“If you ladies would like to come with me?” Paramedic Good Hair says, and the group makes a quick, noisy departure, leaving me on the ground staring after them until Reese pointedly clears her throat.
“Are we done here?” she asks testily.
“Shit, yeah. Sorry. I… sorry. Let’s head home so I can shower before we eat.”
Her lips tighten. “Let’s. We have some things to talk about.”
“Yeah.” I scrub a tired hand through my hair. “We do.”
Thirteen
Now
Wyatt
* * *
I can’t put it off any longer. I need face time with Howard.
As I enter the ballroom— walking briskly and in no way running—I assure myself that stopping by his table is entirely fueled by my desire to keep the night on track. If I can’t sink this IPO tonight, my department’s likely to be out on our asses as investor demands for profits lead to cuts to “nice-to-have” departments like mine, particularly ones Howard’s had in his crosshairs for years. In no way is my hasty exit from the Oakwood kitchens motivated by my need to avoid hearing CJ call me brave or selfless or whatever other well-meaning cliché she was about to bust out. I’ve heard it all, and pity’s the last thing I want from her and her shocked, luminous eyes that threaten to pick me apart, undo my stitches, and expose every weak and vulnerable part of me.
So Howard it is. But first the bar.
“Can I please get a Rumpleshaker?” Then, remembering what CJ said, I add, “And a glass of ice water.”
I have to shout to be heard above the four calling birds, which have spent the evening in cages mere feet from the bartender’s head. The man’s haunted expression as he mixes my drink tells me he’s endured things tonight at the beaks of these preternaturally loud cockatoos that no bartender should have to suffer. I stuff all the cash in my wallet into his tip jar as an apology since technically, I am responsible. Then with a deep breath, I head toward the VIP table.
“There he is!” Howard leaps from his chair and meets me halfway across the ballroom, giving me a hearty back slap that sloshes my drinks onto the carpet, where I assume the Rumpleshaker will eventually eat a hole in the fibers. Before leading me to the table, he leans into me, giving me a startling up-close look at his flushed skin, bloodshot eyes, and sweaty upper lip.
“You, uh, doing okay, boss?”
“No I’m fucking not,” he snaps, although he keeps his voice low. “The food is awful, the birds are upsetting Bethany Worth’s husband, and why does it smell like the plumbing burst?”
I’m so focused on not inhaling my boss’s boozy hot-pepper breath that my brain hasn’t processed any other aromas yet, but the instant he mentions it, a sewage smell invades my nostrils.
“Whew, yeah.” It’s faint, but it’s definitely there underneath the aroma of evergreens and passed appetizers, and it’s definitely coming from the direction of the VIP table. “What is that?”
I know what it is—CJ—but I’m glad she didn’t spill the details of whatever’s turning this end of the ballroom into an old diaper. It keeps my disgust and confusion authentic.
Howard’s eyes scan the room and snag on a passing server. He steps into the guy’s path, and despite being a head shorter than the server, me, and pretty much every other guy here, Howard’s bowling-ball physique manages to knock several appetizers off the server’s tray.
“You,” he barks. “Call somebody. Figure out what the fuck is happening with this”—he gestures around, showing off the biggest pit stain I’ve ever seen—“smell.”
While Howard smooths the sparse hair clinging to his forehead, I set my drinks down and kneel to help the man pick up his spilled appetizers, taking the chance to apologize and say, “Don’t worry about the smell. It’s being handled.” The man nods gratefully and scurries off.
“Jones!” Howard barks. “Come be charming. Act like your job depends on it.”
Ha fucking ha. But I paste a smile on my face and let him lead me to the VIP section.
“Friends,” he says to the seated investors, “this ugly mug is Wyatt Jones with the Financial Wellness Division. One of our feel-good initiatives. Makes us look good to the regulators and all that jazz.”
Not loving that introduction, but I swallow my irritation and slide into a vacant chair as Howard rattles off the investor names.
“Wyatt, this is Franklin Knight with Vanguard, Bethany Worth with Goldman, Gerry Lowenstein with the Ohio Municipal Employees Retirement Fund, and our private equity angels, Dale Dillman and Dillon Dalton.”
There’s a pause while we wait for him to introduce the spouses as well, but Howard falls silent with a self-satisfied smile.
“Hello, everyone. Hello, Elaine.” I greet Howard’s wife. Like most times that I’ve seen her at social occasions, she’s on her way to being pleasantly sauced. I next offer my hand to Franklin’s wife. “You must be Joanne?”
