Page 9 of The Party Plot

Laurel kind of wanted to dump his glass out all over the stupid, ornate coffee table with its filigreed legs, but he held it to his neck instead, trying to infuse some coolness into his being. “Mom. They started dating when she was sixteen and he was, like, thirty-five. You can’t—”

She made a dismissive gesture. “Girls like that grow up fast. Especially around here.”

He closed his eyes, wanting to sink into the couch.

“And she simply can’t be trusted in public. I can’t even remember how many times she’s embarrassed herself. I mean, what would you say to someone like that, Casey?”

Laurel heard the tinkle of ice, and he opened his eyes to see Casey watching him over the brim of his glass. “I’d say, bless her heart,” Casey remarked, with a little smirk. One of his fingers was bright red at the tip, and Laurel wondered if he had hurt it. He almost hoped he had; it would be a crack in the facade.

“So what’s the next soirée?” he asked with false sweetness, holding Casey’s gaze. “The dog wedding was such a success. I was just looking at the pictures on Instagram.”

Denise clasped her hands together. “Casey’s throwing me a Halloween ball. The first ever in Bonard! It’s sure to be an event to remember.”

“Oh yeah?” Halloween was three months away. Laurel wondered how long it took to plan a ball. His eyes kept being drawn back to Casey’s finger. The phantom taste of Casey’s skin filled his mouth, and he washed it away with another sip of tea.

“We’ve rented out Landry Hall. It’s going to be sensational,” Denise continued. “Everyone who’s anyone will be there.”

“Everyone.” Laurel tapped the rim of his glass against his lips. He thought of Melody saying,I just need a chance.“Tell me more,” he said, leaning back. “I absolutely love Halloween.”

*

Casey followed Laurel out onto the porch, into the sizzling skillet of the day. Immediately, he could feel sweat prickle under his collar and beneath his arms. He thought again about getting botox for his armpits. Maybe when the next payment from Denise hit his bank account. He hated the sensation of being sweaty, hated even more when it dried, the film of salt it left behind.

Laurel had licked sweat from the hollow of his throat, once. And somehow at the time it hadn’t made Casey’s skin crawl. Just the opposite, it had—

Oh my God.Fuckthis.He had to get a hold of himself.

“So you’re sticking around for a while,” he said, crossing his arms. “I hadn’t realized you’d be here in October.”

“I promise I won’t get in your way.” Laurel smiled. He had Denise’s long-lashed eyes and defined jaw, but his nose was a little large for his face, Casey thought spitefully. “I mean, unless you want me to.”

“Laurel.”

“And I couldn’t possibly miss the ball,” Laurel bulldozed on, waving a hand in the air. “This is my mom’s chance to finally make it in society. She’s lived here for years, but she’s still notin, you know?”

Oh yes, Casey had heard all about this, too. Old money vs. new money, and how much it tortured Denise that she wasn’t accepted as the former, even though she’d once been married to European royalty. It was baffling to him; money was money, and if you weren’t happy about your reputation, you could go and cry about it on your private yacht. But her desperation to be accepted was good. It made her easy to exploit. He didn’t say that, though. He said, “She seemsinenough. Everyone loved the dog wedding.”

“You don’t know this place like I do. People still call her ‘Miss Idaho’ behind her back. Or ‘The Baroness,’ but, like, not in a good way.”

Miss Idahowas hilarious. He’d have to remember that. “I don’t see how there could be a not good way—”

“Trust me. If this ball is as big as you say, maybe it’ll be that last piece she needs.”

“So nice of you to care,” Casey said. “I’m sure Denise appreciates your support.”

To his surprise, he felt a little guilty, and pushed it away. There were more important things in the world than Denise Cabot Van Marcke’s reputation in this town, and she would survive with or without the ball. People like her always did.

“That’s me. Chock-full of filial piety.” Another thing Casey disliked about Laurel Van Marcke: he talked like he needed to remind everyone how Ivy League his education had been. That first night, he’d made some reference to French poetry that had been way over Casey’s head.

“Well, we’ll probably see each other occasionally, then,” Casey said, arms still crossed, voice still carefully bland. He didn’t want Laurel here, in his space. He didn’t like his eagerness, or the bright curiosity that was currently in his eyes. “I hope that’s not going to be a problem for you.”

Laurel grinned again, that one tooth catching on his bottom lip. What was it about the imperfections in his face that made it so compelling? “So who’s on the guest list for this thing, anyway? If you need any suggestions—”

Suggestions? Casey pinched his lips together, trying to keep himself from sneering. That was the last thing he needed. If Laurel turned out to be as much of a micro-manager as his mother, Casey might have to flee town even sooner than he’d planned. “Thanks so much. But I have enough resources here already.”

“Not as many as I do.” Laurel leaned against one of the porch’s columns. “Where are you from, Casey?”

“Florida.” That much was true, although he and his dad had, at times, been all up and down the Eastern Seaboard. If he wasfromanywhere, it was the backseat of his dad’s classic Chevy, rolling around on sun-baked leather with no seatbelt, a packet of Ho-Hos, and a stack of coloring books, finding comfort in the names of the crayon colors. Fuschia, tangerine, olive.

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