Page 77 of All The Way Under
“All the way under,” she whispers.
I shake my head, then growl. “All the way home. That’s where I’m taking you right now.”
I’m in full uniform, as is Mark, standing in an opulent hallway outside of a fucking ballroom of sorts—I think.
We’re inside Roger and Bianca’s house. We agreed to attend this party because it’s also a fundraiser for Bronwyn’s art gala, and well, the Wyndham’s PR firm said it might lessen some of the fucking interest around us if we did something public together. Take some photos. Let people see us together.
It also shows whoever is trying to get to Roger that we’re a united front, and we aren’t scared. Bring. It. On.
This isn’t a large party by any means, but enough people are here tonight that it’s the biggest risk we’ve taken since we’ve been back from Portugal. Security has a guest list at their gate, and only certain folks are allowed in. Metal detectors are being used, and the room is covered with security. I’ve never seen so many suits in my life.
“I feel like a fucking show pony,” Mark says, grabbing at the collar of his uniform. I help him fix it. Perfection is the only option in uniform. “I can’t drink. Can’t smoke. Can’t cuss. This is going to be awful.”
Catherine glares at him. “You’re upset? I bought a dress at Macy’s because that’s what high class means to me,” she hisses from next to Nolan. “These people are dressed like celebrities, Brody. What were you thinking, bringing us to this?”
“You look beautiful, Cat. You don’t need a thousand-dollar dress to look like my dream girl,” Nolan replies, clutching her arm to his side. “No one cares what you’re wearing. I promise you. Look at those two.” He nods his head at us, fussing with our uniforms before we enter. “All eyes are going to be on them.” He smiles widely and shakes his head. “We’re here because Saylor invited us. She doesn’t care what we have on. You know that. We’re her friends.”
I stand shock still at his admission because it feels nice. Saylor has been accepted, but I can’t deny the whiplash we feel from chilling at the lake house, drinking beer, to thishouse, and whatever awaits us behind these gilded golden doors.
“He’s right. And I don’t say that often,” I say to Catherine. To Mark, I say, “Go in and mingle. Saylor just texted. She’ll be down in a second. We need to split up tonight. Remember what I told you. Regardless of what they say, they mean well, okay?”
He’s met Bianca, so he has some idea what we’re up against, but a horde of them together is going to be jarring.
“They’re making a donation to our command.”
“Do we need donations? We are the highest funded unit in the entire military,” Mark says, sweat forming on his forehead.
It’s always uncomfortable to be on display like this. Before I met Saylor, I’d eat my arm off before willingly participating in something like this. When she explained it in more detail, it’s hard to deny it’s not useful.
When I don’t reply, he pastes a fake smile on his face, turns on his heel, and enters the room.What a goddamn hero.
Nolan and Catherine are speaking to each other in hushed tones.
“He’s right, Catherine. You look beautiful,” I say, tasting the compliment as it feels foreign.
Nolan smiles in appreciation.
“The food is fucking delicious. Go eat, get some stories, find the tea lady, and talk about your work. You are both accomplished, successful people. Don’t let this house fuck with your mind. We all put our damn pants on the same way, one leg at a time.”
Catherine exhales loudly. “Thanks,” she says, inhaling deeply. “I’ve never been to something like this.” Then she swallows hard, links her arm into Nolan’s, and says, “For Saylor. We’ll do this for her.”
They enter the room next, the door clicking closed behind them. There’s a low roar of conversation and light classical music. I was here when they were setting up, but I haven’t seen any of the guests, or even Saylor, since I changed into my uniform.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Saylor
Wardrobe malfunction. Request for assistance. Use the elevator behind the kitchen.
I don’t reply. I jog down the hallway, then another, finding the kitchen.
“Elevator?” I ask Angie as she bustles in with a tray of empty champagne flutes. She nods to the corner where there is another hallway.
I see the elevator. It’s gilded and wooden, not silver like the ones in basic hotels. I hit the up button and wait. It dings open, and she’s there.
I lose my breath, and my brain scrambles. I couldn’t tell you the difference between up and down. She’s wearing a long cobalt blue gown that’s covered in crystals. Her hair is in loose curls hanging over her shoulders.
“Fuck,” I say, forgetting to enter. She has to hit the open button again.
