Page 20 of Shattered Hearts

I spend New Year’s Eve Day working at my new table, enjoying the fact I can spread out paperwork for easy reference later instead of tossing it on the floor. Pop’s doing me a favor, letting us take on Zarah and Stella as clients, and the work I do clearing up other cases will unruffle some of his feathers for a little while. People will tell you anything to get you off the phone, especially when they want to party.

I cast a guilty look at Max’s lockbox. After the holiday, I’ll start to dig. Put the fifteen grand to good use. I’m reluctant to unravel the truth, if there is any. I don’t know what it will mean for Zarah and me if she can’t get better.

God, do I feel sorry for Zane. If she can’t beat this, he’ll blame himself forever. What will that do to his and Stella’s relationship?

It’s a depressing thought, but one all too real.

My tux is getting a workout, and I can’t help but correlate it to meeting and dating Zarah. It’s not true, not this time, but it’s the kind of life she leads. Or did lead. Will lead.

Baby’s happy, her body quivering with joy. I buckle a faux diamond studded collar around her neck and fasten a hot pink service vest onto her back. It wouldn’t fly in a formal situation, but Mom’s guests won’t know the difference and they won’t be able to complain about a dog in the house.

I pick Pop up, and stiff and uncomfortable in his own tux, he latches his seatbelt.

“You look good,” he says.

“You’ve seen me dressed up before.” I back out of his driveway.

“I wasn’t talking to you.” He scratches Baby between the ears, and she leans into his hand, slobbering all over his chin.

“Nice.”

“You’re dragging me to this God-awful thing. Why am I going to be nice to you?”

“It’s free food and free booze. You’ll enjoy yourself.”

“You’re only telling yourself that so you don’t feel guilty dragging me along. I could be home in my underwear scratching my balls.”

I have no argument. If I wasn’t going, more than likely I’d be doing the same. But I figured this would be a good time to talk toRourke—in a place where he has to keep his cool. And in a place where I can’t kill him.

The drive out to Mom and Rourke’s isn’t as long as going out to Zarah’s, but traffic packs the streets and red lights slow me down the entire way.

There’s a valet parking cars, and I have to wait in a line that snakes down the entire driveway. Their house will be as packed as the streets, and the open bar will be welcome, indeed.

We finally reach the front, and I toss my keys to the stressed-out kid who looks like he passed his driver’s test over the summer. “If you slide into a snowbank, I will hunt you down and kill you.”

His mouth drops open, and despite the sub-zero temperatures, he rubs a bead of sweat out of his eye. I let Baby out of the back and ignore his sputtering. If I have to be miserable, we all do.

Mom’s housekeeper opens the door, and a Frank Sinatra song floats onto the stone walkway. “Your mother is positively beside herself,” she says, beaming. “She is so happy you said you’d be here tonight. Do you want me to tell her you’re here?”

We step into the foyer and Pop and I take off our jackets and let an attendant hang them in the large closet. “No, thanks, Hilda. I’ll find her. You’re plenty busy without me bossing you around.” I wink, and she blushes, but the ringing doorbell pulls her attention away, and reluctantly, I turn mine to my mother’s friends.

The entire house is crowded, and Pop disappears the second we step into the living room. Maybe to the bar, maybe to the bathroom, maybe to the den where he’ll watch a football game with a few other miserable blokes brought along against their will. This isn’t his kind of party, but he’ll tolerate it smoking one of Rourke’s cigars and drinking a bottomless bottle of beer.

Baby’s familiar with the house and I lose her just as quickly. Mom’s cook loves her—she knows where her bread is buttered. Literally. I hope she doesn’t eat too much. I don’t want to clean up puke later.

Standing at the edge of the room, I scan Mom’s guests. Neither she or Rourke are around, but Rourke and his cronies are probably gossiping and deciding the fate of the world and Mom’s harassing the catering staff, her eagle eye ensuring she’s getting what she pays for.

As I head to the bar, no one stops me to talk, and that’s fine. I wait my turn, ask for a Manhattan, rest my elbow on top of the shining black lacquer, and do my damnedest to look like a grownup.

A kid no older than the one who parked my truck sets my drink on a cocktail napkin, and I tip him five bucks. He pockets it, nodding appreciatively, and glides down to a pretty thing who asks for a glass of champagne.

I feel vaguely out of place, like I always do, and it’s disconcerting. I’m straddling a fence between Zarah’s world and mine. How badly do I want to fit in?

Stella looked calm and confident at Max’s award dinner, ignoring people who stared and speaking to only a select few throughout the night. She adapted to her surroundings, perhaps not easily, but I don’t know how I can at all. I see glitter and greed. Men who use whomever they want because they think they’re entitled and women who look the other way for the privilege of spending their husband’s money.

There isn’t an honest person in this room.

Holding out her hand, a wedding ring that means nothing sparkling on her finger, my mother approaches me. “Gage. There you are. I’m so happy you could come. Where’s Zarah?”

---