Page 1 of The Party Plot

1.

There were a lot of things about himself that Laurel Van Marcke liked. He had money, great hair, good teeth, and an impressive pedigree. He was educated, great at talking to people. Well-traveled. Just under six feet.

But none of that mattered as he sat in the back of the car his mother had hired, an abyss of self-loathing stretching out in front of him.

Of course, that might have had something to do with the cocaine he’d done the night before. Or the fact that he’d stayed up talking with Melody until dawn had streamed in through the windows, the infernal morning sounds of birdsong and traffic boring into his brain. Or maybe it was because, now that he was no longer high, the drinks he’d had last night were hitting him like a freight train.

Or maybe he just hated coming home.

Laurel pressed his cheek against the cool pane of the window. Outside, the familiar live oaks reached out over his mother’s front drive like witchy arms, streamers of Spanish moss dripping from them. He was sweating, despite the AC, his heart pinging around like a pinball. His sinuses were fucked, the back of his mouth tasted like paint, and there was a slow, liquid stupidity seeping into his head that told him that the rest of the day was going to be an exercise in torture.

As if it wouldn’t have been already.

There was something morbidly surreal about going to a dog wedding on a hot day. Or any day, really. Laurel stumbled getting out of the car, the humidity slapping him in the face like a wet towel. His mother’s front lawn was a confectionary whirlwind of floral arrangements and tulle drapery, beige clusters of balloons sprouting up everywhere like some kind of medical anomaly. A string quartet was, absurdly, playing an instrumental cover ofWho Let the Dogs Out, which made him burst into nervous laughter before quickly covering his mouth.

There was a heart-shaped arch set up at the end of an aisle of chairs, but the ceremony hadn’t started yet. The guest of honor, his mother’s lachrymose basset hound, Jasper, was nowhere to be seen. Neither was his intended bride, a lhasa apso who had an extensive Instagram following. Laurel felt a little twinge of envy that the dogs got to be inside while he was out here fighting for his life. The wedding was ostensibly a charity event, raising donations for the local humane society, but Laurel knew its real purpose was to feed his mother’s ego. She had never turned down an excuse to throw a party.

Someone circulating with a tray offered Laurel something called a “pup-mosa,” which he took with a wince, almost wanting to apologize to the server—that they had to work for his mom, or that the wordpup-mosahad to exit their mouth in any context, he wasn’t sure. The drink tasted like it would make his headache worse. He blotted his forehead with a napkin. God, it was hot out. He hadn’t been sure of the dress code, but a suit coat seemed to have been a bad idea.

No one had noticed him yet. Across the lawn, a flash of white and a garish hat: his mother, at the center of a knot of other ladies. He recognized most of them from years of society functions past. Laurel felt claustrophobia climbing up his throat at the thought of the inevitable swarm, the flurry of probing yet polite questions. What was he doing with his life? When wouldhesettle down, get married, free his poor mother from the world of canine-only nuptials?

He wiped his face again, blinking sweat out of his eyes, and caught sight of Chip Reyes, alone at a table, a glass of bourbon in his hand. Thank God, he had come. Laurel hadn’t been sure he would make the drive. Chip lived up closer to Charleston, where most of his clients were. He looked good, his dark curls cropped shorter than Laurel was used to and his lightweight jacket hanging off him in an expensive way. His face broke into a smile as he saw Laurel waving at him.

“Laurel, hey.”

Laurel gave him a hug, clapping him on the back.

“Good to see you, man.”

“You, too.” Chip gave him an assessing look. “Late night?”

Laurel ran a hand through his hair, wondering how dark his under-eye circles were. He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Hung out with Melody.”

Chip sighed. “Partying?”

Laurel shrugged and tried another excruciating sip of the pup-mosa. Every time he came back into town, he felt a little worse, blundering into Chip’s life. Chip had a successful law practice and a sense of personal responsibility and probably just wanted to leave his wayward college friends behind.

“Well, how did it go?” Chip asked. He looked at Laurel, then down into his glass as if the ice were particularly fascinating.

“You know,” Laurel said. Friendship with Melody Harper wasn’t even a one-way street, more of a parking lot full of problems and sad shit that Laurel didn’t feel qualified to deal with. He’d barely gotten a word in edgewise; he wasn’t even sure he’d told her about the guy he’d met in Vegas, the guy whose name he hadn’t learned and who had completely rocked his world, rearranged his guts, shifted his paradigm, etc. If anyone would appreciate a torrid hookup story, it was Melody. But Laurel didn’t think it had come up during the many hours they’d spent talking. She’d been asleep in front of the TV when he’d left, a bright yellow Bojangles box cradled in her lap.

“Well. God bless her, as my mom would say.”

“Yeah.” Laurel scanned the crowd for Howie Bonard’s handsome, punchable face, but the man who had ruined Melody’s life didn’t seem to be in attendance. Good. Laurel wasn’t sure he could have tolerated making nice with him today.

“Denise has outdone herself. This is way more elaborate than I was expecting for a charity event.”

“I know. She was raving on the phone about this new party planner she has.”

“Oh yeah? Isn’t that the third one in—”

“Like a year? Yeah.” Laurel grimaced. His mother’s newange genie—as she had described him in questionable French—was probably one of the many creative young gay men that she and her best friend collected like Pokemon, showed off like fancy cats, and eventually discarded. He felt sorry for the guy. “She must be terrible to work for. And—”

“Here she comes, by the way.”

Laurel swallowed the rest of his drink and squared his shoulders, preparing for the onslaught. Denise Cabot Van Marke looked great: tanned and toned, her face tweaked and pinched and stretched into something resembling a tasteful forty-five, her long brown hair swept over one shoulder. It always gave Laurel an uncomfortable little sensation of coldness in his stomach, realizing how similar they looked. She could have been his sister.

He felt his jaw clench as she swept him into a hug, her perfume overwhelmingly strong, something powdery and sweet. “Laurel, honey. Oh, let me look at you. How are you, darling?” She pulled back, holding him at arm’s length. “You look tired.”

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