Page 52 of Deliverance

Deep laughter escapes from her chest and she glances at her empty glass.

“These are really good boots.” I gesture at my footwear.

“You know you’re competing with a pair of custom-made Berlewans.”

“Really?” I look over her platforms again, wondering how I didn’t notice before.

Drew nods and purses her lips together to conceal what appears to be a satisfied grin.

“How did you get her to make you a custom pair?” Everyone in L.A. knows Judy Berlewan. She’s been dressing people with money and a taste for the wild—models, musicians, actors—for over three decades now, and some years back when our management had the brilliant idea to ask her to design our stage outfits for the then-upcoming tour, she refused. Six months later, she had a heart attack. She’s released only one collection since.

“I didn’t. She offered.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“I’m not.”

“Did you put a spell on her? I heard she took a step back.”

“Yes. Her daughter’s running the company.”

“I’ve never met her.”

“They were at my showing last year. Bought one of my pieces.”

Drew’s gaze is no longer guarded and I realize I’m having more fun right now talking to her about designer boots than I had with the last woman who let me fuck her however I wanted.

You’re getting old, Z-man.

I shove the idea back down to the hole where it came from.

“Hey, there you are!” a voice calls from afar.

I turn and note a figure stumbling toward us. Upon closer inspection, I realize it’s Bebe, the girl who drove the Hummer.

“Jean-Luc is here.” Her gaze zeroes in on Drew and all my hopes of more alone time with the woman who’s a pleasant splinter under my skin are blown to pieces. Whoever this Jean-Luc is, he sounds important.

“Oh shit!” Drew pushes away from the railing and slaps my chest lightly. “Let’s go. Santiago needs all the support he can get right now.”

“Who the fuck is this Jean-Luc?” I ask as we make our way toward the booth.

“You’ve never heard of Jean-Luc Le Mois?” She shifts to look at me without slowing her pace. “Where do you live? Under a rock?”

That sounds a lot like an accusation. And sarcasm.

“What’s wrong with my rock? I quite like it there.”

Drew shakes her head. “Sometimes you need to get out!” She has to shout for me to be able to hear her.

“So you’re not going to tell me about your process. You’re not going to tell me about Jean-Luc. You’re not even going to tell what your major was in college. Are you even real, Drew Kadence?”

She stops in the middle of the walkway, now filled with people pooling upstairs from the dance floor. “I’m as real as it gets, Zander.” There’s a challenge in her voice. “Are you real?”

Am I?

10 Drew

We’re wedgedinto the booth’s corner seat and I’m on my fifth drink when I realize Jean-Luc’s hair is alive. Alive and kicking around his chiseled face like a mop of tiny corkscrews. Shiny, with flecks of multicolored light streaks. Unbeatable in its messy perfection.

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