’s so desperate to avoid all mention of my sister, but here she is bringing up the latest scandal. The woman really should run for president. She knows exactly how to spin a situation in her favor.

  “I cannot imagine what Evelyn is going through right now.” There’s an unusual amount of concern in her voice. Given our family history with the Wests, I didn’t think she would care. Just like I wouldn’t care if I hadn’t been there last night.

  If I hadn’t been in the same house as a dead body and possible a murderer.

  “I didn't know you knew her.” I try to sound casual even as my pulse ratchets up.

  “Of course, I do.” She stops, visibly adjusting as she corrects herself. “Or I did before I got involved with your father. When you take away the tourists this town is smaller than people think. I'd reach out but right now…”

  Nerves get the better of me. I’d hoped to avoid the media circus, choosing to foolishly believe that what happened last night in no way will affect me. But most of Belle Mère Prep was at that party. The chances are decent that I know the p
erson. “Did they say who died?”

  Her eyes dart to her phone. I know she wants to check for the latest information but she refrains from picking it up. I, on the other hand, wish she would. At least this subject doesn’t directly affect us, and it feels a lot safer than continuing to discuss Becca or college or my summer plans.

  “Not yet,” she says without bothering to check.

  “Maybe it was Evelyn.” I try to be delicate in my suggestion even if I hadn’t known until a few moments ago that my mother knew Mrs. West.

  But the suggestion doesn’t phase her. “She was out of town. Rumor has it that she prefers to make herself scarce when her children are throwing parties.”

  “Children?”

  “Excuse me,” our server interrupts, “can I get you ladies another drink?”

  “Yes.”

  “No,” I call over my mother, but she merely repeats herself with a smile.

  “I’m the parent, remember?”

  Maybe it would be better if both her and my dad had their parental rights revoked. Neither of them seem capable of healthfully dealing with their emotions. It’s clearly setting a bad example for me. After all I went to a murder party last night.

  “Speaking of, you haven't told me if you were there,” Mom points out as if she can read my mind.

  “I went, but I didn't stay long.” Being put on the spot is making it difficult to come up with a story that doesn’t involve skinny-dipping and making out with a stranger for most of the night. Instead I stumble upon a different, but equally true, excuse. “Monroe and I aren't exactly BFFs.”

  “I can't say I'm sorry to hear that. It's mercenary of me but I'm relieved that you weren't there. God only knows what happened last night.” She sighs so deeply that I almost believe she cares.

  My clutch vibrates on the table, alerting me to an incoming text, but I ignore it.

  “Do you need to get that?” She eyes my bag.

  “It can wait.” We’re nearly through with our meal. Then I can go back to my life and she can go back to hers.

  “So Hans and I have been discussing your graduation present.” Apparently she hasn’t run out of ideas for small talk yet.

  I raise one eyebrow. Is she getting me confused with Becca or does she just want to pawn off her present on me? “Getting a little ahead of yourselves. I have a year left.”

  “Well, we think you could use it now, especially because we both want to see more of you.”

  “Am I getting a pony?” I ask dryly. It seems fitting for the movie producer step-daddy to buy the affection of his wife’s baggage with every little girl’s dream present.

  The smile creeping across her face is a little frightening. Maybe Hans isn’t the only one who wants into my good graces. “Will you settle for a car?

  “I don't think that's a good idea,” I say quickly. “It’s easier to cab in Vegas. Parking is so tricky and…” I’m blabbering now, because I know what’s at the heart of my verbal diarrhea. To my surprise, she does, too.

  “You weren't behind the wheel that night,” she reminds me gently.

  If I had been, we might be sitting here discussing Becca's graduation present. She would have loved a car. I swallow the thought down into the pit of my stomach where I can bury it. “I know.”

  “Good!” Her concern vanishes, replaced by satisfaction. “It’s being delivered later this week. Palm Springs is only a four hour drive. I'm always happy to send the jet for you, but if you ever need to run away…”

  “I should run to my mommy?”

  Her eyes crinkle at the edges and for a split second I’m little again and she’s comforting me. “Yes, honey. You should always run to me.”

  Chapter Eight

  It’s a typical day in the Southwest—bright with a chance of sunburn. I ask my driver to let me off down the street so I can stop at the mailbox and grab the spam and collection notices that tell me I’m home. I’ve let them pile up for most of the week so I could concentrate on finals. Now ti’s time to face the music, which I suspect will come in the form of a funeral march. The house is dark, which means Dad actually went to the shop: a small miracle that provides me a rare opportunity to open the blinds. Then I grab the empty bottle of whiskey he left on the floor and head toward the kitchen. Dropping the mail on the counter¸ I groan when the doorbell rings. So much for a few blissful moments to myself. It’s high season for Jehovah’s Witnesses in the city of sin. Truthfully, I think they come for the weather. I trudge to the door, bottle in hand. Might as well have some fun.

  But the man at the door isn’t in khaki slacks and his badge bears the emblem of the Las Vegas Police Department. He can’t be more than a few years older than me, but he’s obviously put a lot of a time into building his upper body strength to make up for the slight acne scars that mar his skin. His jaw is smooth, his hair cropped short, and he’s sporting a classic pair of aviators.

  “Emma Southerly?” The officer at the door nudges his sunglasses down on his nose to study me.

  I thrust the bottle behind my back in a sudden fit of self-preservation. “Yes?”

  He’s either a saint or the sun temporarily blinded him, because he doesn’t comment on it. “Would it be possible for you to come down to the station?”

  “Why?” Apparently I’ve been reduced to simple questions. Up next: who, what, when, where. If I don’t get myself together there’s a breathalyzer in my future.

  “We have you on a list of people who attended a party at the West's private residence last night. Is that correct?” His fingers hook into his belt loops as he sways impatiently. He already knows the answer. I doubt the security cameras all over the resort are props.

  But since it’s a good idea to cooperate with law enforcement, I nod.

  “Have you been home all day?” he asks.

  “No. I met my mom for brunch,” I say slowly.

  “Then I assume you heard that a body was found this morning at the West Resort,” he continues, helpfully filling in the blanks as I try to comprehend that a policeman is standing on my front stoop.

  “Yes, we discussed it over croissant.” I refrain from rolling my eyes because I doubt he missed the sarcasm in the statement. “But I don't see what that has to do with me. Most of Belle Mère Prep was at that party last night.”

  This time he takes his sunglasses off and stares me down. “Most of them left before dawn.”

  “I bet you’ve been practicing that move for years. Did it feel good?”

  His stare turns into a glare. Do not get on the bad side of Johnny Law.

  “Okay, then. Do I need a lawyer?”

  “Do you?” he asks.

  He’s taking this moment way too seriously, but I suppose most cops don’t join the force to hand out parking tickets.

  “Look if you want to call your parents, I can wait,” he offers.

  “No!” Calling parents equals my dad finding out that I willingly went to the Wests’ house last night. “Sorry, I’m new to this. I think I've been watching to much CSI.”

  “Do you need a ride?” He puts his aviators back on.

  I look past him to the squad car parked in my driveway. Thank God most of the neighbors work weekends. “Do I have to sit in the back?”

  “Not this time.”

  “Okay, give me a minute.” I back away from the door and attempt to surreptitiously deposit the bottle on the couch. Briefly I consider changing. Then again, I’m wearing a dress so I could just take off my panties and rock the whole Sharon Stone bit. This isn’t how I saw my Saturday afternoon playing out, especially not the part where I fulfill some cop’s wet dream.

  “Get it over with, Emma,” I mutter, grabbing my purse. As I head out the door I check his badge.

  Officer Mobie.

  “It couldn’t have been easy to have that name in school,” I say as he opens the passenger door for me.

  He doesn’t respond as he waits for me to get in. Mental note: bringing up childhood bullying might not be the best wa
y to start conversation with the person putting you into a police cruiser.

  I stare out the window, surprised when we pull into a small, residential station only a few blocks from my house. There are no reporters with flashing cameras or hordes of gawkers. Save for a few expensive cars parked awkwardly next to the force’s Crown Vics, nothing’s going on. Since it was a shorter ride than I expected, it didn’t give me much time to prep myself for my first official police questioning. I’m sure that living in Vegas means it won’t be my last. Not that there’s much to sort through. Mostly all I feel is unfiltered dread and the need to pound my head against a brick wall. Bad things happen when I attempt socializing. When will I learn?

  I study the Belle Mère Police Station before I turn and check the officer’s badge again. Las Vegas Police Department. Is he lost? “I thought they found the body at the resort.”

  “They did, but the Belle Mère special crimes unit has been tasked with handling this case. We’re assisting.” Translation: since the situation involves people with money, it would be dealt with delicately.

  “I’m guessing the media is camped out at your station, waiting for a press conference that isn’t going to happen.”

  “I wouldn’t know, miss.” But this observation earns me the slightest twitch of the lips. I’m right and maybe Officer Mobie is human after all.

  He escorts me inside. The waiting area looks more like the lobby of a nice hotel, complete with nondescript art and carefully selected, stain-resistant furniture. A receptionist with flame red hair pulled into a top knot shoots Officer Mobie a warm smile.

  “Apparently she heard those school yard rumors about Mobie and his…” The look he gives me shuts me down. “So much for trying to pay a guy a compliment.”