Page 33 of Tiebreaker

We sit in quiet resentment, my nerves already frayed.

It's only when we get to the venue, that I’m distracted enough to stop sulking and fuming.

We turn onto a long drive, towering palm trees rising above us, wrapped in lights with more globe lights blossoming along their fronds. It’s stunning, and I press my fingers up against the glass. It looks like a fairy tale come to life.

I spend most of the slow drive up the long quiet road with my nose nearly press the window, my jaw dropping as we pull into a circular drive, a romanesque building erupting from the ground in front of us.

Everything is white and glittery, and there’s a red carpet rolling down the stairs, dotted with women in expensive dresses. They drip with diamonds, their men in sharp suits beside them as they walk upward, making their way into the building.

I feel a flash of intimidation boiling in my gut. We stop. Everett looks over me, an assessing look on his face.

“This is an event with artists, so it’s fine if you’re a little eccentric,” he says with a smirk.

I know what he means by eccentric. He means unpolished. Jerk. I’ve never been to finishing school like some of the women obviously have. I swallow around the tightness in my throat.

“I have a Master’s,” I say to him, but it sounds weak coming out of my mouth. I'm not speaking with conviction, and he rolls his eyes.

“Don't embarrass me,” he replies with an elegant sneer, leaving me wondering, if he thinks that I would, why he'd even invite me in the first place.

He gets out first and offers me his hand. It's warm to the touch, and the unexpected heat makes me look up at him. He smiling now, but I can tell it’s plastered on for the audience of other rich and fabulous people, because his eyes are cool. He grips me steadily, and I wobble to my feet. His smile briefly flickers into a smirk.

“You don’t look like you can manage this without help,” he murmurs, as I glance around. More limos are arriving, and there is an array of silk and lace and velvet on display, women and their rail-thin bodies gliding over the cobblestone courtyard like they were born in Louboutins. My face burns. My high heels don't exactly approve.

“I’ll deal,” I mutter, trying not to sound grumpy. Everett disguises a laugh under a low cough, and turns away as someone calls his name.

Another man approaches, and I ignore them both to instead stare at this surreal building in front of me. It’s even more beautiful now that I’m outside the limo. The white plaster has been painted over with something that reflects the light in a billion little sparkles, mica probably.

I try to stand there and just take it all in. A laugh, Everett’s, distracts me and I glance over at him. The new man is in a suit every penny as expensive as Everett’s, and a woman glides up behind him, her blonde hair swept up into a tousle of artful curls.

“You haven’t met Melissa,” he says, gesturing to the woman, “my new fiancée.” She smiles and dips her head neatly at Everett, before her gaze lands on me.

Should I curtsey? Do people do that? She towers over me, and even with my heel on I’m barely coming up to Everett’s shoulder. She has a smile on her face, but it looks insincere and unpleasant.

“Where did you find this sweet little thing?” She asks, but there’s nothing nice in her voice. Instead she looks at me like I’m a viper. Unconsciously, I shift closer to Everett, and he wraps an arm around my waist, tugging me in.

“Business,” he says with a wink. His friend, handsome but with a blunted nose that looks like it’s seen the hard edge of a skateboard, laughs.

“We’ll see you inside,” he says, guiding Melissa away. “That’s code for the strip club,” his words float back to me and I grit my teeth. I glare up at Everett. He shrugs.

“What? It’s not like you’ll ever see either of them again,” he says, sounding bored. “It makes me look good.”

“You said not to embarrass you. And then you go saying you’re here with a stripper?” I ask. He laughs and starts walking. I chase after him for no goddamn good reason.

“Anyone can get a society woman,” he says, “they’re boring and do a ton of blow and talk your fucking ear off half the night.” He looks me up and down as I catch up to him. “Strippers shut the fuck up and look pretty. They know their place.”

I seethe quietly and do my best not to hunch my shoulders. I need good posture if I’m not going to fall ass over teakettle on these stairs as we approach them. Somebody, curse them, put an extremely padded under layer beneath the red carpet, and my heels are sinking in and threatening to topple me, Jenga style.

Everett is looking at me, amused expression on his face.

“What? Are you seriously enjoying this?” I snip. He laughs, quietly, politely.

“These are the kinds of things you need to do when you're a person like me,” he says, offering me his arm. I take it gingerly, because it’s that or fall on my face, putting my hand on the inside of his forearm.

He raises an eyebrow and I give him alookright back.

“I studied Regency history,” I say. “I know where it's polite to touch you.” Something about the way I say it, or maybe it was my word choice, makes his pupils flare. His eyes. Those intense, calculating eyes, shadow dark.

“Some men don't want polite touches,” he says, making a dangerous thrill of electricity run through me, and he guides us towards the entryway. The steps, polished white marble, smooth and shiny, make me grateful for the red carpet, that spills over them.

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