Page 40 of Frankie and the Fed
I sit on the steps outside and take a deep breath. Too bad I don’t smoke. I can’t drink because soon dozens of people will fill this place, and I need a clear head. Olive will need my support, but I have a few minutes to enjoy the last moments of the calm before the storm.
A good storm, of course. Many reporters expressed interest, and a number of celebrities will be in attendance. The preliminary marketing we did was excellent, and I have no doubt the launch will be successful. I’m sure of it.
I go back inside to find Olive still running around like a hurricane.
I try again to stop her. “You need to get dressed. You only have forty minutes left.”
Her eyes widen. “Forty minutes? Why didn’t you tell me before? How the hell do I get ready in forty minutes? Ethan!” She punches my shoulder.
“Ouch!” I grunt. “Don’t hit me. It’s not my fault you weren’t paying attention to the time.”
I go to the inner office to put on my suit before people arrive, bringing Olive with me.
I stand with my back to her as she dresses behind me.
“Ethan,” she calls, and I turn around, still buttoning up my shirt. “Help me with the zipper, please.”
“Shit,” she blurts out, looking at my chest.
I look down, trying to figure out what I did wrong. “What? Did I get a stain on my shirt?”
She bites her lower lip. “Your scars.”
I close the other buttons. “I’m safe and sound. It’s nothing.” I sometimes forget my new look shocks other people. I like my scars. The ugliness of it fits how I feel.
The dress she chose for the event is a striking red, long and flowy, but with a sexy split that reaches almost to the crotch and straps that close behind her neck, emphasizing her bare shoulders.
I close her zipper and whistle. “You look amazing. Everyone will want to buy this dress to look just like you.”
“I’m counting on that.” She smiles. “I made several copies of it to sell.”
“That’s my Olive.” I kiss the top of her head, and she reaches to adjust my silver-gray tie.
We head downstairs just in time to see Ryan and Maya arrive. It’s impossible not to smile when I see all my friends hugging, and all in one place. I’m lucky to have them.
The place fills up at a dizzying pace, and I have to make sure that the event runs properly, the alcohol is flowing, and the food is generous. I’m called several times to confirm entry for guests who are not on the list. The place is full.
I smile and straighten when I’m photographed with Olive, my hand resting on her back. I’m so proud of her. She did it. She started her own business.
Another smile for the cameras.
In the corner of my eye, I catch my parents coming in, turning their heads, examining the place, or maybe looking for me. My fists clench instinctively, and I put a hand in my pocket.
They’ll beg me for the dinner I promised them. I’ll go eventually, but I can’t help postponing as long as possible. I don’t want to spend another difficult evening in their company.
As soon as the photographers finish, I grab a shot of vodka from the bar and down it in one gulp.
Then I turn and my mind goes blank when I notice her. What the fuck is she doing here?
She’s supposed to be in San Francisco. She can’t be here in New York.
It’s the woman I see in my dreams and my nightmares. A vision in a silver dress that highlights every curve, every amazing curve I know with intimate detail, and she’s walking straight into a hug with Olive.
And Olive… She doesn’t look surprised at all to see Ayala. Olive knew she was coming. And I call her a friend.
They say their hellos and happily chatter with each other. I didn’t even know they kept in touch.
I can’t move. I’m frozen in place and staring. The rage rises inside me and fills me, washing through me. What the hell is she doing here? How dare she?
