If you hadn’t been keeping a specific eye on it, you would’ve missed the split second her smile faltered. Because I had, of course, insulted her back. That party had been… maybe threeand a half years ago? Back when we’d both spent lots of time partying, before her transformation into a “serious person.” She sighed through clenched veneers. “Oh my God, that was a night, wasn’t it? I’m glad I’m not in that headspace anymore; it was so unhealthy. Can you even remember everything that went down?”
Another insult—she was referring to how wasted I used to get. I tittered back, raising one hand to cover my mouth demurely and fighting the urge to give her the finger. “I remember enough.” That, combined with the way my eyes flicked to her ass region, was metaphorically the finger. Once upon a time she was known for… well, I shouldn’t get into it. That would be rude. But anyway, it was one of the reasons why she was still in the second tier.
Peach pursed her lips, practically admitting defeat. She knew that if she were to get more into it, I’d get more into it too. “And who’s this?”
Gabe had clearly understood none of what had just gone on, because his smile was pure friendliness. My poor, oblivious, innocent man. Beads of sweat glistened on his tanned forehead and upper lip, where the faintest hint of stubble remained, enough to scratch me only the tiniest bit later, the way I liked. “I’m Gabe. It’s nice to meet all of you. I’ll have to get some of your stories about Pom one of these days.”
Peach’s smile turned pointy, sharklike. “Oh, are you her boyfriend? What’s your last name?”
“Morales,” Gabe said.
“Oh, really,” she said. “How did you and Pom meet?”
Assuming she’d read any story about me in the past year, she knew perfectly well his mother had worked for my family. I couldn’t let this go on any further. They’d tear into him, ripping out all his blood and guts and innermost secrets, and all the while he’d be smiling, no idea what was going on. Like my mom’s C-sections, about which she was fond of telling Nicholas and me, “I was so numb I couldn’t feel anything down there. It was like I wasn’t even having a baby. You could be anyone’s, really.”
I’d almost forgotten about that. Something to talk about in my next therapy session.
I linked my arm through Gabe’s, beaming at the group with all my teeth. “So great seeing you. We’re going to keep circulating.” And I towed him away, allowing him to get in nothing more than a quick wave over his shoulder, which, really, awave? We weren’t at acarnival.
I only let myself take in a full breath once we were out of earshot of the group, right next to a painting of what appeared to be a naked man with a knife in place of the penis. “My God.”
“I know.” Gabe glanced at the painting. “It’s not very subtle.”
“Not that,” I hissed. “They hate me.”
Gabe boggled at me. A group of people who’d clearly popped in for the free wine passed us, sniggering and pointing at the artwork. “What are you talking about? Weren’t you guys just catching up?”
At least that validated me in my decision to drag him away, which made me look like a coward but saved Gabe from total evisceration. “We were engaging in a brutal battle of words,” I hissed again. “Insulting each other the entire time.”
Gabe’s forehead creased. “No, you weren’t.”
“Yes, we were.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
Before Gabe could keep arguing, I pulled out my phone and navigated to Vienna’s “following” list. I typed inP, for Peach, but up popped the girl’s photo under her actual name. Persimmon. Of course her name wasn’t Nectarine. That would be ridiculous. I was already following her, too, but she wasn’t following me. The insult. I wondered if she’d unfollowed me, or if she’d never followed me in the first place.
Now I couldn’t unfollow her or she might realize I’d noticed, which was a faux pas. We were always supposed to pretend thatyou just didn’t see or notice anything on social media. That social media wasn’t real life.
Ugh.
As I scrolled through, I refreshed my memory. Persimmon Teacup Avalon Argent, age twenty-nine, the daughter of a thrice-married rock star who was huge in the eighties and his second wife, a former model twenty years his junior. She’d spent most of her childhood traveling around the world, then, after her parents’ divorce, most of her teens and twenties partying before sobering up and making a hard switch into charity work and sitting on boards, mostly for museums and foundations that had something to do with music. And she was—I did a double take—apparently dating Kevin Miller. He had to be at least twenty years older than us, and he looked it, with his silvering hair. Daddy issues, clearly. She’d posted a pic of the two of them together at my gala. I had zero memory of this, which meant I hadn’t acknowledged her there.
Well, that explained why she was being so snarky with me. Honestly, hard to blame her.
“Is that Vienna?” Gabe asked, mistaking my grimace at social media for a texting grimace. I couldn’t blame him. The nuances were minute.
I tucked my phone away. “No.” I sighed. “I really hope she’s okay. I’m worried about her. It must have really hurt her to be asked not to come tonight. Considering she’s not guilty.”
“We’ll clear it up for her,” Gabe said. “And then they’ll forget.”
Yeah. Just like I’d forget about that thing Persimmon had done with her ass and the party host’s collection of vintage elephant statues. And she hadn’t even murdered anyone, just… well, no need to get into the gory details. “Sure,” I said grimly, taking another sip of the terrible wine. It didn’t erase the bitter taste in my mouth.
CHAPTER
Nine
