Page 117 of By A Thread
“I think that’s where those conversations come in to play,” I said, patting myself on the back for the callback. I was nailing this sage advisor thing tonight. It was probably the dress.
“You certainly have a lot of opinions,” Dalessandra mused.
“So I’ve been told. By your son. On multiple occasions.”
“Speaking of my son, he likes you very much.”
“I feel like it’s more accurate to say I infuriate him very much,” I corrected her.
“I’ve asked a lot of him,” she said.
“You have.”
“I hope he doesn’t assume I’m asking him to put his life on hold for me, for this job.”
Tread carefully, I warned myself.
“I don’t think you’re the Russo who’s keeping Dom from living his best life,” I said cagily.
Dalessandra studied me quietly in the dark.
“Have you spelled out any more messages for him with his food?” she asked, changing the subject.
“As a matter of fact…” I pulled out my phone to show her the ass foam.
40
Ally
Dalessandra and I parted ways so she could walk the red carpet at the trendy gallery while I ducked in behind the action.
I’d been in this neighborhood a few times. It was funny how a few feet of sidewalk could be dotted with old chewing gum and discarded fast food bags by day and transformed by night with a broom, a few sawhorses, and some red fabric.
Money could temporarily transform anything.
I checked my coat, thrilled that I no longer had to cringe at the thought of tipping later, and followed my nose to the bar.
The gallery was a wide expanse of concrete floors, high, industrial ceilings, and temporary walls. The current exhibit was some kind of modern art that I didn’t get. Slashes of color, silly string glued to canvas, and a particularly confusing sculpture that looked as though it had been created by a daycare class on Play-Doh day.
But the music thrummed at a seductive throb, the lights were low, and a buzz of excitement circulated amongst the well-dressed attendees.
Hello. Open bar.
“What can I get you?” The bartender was unintimidatingly cute. I needed to get back to finding that attractive instead of the brooding dominance of Mr. Created by Angels Until the Devil Took Over.
His eyes took a leisurely journey over me, and I remembered the dress.
“White wine. No, wait. Champagne,” I decided. If I spilled it, it wouldn’t stain, and the bubbles would keep me from mainlining it.
“You got it,” he said.
“That dress on you,” I heard a familiar voice say.
I turned and found Christian James, designer extraordinaire, behind me, a wicked grin on his handsome face. He pressed a palm above his heart, letting his fingers mimic a beat.
“It would appear the designer is a genius.”
“Clearly,” he said with a blinding grin. And there was the dimple. Yum.
