Page 74 of Plum

“He’s gonna be there?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“I’m in.”

“You need a dress?”

“Can I wear Lycra?”

A peel of laughter rings out, and heads turn. It’s a strange sound. Terrifying. Across the room, a cluster of sweetbutts shiver and flee out the back. “You need a dress. Lucky you, I’ve got you covered.”

Harper slides from her stool, and lands lightly on her black six-inch heels with the red bottoms. “We’ll go to my place. I know exactly which dress you should wear. The Wades aren’t gonna know what hit them.”

The prospect of being beholden to Harper Ruth is almost enough to change my mind, but my Irish is up now. And the anger hurts so much less than the loss.

“You have beef against these people or are you just out for the drama?”

“A little from column A, a little from column B.”

“I want the thousand in cash.”

“It goes without saying.” Harper eyes me critically. “Do you need to wear that brace?” She gestures to the soft wrap around my ankle.

“I don’t think so. Why?”

“It’d kind of ruin the effect we’re going for.”

“And what effect is that?”

“Bombshell.” Harper Ruth grins, shimmering her fingers. “Kaboom.”

???

I feel like a woman in a James Bond movie. I’m standing at a rusted back door of the art museum in Riverfront Park. Harper had a prospect, Washington, drop me off on the street, and I had to traipse through the park in Harper Ruth’s sneakers, carrying my shoes and the skirt of my gown clutched to my chest.

It’s dark and freezing cold. It snowed a few days ago, and then it rained, so Harper’s Keds are caked in mud. When I reach the door, I toe them off and wedge my feet into the purple platform heels with peep toes and buckles around the ankle. They look like stripper heels to me, but Harper says they cost her two thousand bucks in New York, so I guess they’re not.

I’m supposed to wait here until Harper can shake Des Wade and let me in. It’s all really cloak and dagger. She’s being dropped off in a limo out front, and then she gets her picture taken. I caught a glimpse of the museum entrance as I hiked through the brush to the back. There are floodlights, a slow procession of limos, and a cluster of photographers at the end of a red carpet.

This must have been on Adam’s calendar the whole time we’ve been together. He didn’t mention it once. All theI love you’s. All the sweet talk. He was so sincere. But when it came time to be seen in public with me? Seems he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

I’m not surprised. In the end, to him, I was the same as I am to every other man. Disposable.

I knew this is exactly how it’d go down, and that makes it so much fucking worse. I grit my teeth and stamp my feet to keep warm.

Thank goodness this shindig ain’t fancy enough for outside security ‘cause Lord knows I ain’t stealthy in this dress. It’s sleeveless and painted on from right above my nips to the bottom of my ass, and then it flares out like a tree skirt. A big, puffy one. I’ve got it gathered in my arms like a triple load of laundry.

This might be a shitty idea. Strike that—it’sdefinitelya shitty idea, but at least I’m distracted. My eyes aren’t burning like they have been all week.

While I wait, I think about what I’ll say. All I can come up with is “How dare you?” and a Scarlett O’Hara slap, which is not my style and not what I want to say either.

I don’t know what I want to say.

I love you. Come home. I’ll be different. I’ll be whatever you want.

Cold slices down my middle, and my nose prickles. No. Fuck that. I ain’t cried yet, and I’m not gonna.

I should punch him in the face. I’m more of a punch than a slap girl. He’s so tall, it’d be a stretch, but he wouldn’t see it coming. I picture it a few ways, and it keeps me from thinking about how fucking cold it’s getting, waiting in the dark.

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