Page 4 of So Close

My gaze skips across crowded tables to find the bar, hoping to spot the bartender making my drink. Another gulp, and I’ll be staring at the bottom of an empty glass. I cannot sit through a single minute of the Suzanne and Erika Mutual Appreciation Show without alcohol. Thank God I have a gift for deleting inanity from my memory banks. With any luck, I’ll consign this lunch to oblivion by dinnertime.

You know what you need, Amy?my mother-in-law once told me with her signature backhanded sweetness.Culture. Try finding some friends who can elevate you. Writers, artists, musicians ... People who can teach you something.

As if I don’t know anything. Yeah, I went to public school and did a two-year stint at a junior college before finishing my marketing degree at a university. True, I hadn’t known my water glass was to my right or that you set forks on the left. None of that makes me worthless.

Aliyah thinks I’m not good enough for her precious Darius. If only she knew – I’ve fucked all three of her sons.

So, Suzanne – who was born just plain Susan – is my dash of literary sophistication. She writes trashy romance novels about billionaires who fuck like champs and the women who tame them. She’s the perfect middle-finger response to my bitch of a mother-in-law.

Because of Aliyah – and Kane – I’m wasting two hours of my life with two women I can’t stand. Erika and Suzanne are presently discussing the sexual exploits of fictional people with the kind of excitement I reserve for reality. It’s obvious Ms. Ferrari is secretly recalling being fucked senseless by Kane and imagining she’d lived a scene out of a book. She tries to be discreet about checking her phone, no doubt having left her number behind before Witte showed her out the door with his oh-so-British aplomb.

How that scene would’ve played out is etched in my mind. The polite rap on the door. The perfectly polished silver tray resplendent with an elegant coffee service and a single white rose. A white silk robe waiting in a bathroom stocked with anything a woman might need to disguise the inevitable walk of shame. And when Erika returned to the bedroom after her shower, she would’ve found the clothes Kane had peeled off her body neatly laid out on the white velvet bench and her hastily kicked-off shoes next to the foot of the already stripped and remade bed.

Witte is nothing if not faultlessly efficient.

And Kane. So predictable. I’d known the minute Erika showed up that he’d nail her. She looks like his dead wife and me. She doesn’t know it, but she’s the latest subject in the exhaustive study I affectionately callWomen Kane Black Screwed and Screwed Over.

So far, superficial resemblance seems to be all Kane requires to nail a woman six ways to Sunday. He’s a total headcase. Suzanne needs to write a book about him. In fact, I’d give her the title of my study for her next novel. I can be generous when I’m not sitting next to a lookalike who’s glowing, puffy-lipped and sleepy-eyed.

God, I’m in a foul mood.

Erika Ferrari. That stupid name must be fake.

She sneaks a peek down into her Chanel tote, where her phone lies face up. Suzanne gives me a sidelong, knowing glance.

I look desperately around the packed restaurant, searching for my drink. Most of the men are dapper. The women have great hair and designer ensembles – but those wearing makeup are a rarity. Why they think that’s acceptable is beyond me. Why go to the trouble of doing your hair if you can’t be bothered to put cosmetics on your face? Nothing is worse than half-assing it.

“How did you meet Darius?” Erika asks me, reaching for another roll from the breadbasket.

“Kane introduced us.”

She perks right up at the mention of his name. “And how did you meet Kane?”

I give it a second for effect, then, “I was leaving a restaurant, and he stopped me on the street. I look like his wife. That’s his kink. Dark hair and green eyes. Red lipstick really works for him, too.”

Erika’s smile wavers a bit. “Well, some men have a distinct type.”

Her hand lifts self-consciously to her hair, which falls in dark waves that would touch her bra band if she wore a bra. She isn’t and doesn’t need to; she’s small-breasted, like me. And like Kane’s wife, who had him by the balls and never let go.

Kane doesn’t care about anyone. If you’re not standing directly in front of him, he’s already forgotten you. If there is anyone who could be said to live in the moment, it’s Kane. He’s already discarded yesterday, doesn’t give a flying fuck about tomorrow, and has just enough interest to stroll through today. But he’s psychotically hanging on to Lily’s memory.

Which makes zero sense to me.

He’s not the type of guy who suffers willingly, so I have to believe that reminding himself she’s dead gives him pleasure somehow. Or it’s a gimmick to attract women, like a hot guy with an adorable puppy. How sick is that?

“We hit it off,” I go on, keeping my tone light.More like we hit it, period. All night long.“Then, we ran into each other a couple of times.”I stalked him.“On one occasion, Darius happened to be with him.”

And my now-husband had stepped right up as a replacement body in my bed. It should’ve ended there, but Aliyah ensured her middle son got what he wanted – his ring on my finger. And that she got what she wanted – my social media management company, Social Creamery. She regrets me now. That’s my sole comfort.

“What was she like?” Erika asks. “His wife.”

“In the writing world, we’d call her a Mary Sue,” Suzanne says with a giggle. “Amy prefers calling her Mary Poppins.”

Confusion crosses Erika’s face.

A humorless laugh escapes me. “Practically perfect in every way.”

“Oh.”

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