Page 19 of The Party Plot

And chip away more of his nest egg. Casey hated the thought of it. He wanted to get out of this life eventually (God, what a cliche, but it was true), and he’d been intentionally saving up, living as frugally as he could. Hoping to eventually be comfortable enough to open his own business. A hundred and fifty thousand dollars would make a big difference. Aworldof difference.

He allowed himself to think about it for a second. His own little flower shop, somewhere with actual seasons, somewhere with no hurricanes. A big city, where people weren’t always prying into each other’s business and where he could be whoever he wanted.

But at the cost of having to work with Laurel? It couldn’t be worth it.

Casey made one last bid for sanity—or mercy. “You don’t understand how much work this is going to be. How stressful—”

“Nothing a bunch of money can’t fix, right?” Laurel stretched, lacing his fingers behind his head. “I’m actually kind of looking forward to it.”

“I’m not.” He sighed, trying to look like he was actually considering it. Cracked his neck, ran a hand through his hair. “But fine. A hundred and fifty thousand, and you help put everything together.”Now leave.

Laurel didn’t make any move to get up. Casey fiddled with his Coke can, breaking off the tab. He could feel Laurel’s gaze boring into him.

“I hope you mean it,” Laurel said finally.

Casey flinched. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Because you’ve lied about everything else?” There was an easy, nonthreatening smile on Laurel’s face, but his pupils were still dilated, his eyes shining. “I’d hate to have to give your description to the police. Oh, or to get in touch with that lady in Calabasas. I bet she’d love to get her money back. How long do you think you can keep this up, Casey? I mean, if someone like me can figure out what you’re up to, it’s only a matter of time before you get caught for real.”

Casey’s stomach dropped, and he almost threw the Coke can across the room. God damn it, why did Laurel have to be smart? And why did he have to beright?

“I’m good at disappearing,” he said, through gritted teeth. If only he’d controlled himself in Vegas. If only he hadn’t let himself fall under Laurel’s spell, fall into bed with him, give in to that weird charm of his that was both infuriating and addictive. The smell of Laurel’s hair was in his nose, suddenly, the taste of his skin in Casey’s mouth, and Casey remembered how Laurel had trembled and gasped beneath his hands.

That version of him was nowhere to be found. If anyone was in control now, it was Laurel. And he seemed to know it. “In this day and age? No one can really disappear. And you’ve left a digital trail miles long, sweetheart.”

“I really, really, fucking hate you,” Casey sighed.

“Well, I didn’t exactly expect you to like me,” Laurel said, with a crooked smile. “Not after this. But we can come to an understanding, can’t we?”

Casey said nothing, glaring at him, but his silence seemed to be answer enough.

“Good.” Laurel stood, pushing off from the couch and crossing the room. “Let’s shake on it. And then we’re going to sit down and you’re going to pay all those deposits, while I watch.” He made it sound almost deviant, a kind of sly promise in his voice, and Casey felt something tingle between his shoulder blades as he held his hand out robotically for Laurel to shake.

“Just so you know,” he hissed, “this is a business arrangement. Nothing more.”

“Of course.” Laurel smiled, holding onto Casey’s hand for just a second too long. His gaze trailed over Casey’s lips and down his neck, over his bare throat. “I’m glad we’re finally being honest with each other.”

*

Laurel had doomed them by saying it couldn’t actually be that hard; he saw that now. His back ached from leaning over the kitchen table, and his head was so full of linens and glassware and baby’s breath that he was sure his dreams that night would look like a Martha Stewart magazine written by a lunatic. If he ever got to sleep at all. He wasn’t sure what time it was, but the white-hot slats of sunlight coming in through the blinds had faded long ago, giving way to darkness. He was trying not to shiver; Casey kept it colder than a meat locker in here. His mouth was dry, and his eyes felt parched as styrofoam peanuts from hours of looking at Casey’s laptop screen.

God, parties were monstrous, and now he wanted to apologize for every single one he’d been to. There was so much todo, and Casey had been letting it all sit, since he hadn’t been planning to actually deliver on any of it. Laurel’s stomach let out a very loud growl, and he ran a hand over his face self-consciously.

“Should we at least order food, or something?” he asked.

“Knock yourself out,” Casey said. “You’re financing this whole thing.”

“You’re not hungry?” Laurel stood and stretched, feeling his lower back pop.

“Not really. Getting blackmailed has kind of taken away my appetite.” Casey glared at him across the table. There was a raw spot on his bottom lip from where he’d been chewing at it.

“It’s not blackmail.” Was it? Laurel’s heart sank, even though he had no reason to feel bad. He changed the subject. “You’ll see. It’ll be the event of the year. We just need to figure out the, uh, chafing dishes.”

“We’re not doing chafing dishes. A buffet would be toodeclassé.”

“Why did you make me look at them, then, if we’re not—” Casey’s expression said it all. He was taking a perverse pleasure in overloading Laurel with all these extraneous details. Probably hoping it would scare him away. But it wouldn’t. Laurel leaned back against the kitchen counter, massaging his neck. “You know what? It doesn’t matter. I get it, event planning is a lot of work, and this is probably my cosmic punishment for ruining my twelfth birthday party when I was a kid.” Casey looked like he couldn’t be less interested in what had happened, but Laurel blundered on, just for something to talk about, just so that the wordblackmaildidn’t keep knocking around in his brain. “My birthday is right near Christmas, so mom thought it would be fun if I did, like, a solo caroling performance. Fun for whom, I’m not sure. Anyway, my voice kept cracking duringSilver Bells, and I had a whole meltdown. Ran offstage, knocked the cake over, hid in a kitchen cabinet. They were searching for me for hours.”

“How traumatic,” Casey said, with infinite boredom.

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