Page 38 of Feed Your Fiends

El

Ll…

Aria pinches me,hard.

“Fuck.”

“For one night, even I can pretend for the people I love. Even when I know they hate me right now. Even when all I want to do is rot.”

“We both know there’s something you want to do more than just rotting in this penthouse with me.Someone.And you’d fuck that party to be with him.”

“But I can’t be with him, and you can’t be with Elle.”

Something within me snaps. “Don’t ever say that again.”

“They’re gone, Gant,” she hisses. “For now. So let’s pretend for them,” she nods at the flyer where Stassi grins up at us and Zedd smirks, his sharp jaw clenched.

Above their heads is a smaller figure. Hale. His arms are wide open, ready to receive all the heathens into his lair.

Hale.How had he done it? How had he got the club together so quickly to pull off an event as huge as Stassi and Zedd are bound to make it?

He must’ve called his mother finally.

I gaze down the ramp to where the death portrait waits.

No matter how betrayed I feel, no matter how special I never was, I’d give anything to call her again.

Elle

Stassi gets what Stassi wants.

Libuelle looks like it’s dripping in diamonds, although the empire chandeliers aren’t decades old and are made of cheap glass versus crystals. They’re glowing warmly with a muted golden light that bounces beautifully off the metallic trim lining each dark green tray ceiling. It’s so dark that it nearly looks black.

Just like that car that hit me and Madame and Gant…

I blink. Yes, the colours work like a charm to hide the damp marks of the leaky roof. The same goes for the floors. We’d stained the diamond pattern floor planks in dark green, cream, and mahogany to hide the imperfections Hale couldn’t buffer out. Now, all I can see is a beautifully distracting pattern.

I trail the golden wall mouldings and look up at the gleaming brass railings where Hale had three balconies installed above the tall windows. Two dancers in matching corsets to my own but with more bedazzling and lacy black stockings are shimmying back and forth on each. Their take on the nineteen-twenties dance, however, involves more hip movements than shoulder work.

Similarly dressed corseted girls who’d bombarded Hale’s DM’s with offers to work for free in exchange for a party invite, circle the floor with massive trays of the free shots Hale promised with the insane entry fee.

Rich people did rich people shit, but somehow I didn’t think the blue-bloods would pay a thousand a piece just to party with the twins. Yet, due to the fire code, the bouncer had to cut off the nine hundred and one person trying to get in.

I’d severely underestimated the twins’ popularity almost as much as I’d underestimated Hale. I catch him from the corner of my eye now. He’s a few inches taller than the vast majority of the crowd. Even the leggy blondes in custom-made sequin dresses who circle him in six-inch heels barely graze his nose.

But it’s not his height, his pinstripe suit, or his immaculately slicked-back hair that shines with hints of gold beneath the chandeliers that draws me to him just like those girls. It’s his charisma. It’s like watching Gatsby work the floor at one of his parties.

His eyes are sparkling, the corners crinkling with every planned smile, and yet I know not a single one is genuine until his eyes land on his Daisy. Or his Lorelei Lee, seeing as Stassi’s party vision was a collision of a nineteen twenties casino and Marilyn Monroe’s performance of “Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend” for her grand entrance.

Unlike any random party I’d ever been to, the crowd’s actually eager to follow the dress code. Men I wouldn’t have looked at twice are drawing my eye with their slicked-back hair, tailored suits and cigars that girls in sparkly dresses are taking long draws on…while I watch and serve drinks. No matter the era, I’m still on the outside looking in.

But I shouldn’t be on the outside at all. I should be in the back, washing glasses, prepping trays and staying invisible because, as I scan the wannabe wise guys and mobsters, there’s only one face I’m petrified to see because I know his costume isn’t some act. And I know he’s going to show up. It’s not a matter of if, but when.

Hale insisted that no volunteer could be trusted behind the bar with tabs, and neither could Rie Rie, who still couldn’t figure out the buttons on the card reader. Despite the amazing turnout, money will still be insanely tight for a few months. So tight that I’m watching every ounce of liquor I pour.

It’s asinine to be in the open, but as Hale brutally rubbed in my face, I wanted to be a hands-on stakeholder, so not working for fear of Gant wasn’t an option. And yet it feels like a fucking set-up, one Rin prompted me to go along with for part two of our plan.

I catch another golden glimmer of Hale’s shiny hair beneath the lights, and we make eye contact across the room. He lifts his coupe glass at me before taking a sip with a shit-eating grin, and it all clicks. He wants me in the open. He wants Gant to find me because no matter how mad he is at his horsemen, he doesn’t want any secrets between them. And they always come first. And yet, none of them are here. Not even Stassi and Zedd, whose grand entrance should’ve been an hour ago. I guess they're fashionably late.

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