Page 48 of Perfect Assumption
We wereon the upper deck with our drinks people-watching when I felt my body begin to sway involuntarily. Ward, who had been keeping a protective arm around my lower back, asked, “Do you dance?”
“Not in so many years. It’s almost embarrassing.”
He plucked the can out of my hand and put it on the high-top table we were next to before taking my hand and leading me down the stairs. “Wait, Ward! Where are we going?” I protested.
“You can’t come to Redemption and not dance,” he called over his shoulder.
And we danced on the very fringes of the crowded dance floor. There was a crazy-fast beat the DJ laid over an old ’80s Hooters song that had us both laughing as Ward tried to swing me out and back, despite my protests. I ended up crashing into him, which was how I saw the man in black. “Whoa. He’s incredible,” I commented as Ward righted me.
“That’s the owner, Marco Houde. Man’s ridiculous on a dance floor.” The two of us stopped our amateur maneuvers and admired the owner, whose muscular upper body didn’t move, but his feet were as fast and nimble as an Irish dancer. Then Ward leaned down until his dark eyes met mine. “Think you can keep up?”
“No way. No how,” I declared adamantly.
“Thank God. Neither can I. Let’s take a break.”
We climbed back upstairs, where I spotted the ladies’ room. Ward ran his hand over the sheer material of my arm. “No catfights. This face is too remarkable to have any scratches or bruises on it.”
And as I stroll into the ladies’ room, I debate if I actually could head back down to the dance floor to take on Marco Houde in a dance competition. Ward’s words have me tingling from head to toe with confidence. I give a quick glance around. Realizing there’s no one who can see me, I do a quick twirl. Then I laugh when I realize my hair still hasn’t moved.
There are no words to describe tonight. I’m humming to myself after leaving the ladies’ room despite my disappointment when there wasn’t a catfight, though I did spot the well-placed security guard, and I tried my best not to snicker. I try to find Ward amid the people aimlessly wandering when I spot the reason we’re even here right in front of me. The guest DJ for the night—Kensington—is talking animatedly to an older woman. She looks just like Becks described her, down to the rainbow-hued braids woven in between her dark hair. And when she shakes her head defiantly, I almost stagger. My heart begins knocking against my ribs.
Because in the light of the club, her eyes from this distance appear to be a pale light blue.
And if I’m having this reaction…
But then something happens that makes my eyes widen. Kensington leans up and presses her full lips—lips I could swear I’ve seen before—against the older woman’s cheek. The woman lays her head against the girl’s multi-hued one before they lean in to give each other a quick hug. I whirl around, wondering if Ward processed what I just did or if he’s trying to find a way to talk to the DJ before she slides back into the booth for her next set.
Damnit. I can’t spot him where I left him. Despite promising me he wasn’t going anywhere, he must have slithered off into one of the dark nooks built around the upper deck that overlooks the spectacular dance floor.
Hoping I don’t make a mistake by approaching the young woman on my own, I look around for Kensington, but she’s already disappeared.Argh. Wondering if the woman knows where she might be, I approach her slowly. I frown when I notice she’s pointing a little device outward toward the crowd and is looking down at her tablet, frowning. Clearing my voice bravely, I touch her arm gently. “Excuse me.”
Her short brown hair whips my way. Behind tortoiseshell glasses are a pair of friendly eyes, despite the seriousness of her features. “May I help you?”
“Umm. I’m really not certain if you’re supposed to be recording, but it’s my first time here. I know I was told there’s no cell phones without approval. I’m guessing that has something to do with no pictures. And I’m not certain if the artist allows for recordings.” I wring my hands together, not entirely faking my anxiety.
Her face softens. “Miss…”
“Fahey.” Crap. Why did I give her my real name? With all the news circling about XMedia, if she’s a reporter, she’ll probably figure out who I am in a nanosecond.
“Miss Fahey, this isn’t recording equipment.”
I frown. “Then do you mind if I ask what you’re doing?” When she jerks back in surprise, I rush on to explain, “I work for an entertainment law firm, so I’m kind of freakish about the rights of artists.”
She immediately relaxes. “I’m actually testing to make sure the sound is good. The normal person who does this for Austyn isn’t here tonight. She likes the music she’s written to be heard at a certain level over the music she’s mixing over.”
“What do you think of the music?” I ask, curious.
She looks around before confessing, “I suppose I should say I love it.”
“You don’t?”
“Well, I do. But I’m terrified for her. When I think about the fact she cashed out her college fund to do this. And her living here in the city…”
Confusion draws my brows together.
She waves her hand in the air. “I apologize. Consider it a mother’s lament over her daughter’s teenage rebellion working out so brilliantly.”
My eyes pop out of my head. “You mean…Kensington is your daughter?”
