Page 7 of The Party Plot

“No, he’s here. He—do you know my mom’s new party planner? Casey?”

Melody pulled away to look at him, eyes narrowing. “Casey Bright?”

“That’s the one.”

“That guy’s fake as fuck, Laurel.”

Laurel’s stomach went cold. “Why would you say that?”

Melody’s jaw tightened. “Because he is. He just showed up in town one day, and suddenly he’s everybody’s best friend. Apparently he worked for some Real Housewife in LA or something. I don’t trust him. He’s always got that phony smile on, but I can tell he’s laughing behind everyone’s back.”

“Huh. I sure didn’t get that impression.” In Vegas, Casey had seemed like the type of person to laugh directly in your face, his contempt simmering right on the surface. It had been almost refreshing.

“Trust me.”

“Melody—”

“I know, I know. I’m probably the worst judge of character there is. But something’s off about him. You should keep your distance.”

3.

“I might have a problem,” Casey said into the phone.

“Talk to me.” Jamie Riggins had a deep, soothing voice, the voice of a therapist or podcaster, although he was neither of those things. He was a hermit who lived on a houseboat, doing something expensive with cybersecurity, and Casey was probably the only human who heard him talk on a regular basis.

“I guess it’s really more of a situation.” Casey scraped a fingernail along the windowsill, peeling away a flake of paint. These old Southern houses always seemed to be in a state of perpetual decay, a symbiotic relationship with the marshy earth and the ivy and moss and bougainvillea that was at once trying to reclaim them and the only thing keeping them intact. He was upstairs, in a spare room that Denise had said he could use as an office, but there was nothing in here that made it his. Not that there was much that made anything, or any place, his. Casey traveled light, and the only things he really had any attachment to were his rotation of designer outfits, carefully curated by combing through the thrift stores in Beverly Hills. Rich people in Southern California, he’d learned, would throw away anything, even if it still had the tags on it.

Rich people in the actual South, on the other hand, seemed to keep every piece of chintzy crap they could get their hands on. The “office” was crammed with knick-knacks: porcelain figurines, statuettes, a stuffed impala head, a line of aggressively ugly Wedgewood China along the wall. He wondered where Denise had gotten all of it. Had it come with the house, or had she scoured estate sales for the perfect accessories to support her fantasy? When poor people did this, it was called hoarding. But he guessed it was different when you had an estate.

“Come on, man,” Jamie said. “Don’t keep me in suspense. Are you in trouble?” Casey heard an edge of concern in Jamie’s voice.He didn’t exactly disapprove of what Casey did; they were both fairly pragmatic souls, which was one of the reasons why they got along so well. But Casey knew he worried from time to time.

“No, everything’s fine. It’s just—” Ooh, he didn’t want to say it. They had been best friends since age eleven, when Casey had moved in with his grandmother and finally started going to public school. He’d been a weird child, with gaps missing in his education and socialization, not really sure how to be a kid at all after so many years traveling around as an accessory to his dad’s various cons. Jamie was his opposite in many ways—skin color, height, introversion—but they’d both always known what it was like to be an outcast. The two of them had bonded in middle school Computer Club, making fan sites and illegally downloading entire discographies when the teacher wasn’t paying attention. Since his awkward preteen years, Casey had gotten much better at constructing palatable personas. Jamie was probably the only one who knew the real him.

Just the same, that didn’t mean Casey told himeverything. Especially not the embarrassing shit. He picked at the windowsill more aggressively. Layer upon layer of paint, decades of it. He wondered if he would get lead poisoning.

“I’m going to hang up unless you get less vague.”

“Denise has a son,” Casey said in a rush.

“What, like a little kid?” The concern in Jamie’s voice turned to bemusement.

“No, an adult son. A grown man. Who—who I slept with.” Casey tilted his head back, staring up at the ceiling. Someone had thought it was a good idea to combine Venetian glass light fixtures with all the other chaos in this room. Jesus, pick atheme.

“Okay,” Jamie said slowly. “Good for you, I guess?” Casey couldn’t tell what he was thinking. They didn’t usually talk about sex or relationships. Casey had never known Jamie to date anyone, of any gender, and Casey didn’t exactly date, either. He hadn’t grown into his looks until his twenties, and he’d spent the following years making up for lost time, in a series of casual encounters and no-strings arrangements. Of which Laurel should have just been another, he thought, grinding his teeth.

“It does seem a little stupid, though,” Jamie continued. “Getting involved with her son when you’re—”

“No, I know. It wasn’t on purpose. It was months ago, in Vegas, and I didn’t know he was her son at the time.”

He could feel Jamie shrugging down the line. “So, it’s over. No worries.”

“Yes worries. He’s back in town, and I have to, like, interact with him.”

“How much does he know about you?”

“Nothing,” Casey said quickly. “I mean, we didn’t even exchange names. This is the first time I’ve seen him since then.”

“Then you should be fine, right? Just be your usual charming self. And don’t sleep with him again. I mean, unless you want to? How long is he going to be there?”

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