Page 29 of Last Chorus

Smile.

My thigh throbs as I walk away.

CHAPTER TWELVE

wilder

Evangeline’s act is flawless, but I see right through it. Maybe because I learned how to behave through observation and mimicry as a child, I’m able to recognize when someone else is presenting a false front. Pick up on subtle cues others would miss. But I think the truth is both simpler and more convoluted.

I just knowher.

The broken, angry woman on New Year’s Eve was miles closer to the real Evangeline than the version striding away from our table.

Four-inch heels clack expertly over tile, the muscles in her calves bunching starkly on each step. Shiny, white-gold hair bounces in its high ponytail.

In no world can she be comfortable. Not in those shoes. Not in that tight white dress that does nothing toconceal the jut of her ribs. And the fact she ordered a salad without dressing? Iced tea with no sugar? It’s beyond disturbing. Like seeing a snow leopard declawed and defanged, brainwashed into thinking they’re a gazelle.

But then I recall her gasp and the flash of pain in her eyes when I asked about Glow’s Grammy nominations. The clenching of her jaw when Clay answered for her.

She’s still in there… somewhere.

“We’re done for today.”

Clay’s words are for the photographers, who obediently pack their equipment and file from the room. I watch him warily as he lifts a finger to beckon our dedicated server.

“Scotch on the rocks.”

The man’s eyes move to me. “And for you, sir?”

“Nothing, thanks.”

With a polite nod, the server turns to leave, but Clay stops him with another arrogant lift of his finger.

“Hold the drink for five minutes and close the doors. If she tries to return, have the chef give her a tour of the kitchen or something.”

“Very good, sir.” Eyes lowered, he slips across the patio on silent feet. On his way out, he closes glass-paned French doors.

Here we fucking go.

Clay wastes no time dropping the pretense of friendliness, shifting instantly into what Eddie would call Yacht Guy Dickhead Mode. Draping an arm over Evangeline’s empty chair, he manspreads in his designer slacks and sighs like his balls are relieved. But the key to the personality type—which Clay nails—is looking relaxedandlike there’s a baseball bat shoved up his ass.

As I wait for whatever intimidation tactics he has planned, I’m extra grateful for my hour-long meditation this morning and the phone calls with Frank and my dad. But what really allows me to stay calm in response to his smug smile and air of superiority is the primal, unspoken communication between our egos.

We both know my dick is bigger than his.

Eventually Clay realizes he won’t win a staring contest with me. His chin lifts imperiously. “I hope you know what’s happening here.”

I smirk. “Aww, are you trying to thank me?”

His smile vanishes. “I should have known you’d be too stupid to understand.”

I roll my eyes. “Why don’t you enlighten me.”

Lowering his arm, he leans forward. “This will be the last time you speak directly to Eva. She belongs tome.”

Rage unfurls in my gut. I let it out in a slow exhale soit doesn’t taint my next words. “Wow, Clay. Join us in the current century. These days we don’t own women.” I tilt my head. “I wonder how Eva would feel about what you just said?”

“You actually think she’s capable of thinking for herself? That’s precious.”

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