“I am.” She dimples and places her fingers in mine for a half-hearted shake. “A pleasure.”
I turn down the line and say, “That makes you Bethany’s husband, Kent?”
Kent and Bethany are as lean and angular as Franklin and Joanne are soft and well-fed. I shake his hand carefully, not wanting to accidentally mash his fingers. He says a quick hello, then returns his nervous gaze to the pen where the three french hens are happily clucking away.
“He hates poultry,” Bethany explains with a trace of annoyance.
“Oh, that’s… unfortunate.” None of my research revealed a chicken phobia among Howard’s guests. “Should we see if someone can relocate them?”
She shakes her head firmly, her chin brushing against the huge bow perched on the shoulder of her dress. “He’ll be fine.”
One of the chickens bawks, and a short scream bursts from Ken’s mouth.
“I wasn’t expecting… this.” His terrified eyes sweep the room, and I experience a moment’s regret for torturing the wrong person.
“Are you kidding? This fucking rocks,” chortles Dillon, or possibly Dale. The pair is indistinguishably young, dark-haired, and dead-eyed, and Howard introduced them so quickly it’s possible he’s not sure which one is which, either.
“Takes me right back to my college days,” Dale, or possibly Dillon, says. “In fact, Jones, you should join us afterward. Once we’ve put in our firm-mandated time, we’re hitting up the Crimson Lounge.”
“No!” I say a little too loudly, horrified by the thought of a strip club with these two. In a more sedate voice, I add, “Thanks, though.”
“The Crimson Lounge! Best spot in town,” says Howard, forever a try-hard. He hoists his Rumpleshaker, clearly angling for an invite that isn’t forthcoming. “I’ll drink to bad decisions!”
Franklin harrumphs. “I prefer responsibility and thirty-year-old scotch.”
This wipes the fratty grin off Howard’s face as he scrambles to agree with the most powerful investor at the table. “Of course, of course. The good news is, investing in our IPO is nothing but smart. By next year, we’ll be toasting our successful venture with scotch!”
I let his heavy-handed course correction hang in the air before turning to the last members of our group.
“Wyatt,” Gerry says, “this is Radha Singh.”
“A pleasure,” I say, shaking her hand. “You’re in pediatric oncology, correct?”
“Indeed.” Radha’s pleased smile rewards every bit of time I spent reading up on the partners of Howard’s target investors. “My wife’s been hoping to pick your brain about the range of workshops your division offers.”
“I’ll share anything that would be helpful,” I reply, meaning it. The women both have stylish short haircuts, funky glasses, and kind smiles. I like them immediately and hope neither of them accidentally get one of CJ’s specialty appetizers. “Gerry, I followed the work you did with the Englewood merger last year. Most funds wouldn’t have the bandwidth to fight for their members like that. Your people were lucky to have someone paying attention.”
I force myself to leave it there so my genuine fanboying doesn’t come across as Howard-level desperate. Thankfully, Gerry dips her head in quiet acknowledgment, and Radha beams at me like I’m her new best friend. “Her people are lucky. I tell her so all the time.” The women’s pinkies brush on the tabletop. “Maybe she’ll believe it when she hears it from a handsome young man and not boring old me.”
The two laugh at this private joke, making me wish I’d taken the open chair next to them instead of wedging myself between Bethany and either Dillon or Dale.
“I believe everything Radha says, but I appreciate you agreeing with her,” Gerry tells me.
Howard chooses this moment to barge back into the conversation, apparently sick of not being the focus of the table. “So tell me, folks, are you all enjoying Sounder’s hospitality?”
Bethany drops her gaze to the untouched Rumpleshaker in front of her. “Welllllll…”
“The food is wonderful,” Gerry says diplomatically. “But the alcohol is a bit of a surprise.”
Storm clouds pass over Howard’s face.
“Yes, my assistant got a little fanciful with some of the menu. But it’s, er, always good to try new things, right?” He hoists his glass, screws up his face, and forces down the rest of his cocktail, swallowing with flamboyant gusto, then immediately erupting into a coughing fit.
“Speaking of the menu,” he says, dabbing his lips with his napkin, “we should be expecting another round of hors d’oeuvres any minute now.”
He glances at his watch, a thirty-thousand-dollar name-brand monstrosity that could deflect bullets if need be, then glances up in relief.
“Ah, here we are. Another beauty with a tray!” He leans toward either Dale or Dillon and says in a lewd, overly loud whisper, “A shame this one’s not at the Crimson Lounge, am I right?”
