Page 4 of Twisted Knight

“With Rhett’s possible run for city council, we all need to be putting our best foot forward, so make sure to mingle.” She adjusts the diamond rings on her fingers. “You never know who might be here.”

The elevator dings and the doors slide open. The noise hits us first. The hummed chatter accented by a loud laugh here and there. The room at the top floor of the District Hotel spreads out before us. People mill about with drinks in their hands, smiles on their faces, and adorned in their finest attire. Perfectly tailored tuxedoes. Designer gowns in varying styles. Jewels worn like status symbols by the women who have them on and the men parading those women around.

Scattered around the space in various locations are pieces of art—sculptures, paintings, and a few other items—all placed behind velvet ropes and illuminated with lights. The proceeds from their auction will benefit Carolina Children’s Fund, a charity set up to help kids in need who live in cities on the other side of the river—Fairmont, Broadmore, Granville, Livingstone. The places the Westmore elite never dare venture to but that they can tout as recipients of our charity on their social résumés.

The minute my mom is called away by a fake smile and saccharine sweet greeting from one of her fellow Junior League members, a martini is thrust into my hand.

“Thought this might come in handy.”

“You’re a lifesaver.” I kiss the cheek of one of my best friends—and the only person who keeps me sane most days—Caroline. I make a show of looking her up and down. “Look at you.”

She curtsies with dramatic flair. Her strawberry-blond hair is swept up and her long black gown is probably worth more than a down payment on a luxury car. I love the woman to death, but her sense of reality is just a tad skewed. “You know us Vandeveres.” She rolls her eyes and playfully adopts the matronly tone my mother had seconds before. “Known for dressing the part and being the part.”

“Ah, yes.” We take sips of our martinis and sigh. “If they only knew you like I do.”

She bats her lashes and then laughs. “But they don’t, so my perfect reputation will remain intact.”

“Your secret is safe with me.”

She nods and when her eyes meet mine, she tilts her head and pauses. “Talk to me, Row. You hanging in there?”

I close my eyes and fight the swell of emotion that threatens to overtake me. It’s odd how a simple question like that brings back the crushing blow of grief. I clear my throat and muster a smile. “I’m okay.”

“Okay as in, you’re lying and full of shit? Or okay as in, I’m getting there but I need copious amounts of alcohol and laughter tonight?”

“The latter.”

“I can most definitely help you with that.”

“I knew you could.” I smile and tap my glass against hers as Caroline lifts her heels in her Manolos and surveys the crowd.

The room is spacious with open-faced brick walls that show a stylish amount of wear and high ceilings with ducting showing. It’s trendy and contemporary while the women in the room appear the exact opposite with their sequined, beaded, or feathered gowns. No doubt many are vying—and hoping—to be deemed best dressed in country club gossip tomorrow. The men stand around in overpriced tuxedoes with their chests puffed and stories ready to exaggerate.

In other words, it’s a typical Westmore function. Pretentious and overdone. Flashy and superfluous.

“So, who are we watching tonight? Who would Gran shake her head at while wanting to call them out on their bullshit?”

I can picture Gran’s voice saying those exact words. Can see her searching the crowd and sighing.

“Everyone.” My remark draws a laugh from her.

“She was the best at that. Putting you in your place with a beguiling smile so you didn’t even realize she was doing it.”

“She was.” My smile is bittersweet.

“Too bad she’s not here to manage Chad and how he will no doubt become your shadow at some point tonight as if that’s the proper way to charm a woman.”

“Him and his mother.”

“A double shadow.”

“Lucky me,” I say.

“Yes, it wouldn’t be a proper Westmore event if Mrs. Williams didn’t pile on the ‘you’re going to marry my son’ pressure. Publicly, I might add. Be warned, though, that Chief Williams might put out an APB for you if she presses him hard enough.”

“I’d love to say you’re full of shit, but we both know differently.” I shrug. “And I can run my own interference on that.”

“I know you can, but Gran always added a flair of ‘don’t fuck with me’ to her suggestion that people actually listened to.”