Chapter 2
Fucking Vultures
Samuel Foster
“Dammit, Sam, can you stop being an ass and spend just fifteen minutes mingling with the guests?” Cory snaps impatiently. I shoot him a dark look of warning. He smooths a hand over his $100 haircut and a Rolex glints on his wrist. A watch bought with the exorbitant fees he charges as my publicist, no doubt.
“I meanAtticus,” Cory corrects abruptly, finally remembering how I hate being called by my real name when I’m doing these gigs. “Atticus, you put on a great performance and these people paid top dollar to watch you. Would it kill you to hang out for a bit? Maybe pose for a couple of pics?”
“No, it wouldn’t kill me,” I reply, “but I’d probably want to kill one of them.” I pan a glance over the gathering of guests. Most of society’s finest have turned out for the show. Designer labels and gemstones vie for attention beneath the roving spotlights that are part of my show.‘Society’s finest,’I think.‘Yeah right. Fucking vultures, the lot of them.’I reach for my black trench coat and shrug into it, the sleeves tight around the muscles of my biceps. What can I say, daily gym sessions pay off. I’ll admit that the trench is a bit OTT, but it’s been my signature since I was a kid touting for coins doing gigs on the streets. Besides, it’s cold outside, and my snug black Levis aren’t going to keep the chill off. Teamed with my dark hair and eyes, my professional wardrobe makes me look a bit like an angry goth, which suits me just fine. I find it hard not to be angry around these people. All that money, and barely an ounce of humanity between them. I feel eyes on me now and it makes my jaw clench.
“Atticus!” a breathless blonde has broken away from the herd and is approaching where Cory and I are supervising the backstage crew. “Atticus Colt!” She stops in front of me, eyes roving down my chest like she’s ready to eat me for dessert. Bad idea – she’d probably chip a tooth on the tangle of heavy silver chains I like to wear during my act. “May I call you Atticus?” Her voice is more hesitant now that I’m fixing her with the full weight of my stare.
“No,” I growl, and she clears her throat. If anything, her eyes grow hotter.‘Dammit.’I know the type. Spoiled little rich girl, used to getting what she wants.
“Mr. Colt,” she goes on, “my friends and I...we were wondering if...you would join us for a drink?” Young, crisply beautiful, she’s dressed in a sequined dress that may have been sprayed onto her. Tanned golden skin echoes the gold tones of the dress; long, lean legs speak of hours on the tennis court. I doubt she’s done a day of work in her life.
“Not interested,” I say abruptly and turn my back on her. Cory’s eyes widen and he shakes his head at me. She’s tugging at my coat sleeve, angling around to get in front of me again.
“Oh, come on,Mr. Colt,” she murmurs. “Just one little drink? I’ll make it...worth your while...” She licks collagen-enhanced lips and the invitation is obvious.
“Fu—” I begin.
“Atticus would love to join you,” Cory interrupts before I can tell her to fuck off.
‘Asshole!’I think. He may be the closest thing I have to a friend, but some days I wish I could tell him to fuck off too. Frankly, it’s his fault I have to deal with these fawning groupies at most of my shows. Last year he wrangled a feature that got me pitched asPeople Magazine’s‘Sexiest Man Alive’ or some shit. Now I can’t move without some chick throwing her panties at me.
“Fine,” I push out, turning back to look over the crowd. They’re milling about, talking and laughing in that way that rich people do when they’re trying to impress each other. Behind them, beneath the glitter of chandeliers, long tables are laden with platters of food. Waiters are standing attentively, ready to serve up meals, but the guests aren’t interested. They’re more eager to get to the cocktail bar. An idea is forming.
“What’s your name, sweet cheeks?” I ask and the blonde flutters her lashes.
“I’m Shannin,” she coos, “Shannin with an ‘I’.”
‘With an ‘I’. Like I give a shit.’I nod as if she’s revealed some profound insight into her psyche, and she beams.
“I’m here with my friend, Greggy,” she tips her head in the direction of a fat cat in a tailored suit. It’s cleverly cut to hide his gut. He’s wearing an ugly-as-shit blond hairpiece that’s another testament to his vanity. Surrounded by more skinny chicks who all look like Shannin, he’s looking our way with narrowed eyes. I smile, and she flutters those lashes again. Cory looks like he’s about to cream his pants. He raises his eyebrows and mouths,‘Holy shit,’at me.
“You’re here with Gregory Buford?” he asks, and she nods enthusiastically.
“Uh-huh!” she replies. “Greggy’s a big fan of Atti— Mr. Colt. He’d besodelighted if you would join us.” I look over at Buford and his gaggle of girls. The man looks like he’s never been delighted in his life.
“Is that so?” I say, taking another look at the untouched food platters. “Tell you what, I’ll join you in exchange for a favor.” She nods so hard I think her head’s going to fall off. Idiot hasn’t even heard what I plan to ask her yet. “Call the catering manager to me, and tell him to bring some boxes. I’ll meet you back there with...Greggy.” She frowns for a second, then the smile is back and she nods again, turning and moving off as fast as her stiletto heels will allow her.
“Nice move, brother,” Cory says. He’s my best buddy again.Dick.” What’s with the boxes?” He has his hand on my shoulder and is steering me in the direction of the fat cat, whose expression has sharpened.
“You’ll see,” I say vaguely as we reach the edge of the circle. For a moment I’m almost overwhelmed by the clash of a dozen different designer fragrances. The circle parts and we step into the group. Cory has his hand out and is making a beeline for Buford. Must be someone important to get Cory so excited. Come to think of it, the name rings a bell.
“Mr. Buford, so glad to meet you,” Cory says, “I’m Cory Smith, Atticus Colt’s publicist. I can’t tell you what an honor it—” Buford ignores Cory’s outstretched hand and moves straight past him to stand in front of me. His eyes are pale blue. Flat and cold...like gravel.
“Colt,” he says, and his voice matches his eyes; cold, gravely. He’s a cigar-smoker, no doubt about it. “That thing you do...with the flames, when you float... How the fuck do you do that?”
“Magic,” I say. I smile, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. Two can play at that game. Shannin with an ‘I’ is back with the catering guy and is elbowing her way past one of the other girls to get to my side.
“Mr. Colt,” she’s still breathless, “I got him for you.” Buford’s scowling but she’s fixed her baby blues on me. At least, I think they’re blue. I don’t really give a shit. Buford turns and raises a finger at a waiter with a tray of drinks. He’s scooped two champagne glasses off and is handing one to me. It’s obviously the good stuff, so I don’t turn it down.
I look at the dark-skinned man accompanying Shannin. His name tag bears the name Emmanuel. “Emmanuel, you’re almost ready to clear the tables, right?” He looks confused but nods. “I want you to pack it up and send it all over to my crew backstage.” He glances towards the thick swathe of red velvet curtainsthat cloak the stage I’ve spent the last two hours occupying.
“Err...I’m not sure...” he begins.
