I nod up at the tall man in a sport coat and glasses, the one I saw earlier with the well-built blonde in the conservative black suit. “I’m fine.”
“I’ll be right back. You stay with her, Ellen,” he says to the blonde. And he is gone, weaving through the bodies, to Bobby Warren. His face is familiar, almost too handsome, the dark-rimmed glasses like a prop, his voice the type that is used to giving orders.
I know, even in this blurry moment, that it was he who made it possible for me to be here. Lucas Morrison, Bobby Warren’s marketing director. I’d expected older. I’d expected sleazier. I’d expected longer hair and short sleeves and gold chains and paunch—in short, a younger version of Bobby Warren. I hadn’t expected Brooks Brothers with muscles. I sure hadn’t expected sex appeal.
I turn to the woman he called Ellen. She’s trying to evaluate my situation.
“I really am okay.”
“You’re sure?” she asks in an unconvinced voice.
I nod and fake a smile, my skin still clammy. “Yes. It was just a shock.”
“I know,” she says. “Now, I’ve got to go check on Mr. Warren.”
She gives me a quick once-over, followed by a look that says I pass inspection. Then she, too, works her way through the people separating her from the old man.
Now, hours later, Ellen brings me another glass of water. I’m sharing a table with Lucas on the balcony. She asks him if he’d like one more Corona.
“I’m fine,” he says. “Why don’t you sit down?”
“I’d like to go home, if that’s all right. I can’t get Bobby to eat anything. He doesn’t look well.”
“Go, and take your time coming in tomorrow.”
“I just want Bobby to be okay.” She shudders. “You need to get him to rest, Lucas. You know how tenuous his health is.”
He gives her a sharp look. “He’s fine. He’s just tired.”
“I just meant he’s already upset. He doesn’t need this. And what did you make of Rochelle McArthur’s little display of emotion? I just hope the poor man knows that she’s milking this whole deal before we have a chance to as much as hear from Julie.”
“We can talk about it later.” Lucas looks from her to me, reminding her again with his eyes what I do for a living.
“Sure. Sorry. See you later.” And she scampers off to wherever good little children who work for Killer Body go after they’ve served their purpose for the day.
Lucas and I sit breathing the late-night air from the balcony, where I blatantly hammered out the story on my laptop and e-mailed it to Hamilton at theVoice.
Lucas tried to intercede, but Bobby Warren, back in charge, said, “No. Leave the little girl be. Someone’s going to write it. Might as well be her.”
The air between Lucas and me has been charged with animosity that would probably have exploded by now into a full-blown argument, if we weren’t still both so numb from what we witnessed tonight.
Bobby Warren joins us on the balcony now, his posture perfect, his taupe fleece jacket zipped up around his sharply boned, still-handsome face.
“Ellen went on home,” he says, and pulls out a chair from the table where we sit. “She wants you to call her later on, let her know how I am.” His hoarse chuckle is buried in a wavering voice. “I told her I’ll be fine.”
“Youwillbe fine,” Lucas says.
“How can you be so sure, after what happened tonight? You didn’t have to touch that dress, didn’t have to feel it.”
As he moves closer, I can see that the color is drained from his cheeks. It’s clear Lucas is concerned, no, more than that—genuinely worried about him.
“You need something to eat, Bobby W.”
“A cocktail will be fine.”
“You haven’t touched your last one.”
He looks down at the weathered teakwood table, chuckles. “Now, that’s a first.” He turns to me. “I had to call the police. That doesn’t mean I think a crime’s been committed.”
