3. 3
“Stop trying to loosen up your tie,” I say to Chester, who’s trying to get the knot away from his neck while he’s getting ready for the charity event we’re going to that evening. It’s almost been a week since I found all those bodies, and I still get uncomfortable thinking about it. But my duties wait for no man or woman, so here we are, getting ready for a nice social outing.
He looks nothing like himself, and it’s one of the rare occasions I get to see him in anything other than his baggy jeans and band-tee. He even combed his hair – mainly because I made him – into something that resembles a semi-decent hairstyle. It’s not like he doesn’t take care of himself, but the uncombed punk rock half-long hair he’s usually rocking just isn’t fitting for this occasion.
“I hate dressing up,” he sighs as he pries his fingers away from the tie.
“Hmhm,” I acknowledge him without saying anything. It’s the same conversation every single time we attend one of these events. I pull some zirconia hangers from my clutch and stick them in my ears. While it’s out of character for Chester to have a suit on, it’s equally out of character for me to wear a dress and jewelry. I’m used to wearing pants, which I can run in or climb in. Flashy jewelry just marks you as someone to rob.
The charity event we’re attending is the mayor’s annual ball. It’s not a real ball, but it used to be once. I think the name stuck. All the major players in the world of money will be attending, and we need to be there to do some networking.
My skin crawls as I think of the term. Sucking up to whomever because I need their money is repulsive if you ask me. But not sucking up to them, closing down my organization, and no longer being able to perform our jobs isn’t even an option.
We step out of the back of the car. Being driven to these events is expected, even while I’m perfectly capable of driving myself. We work around it by just using one of the company cars and letting one of my team drive us. To hell with hiring an actual driver, we’ll save the money and spend it on something sane, like salary for my employees for example.
Once we arrive, we say goodbye to Scott, who drove us and we walk up the stairs to the mayor’s fancy mansion, where two ushers in suits that look more expensive than the outfit I’m wearing keep us standing before they let us enter.
“Good evening. Whom may we announce?” a man with a tiny mustache asks us while clearly judging us by looks alone.
“Chester von Liechsenfield and Abigail Wilder.”
Both of them nod in recognition, obviously having the guest list memorized. Or just recognizing Chester’s last name, because everyone knows that.
“Welcome to the mayor’s annual ball,” the one on the left says, as he steps aside to let us in. As we walk past the welcome committee, Chester tries to loosen his tie again and I smack his hand down, hitting the thick silver thumb ring on his hand. He won’t take the thing off, even if the future of the world depended. So he certainly won’t take it off for this. He gives me a venomous glare as he squints his baby blue eyes.
“Three hours,” I remind him.
It’s our usual deal. He comes along with me, because whether he likes it or not, he has the right name and the right contacts for these events. He dresses up, he acts politely, pleasantly even, and in return, I don’t bother him about anything on the business side of our organization. I run the business and he does the hacking, even if the organization is in both our names.
“How about we cut it down to two, but I actually help you pick out the best candidate for a new donation?” he counters.
I look up in surprise. What’s going on? Why’s he backing out on our usual deal? We’ve been best friends for almost fifteen years, and I know him like the back of my hand, so it just takes the slight raise of my eyebrow to make him spill the beans.
“Lucifer and his wife are attending tonight.”
Ah, the wonderful mister and misses Von Liechsenfield, Chester’s parents, also known as Satan Co, will be here. I’ve seen a lot of fucked up things in my line of work, but the way some parents treat their own children never ceases to astonish me.
There’s this worldwide fairytale where two people who love each other have a child together because that’s the culmination of their love. But in the world of money, real money, love is no part of that equation and having children is just something that is assumed.
Chester’s parents had missed the keynote speech on how to properly care for a kid, and I think they missed the congress on how to be a decent human being altogether. I’m not blaming him for wanting to get out early.
“You snatch me a proper donation, and we’re out of here,” I promise him as I grab his hand. “But…” Before I fully commit to this, I add, “you’re eating all my canapés.”
Blinis with caviar are so low on the list of things I want to eat, I’d have to take at least a dozen yoga classes to be able to bend down so low. I love food and love cooking, but it’s got to have a little soul in it. And trays upon trays of soulless canapés just won’t cut it for me.
He scoffs.
“Sure. Fill me up with fish eggs, hell’s supposed to smell like sulfur anyway, right?”
The sound of people talking, glasses clinking, and a string quartet playing some boring classical piece grows louder as we enter the main hall. People are standing in little cliques, talking away. The professional party planner who has obviously put a lot of work into this shindig has done an excellent job. The flower arrangement spaced out over the room somehow just works and looks natural instead of just crazy expensive.
There’s a dancefloor, which is currently not being used, and a lot of space for everyone to mingle. The feeling of the word leaves a nasty taste in my mouth. Just let me do my mingling with a gun on the shooting range and we’ll be best friends forever.
A waiter walks by with a tray of champagne flutes and I snatch two of them, handing one to Chester, who’s looking exceedingly pale. Must be the start of withdrawals from being away from his computers for too long. He downs his drink in one go, and the corner of my mouth raises as I see him do it. He hates champagne, all things ritzy, and he’s about to go off on a rant about everything he hates about being here.
But instead of going off, he looks to the other side of the room, his eyes getting a slight sparkle and the corner of his mouth tilting up. He nods to a tall man in a navy two-piece who’s standing on the opposite side of the room.
“Him,” he says, taking off with long strides.
It’s a weird choice. The man he picked is way too young for our usual sort of donors. Our regular crowd consists of old men with plenty of money, preferably attending with their wives. If they have just become grandparents, chances of success increase. Stories about saving children make them more charitable.
But this man we’re walking to is very young and alone. There’s no wife in sight, and he’s definitely not old enough to have grandchildren. Men in this age range are mostly too self-centered to make large donations to organizations like ours.
A large smile spreads over the man’s face when he sees Chester. Everything about this encounter is unusual, so I hold myself back and decide to just watch it happen. The dark haired man gives Chester a one sided hug, which also makes my alarm bells go off, because Chester likes nobody at these events, and the most physical contact between men here is a handshake.
“I didn’t expect you here,” the stranger says with a friendly smile that reaches his eyes.
“I didn’t expect to find me here, but I have to every now and then,” my friend answers with an ease that’s strange for him at uptight social gatherings. Everything is weird tonight, what the hell is going on?
“So what brings you here?”
“This one makes me,” he says while he points at me with his ringed thumb.
The man focuses on me, his eyes sticking to my face, which is another highly unusual thing in these surroundings, because I’m used to being checked out by every single man who runs these crowds. It’s like there’s an inbreeding program for rich folks or something, and they use parties to figure out the best matches.
He sticks his hand out, as our eyes keep boring into the others’. His eyes are a very vivid kind of blue, that reminds me of the ocean on a tropical island. We give each other a firm handshake that for some reason, makes me feel at home at this event.
“Remy Ashburn,” he says, his eyes still not leaving mine. I somewhat recognize his name, but not exactly. I’m not as at home in these circles as Chester, who was born into it, is.
“Abby Wilder.”
We keep holding hands, even though the introductions are behind us. His grip is firm, but his hands are soft. Mine probably aren’t, because I like to work with them and I can’t remember the last manicure I’ve had.
“So, you know Chester?” I finally ask him.
The men exchange a look, telling each other something I can’t quite catch but have suspicions about.
“We ran into each other a few weeks back. Not a formal gathering,” Chester answers for him, telling me enough. My friend is a big fan of casual encounters with pretty men, his preferred spice in life. Which also tells me enough about why Remy is so courteous to look into my actual eyes instead of at my chest.
“Where do you casually run into someone from these circles?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Coffee shop down the street. The one with the semi-decent coffee beans,” Chester says, as he starts eyeing the crowd.
“This one ordered a double double espresso, and the barista asked if he stuttered, and he just ordered her to dump four espressos in a cup to go. Made me laugh,” Remy takes over the conversation.
“This was the doomsday of hell when we were out of coffee beans?”
“We agreed to never speak of that day again,” Chester grunts.
“Can’t have been all that bad,” I say, while pointing my eyes to Remy, who has a knowing smile on his lips.
“He got his caffeine and my number, let’s leave it at that,” the dark haired man says. His easy vibe puts me at ease me too, as much as it eases Chester. And that makes this whole ordeal that much more pleasurable.
“So, why are you really here tonight?” Remy asks Chester.
“Have I told you about my work?”
“No, just that there was no coffee, and you’d be better off working the mines in Siberia under these circumstances.”
I snort. Drama queen.
“I work for FIX Foundation. Abby and I are CEO’s. We’re a non-profit and we find kids who are being sold or used for things children should not be used for. I find leads and Abby goes into the field to save the children. We need money to keep going, hence our attendance.”
Not my usual choice of words, but I guess he got the gist of it. I’m focusing on Remy’s reaction to Chester’s bluntness, which is impressively hard to read. His brows come a little closer together, but that’s the only thing I’m able to get off of him, which could mean a number of things.
“You don’t make any money off of it?”
His eyes shift between Chester and me with a certain curiosity, and I decide to take over the conversation. That’s why we came here anyway.
“We give ourselves a salary. We have to live and pay bills. So do our employees. But no, we’re one hundred percent non-profit. All our finances are public. I’m not getting rich over the backs of kids who’ve been through enough.”
This time, he isn’t that hard to read; he’s confused. He cocks his head a little as he makes contact with my best friend again.
“You’re a Von Liechsenfield. You have a net worth that’s bigger than that of several small countries combined. Can’t you fund your own business?”
Chester’s posture shrinks when he hears his last name. I don’t know how open the men have been with each other and what they talked about. I don’t even know if it was knowledge Chester himself shared that he’s a Von Liechsenfield. Based on his reaction, Remy found out some other way. I get the feeling money or heritage weren’t subjects of conversation when they met up.
“I’ve got nothing to do with the Von Liechsenfield money and I don’t intend on getting my hands on it. It’s tainted it’s already destroyed more than I was willing to give up.”
His tone is closed off and he turns his back to Remy, only to see his parents standing a few feet away from him. There must be some kind of deity out there with a sick sense of humor to stage a scene like this. Chester balls his hands, as he takes an involuntary step back. Knowing what to look for, it’s obvious to me what’s going on. He’s on the verge of a panic attack brought on by the conversation with Remy and the mere presence of his parents. His whole body is tense and I can practically hear the thoughts in his head telling him to flee, his feet already pointing in the direction of the exit.
As I gently place my hand on his shoulder, he turns to me so fast I think there might be a real chance of him attacking me. Seeing me has a calming effect on him, it always has. It’s just the way it’s always been ever since the first day we met at boarding school. He relaxes his balled hands and starts fidgeting with his thumb ring, making it spin around with his middle finger, but we’re not there yet. His chest rises quickly, taking shallow breaths and I watch him loosen his tie.
“Go splash some water in your face,” I tell him, leaving no room for argument in my tone. His sad blue eyes find mine and he looks years younger than he actually is, like the fragile boy he once was when I met him. The panic is there and I acknowledge it, as I’ve always done. I see him, truly see him, and he knows that. He mauls the inside of his cheek, but he starts moving in the direction of the restroom, away from the toxicity his parents spread just by being near.
When I can’t see him through the crowd anymore, I turn back to Remy. Chester will be fine, I’m sure of it. And if not, I’ll go look for him to make sure he’s okay.
“I’m guessing I said something wrong?” Remy says when we focus on each other again. His blue eyes give me a questioning look, and I can see some worry in them. Not feeling so good about that encounter myself, I understand him.
“Yes, and no, Ches isn’t a big fan of his family, it’s a sore spot. His parents are here, timing wasn’t great. It isn’t a lie, he doesn’t have or want a penny of their fortune. Which is kind of a problem, because he’s the sole heir.”
“At least then you won’t have to ask strangers for donations anymore,” he says with a smirk. For the first time that evening, I catch him checking me out. Confusing me with his inquiring look, because he’s into Chester, right? What’s he doing looking me over? Is he admiring my clothes or does he play both sides? Or does he play both sides?
“I guess,” I shrug, checking him out a little myself. He’s tall, lean and muscular. And pretty. Just plain old, pretty. He has this strong jawline that’s catching my attention. Smoothly shaven cheeks, a straight nose and blue eyes that brighten his face, the color in stark contrast to his black hair. “But until then, we’ll have to beg for donations.”
“You’re willing to beg?”
“Begging is the least I would do if it means we can get some kids home safely,” I answer earnestly.
We fall silent for a moment as we both try to figure the other out. Suddenly his demeanor changes and he opens himself up to me. His eyes light up with a sparkle, making him look young and mischievous.
“I’ll contribute a donation, but I have one condition.”
A condition? What the hell is he going to ask us? Raising my eyebrow, I wordlessly ask him what it is.
“One dance. You owe me one dance tonight, and I’ll make a donation, make sure you can pay your people’s paychecks for a while.”
That was probably the last thing I expected him to say, right below him asking us to pull some kind of Mission Impossible and steal the blueprints of some bank or something.
“Nobody’s dancing,” I answer as I remember the empty dance floor. I try to look away but find my eyes glued on this man. “It’d be weird if we just started dancing.”
He shrugs.
“The offer still stands. You make up your mind and let me know what it’ll be. Go check how Chester is doing. We can dance or not dance after that.”
I find myself biting my lip, tasting my lipstick, which tastes gross and reminds me why I only wear it for formal occasions. Thinking about what to do, I remember I just told him that I’m willing to beg him to give us a donation, and he’s offering it freely for just a dance?
It should be a no-brainer.
But then why does it make me feel so nervous?
As I make my way across the room, my eyes focus on the door that leads to the bathroom. I wonder what I’ll find once I get there. At this point it can go one of two ways: either he’s calmed down and has gotten out of his panic attack, or he’s dug himself a hole and jumped in it. If I’d have to put money on it, I’d go with the former.
His panic can get real intense real fast, but he has all the coping mechanisms he needs to pull himself out of it. Years of dragging him to therapy did have some use after all.
A hand grabs my shoulder as I’m striding to the restroom, startling me and making me turn around. It’s Satan’s face I’m looking into. Abraham von Liechsenfield, also known as Chester’s sperm donor, looks me in the eye, fake smile in place and all. I can see him for the snake that he really is. His wife, Sandra, looks at me with her botoxed face, not even bothering to fake a smile because the fear of getting wrinkles is real.
“I thought you despised these events?” Abraham starts a conversation.
I reach within myself to find any ounce of calm to be courteous in my response, but inwardly I’m yelling at the rich, old bastard that he’s the main reason we hate it here. So I plaster on a fake smile, a performance worthy of an Oscar if you ask me.
“We don’t despise charity, Abraham. A good cause is always worthy of our time.”
He huffs as he gives me a disapproving look.
“Tell my son to give me a call. It’s time he comes back and takes on his responsibilities.”
This man is certifiable. After everything that happened, he still expects Chester to fall in line and come back to the family that ruined him? There’s not a chance, not even a speck. Yet here is Mr Richer-Than-A-Lot-Of-Kings, thinking he rules the world, especially his son’s world. I’m not telling him that though, this should be a pleasant night.
“I’ll make sure I tell him,” I say with a sweet voice as I give both of them a curt nod and start making my way back to the restroom. Mr and Mrs Von Liechsenfield don’t say anything as I leave, and I think it’s the nicest thing they could do.
When I reach the other side of the room, I’m hoping there aren’t any urinals in the men’s restroom as I open the door without any hesitation. If anyone has a problem with me going into the men’s restroom, it’s their problem, not mine. Because who cares? It’s just body parts.
I find Chester standing by the mirrors, leaning against the marble counter with brass sinks. He’s scrolling on his phone, but he seems calm. His eyes look clear and his posture is relaxed.
“What are you doing?” I ask him as I reach him and stand next to him, our shoulders touching.
“Doing a thorough background check on Remy.”
“That’s what’s getting you out of your panic attack?”
“Technology soothes me.”
I snort.
“Did you find anything that would imply I shouldn’t dance with him?”
“I found everything that implies you should definitely dance with him. Why?”
“He offered to make us a donation if I dance with him. After telling him I’ll do anything if it saves someone, dancing with him seems like a pretty cheap price to pay.”
He gives me a knowing smile, even though I don’t have a clue as to what’s going on.
“Ran into your favorite brand of hellspawn by the way. He actually stopped me while I walked over here. Expects you back at home, stat, being a good little boy.”
Chester scoffs, but the corners of his mouth pull up.
“Promised him I’d tell you, now I did. Don’t let anybody ever tell you I don’t keep my promises.”
Chester wraps his arm around my shoulders and pulls me flush against him. He seems to be doing all right again. He lowers the phone he still has in his hands.
“Did that background check show if he’s good to make a donation?”
“Yeah, he’s loaded. It’s new though; just inherited it after his parents passed away. Probably why we haven’t run into him at these kinds of events before, but he’s legit.”
Well, that’s something. Chester starts scrolling his phone again, the bit about his parents probably setting him back in his mental process a few steps. I think about what I should do with the dance. Guess I should’ve put on my dancing shoes tonight. No way I’m letting this opportunity slip because I’m not willing to do some kind of waltz.
The door opens and a dude in a gray Armani suit with a purple striped tie walks in, looking shocked to see me here.
“It’s just boobs,” I tell him with my friendliest smile, “no reason for you not to go do your business.”
He isn’t convinced though, turns around and leaves the restroom again, probably off to tell security there’s a woman in the men’s restroom.
“You good to come out again?” I ask him, as I try to make him look up from his phone and make eye contact. His eyes stay glued to the phone, telling me something’s still wrong. When he keeps quiet, I use the only leverage I know for certain will work.
“Treasure,” I state.
It’s something we came up with when we just met each other. When one of us had something to tell the other and we were having a hard time trusting each other, we’d call treasure. We promised that whatever it was they’d share at that time, would be buried six feet deep after the conversation, leaving it for dead, safely protected by secrecy.
He puts his phone in his pocket again, and I curse the lack of pockets my overtly feminine dress has. With his now free hand, he starts spinning his thumb ring again.
“I hate that it takes so little to set me off, Abs. I’m better than that. I’m smarter than that. I should just ignore it. I shouldn’t let Remy’s valid question set me off like that. And the attendance of my parents shouldn’t even be a surprise.”
“Yeah, well, they tend to have that effect on you.”
“I’ve had so much therapy over them. I should be over it,” he tells me with a sour look.
“Shoulda, coulda, woulda. If you could’ve reprogrammed your mind you would’ve already. It’s just not the way it works.”
“Well, it should.”
Pushing him with my shoulder, I make him take a sideways step, giving him my best quit-being-a-bitch grin, and he rolls his eyes.
“Let’s go make us some money,” I say as I push myself off of the counter. “And make a fucking appointment with your therapist next week.”
“Only if you do the same.”
I raise a questioning brow at him.
“Yeah, sure, twelve dead bodies, missing kids, and you’re doing fine? Fuck that. We’re both talking about the skeletons in our closet.”
Not wanting to answer him, I start walking to the door. I’d much rather go dancing to ensure a donation than talk about my skeletons.
Remy is still standing right where he was when I left him, talking to some blond cougar who’s obviously trying to impress him. I don’t know who should be considered the gold digger in this case. Obviously she’ll be the one dying first, but Chester just told me that Remy is loaded, so who knows?
Perhaps the only gold digger in this situation is me, on my way to sell a dance for money.
When his eyes find me from across the room, his face lights up, stopping the conversation he’s having with the woman mid-sentence. She tries to get his attention again, but fails miserably. It’s the most peculiar thing. Once we locked eyes, it’s like the whole room disappeared. I’ve forgotten about Chester and don’t even bother to check if he’s following me, leaving him to fend for himself. Nearing the charming, dark haired Mr Ashburn, he holds out his hand, waiting for me to take it.
“Shall we?” he asks, a sparkle in his blue eyes.
I politely nod, as I lay my hand in his, feeling like some highborn lady in an eighteenth-century romance novel.
Remy guides me to the dance floor, which is still as empty as the first time I saw it. The string quartet is halfway through some fancy song I don’t know, but it’s probably classic and appropriate.
Remy pulls me closer to him, keeping some distance between us, as his free hand lands on my waist. The warmth of his hand radiates through my dress, and I place a hand on his shoulder. We lock eyes, and things just seem to fall into place.
He starts leading me into steps I didn’t know I knew how to do, never having had any formal lessons in ballroom dancing. But here I am, waltzing away.
He makes me twirl, and once I’m facing him again, our bodies are closer together than they were before I spun around. While I’m not willing to admit it, this is actually fun and a wide smile forms on my face. It’s probably not proper etiquette, but I catch Remy grinning back at me.
The song ends, and a new one starts. It’s a little more up tempo, and I don’t even know what the dance we fall into is called. Never having understood how people can just dance without rigorous practice, I’m quite expertly doing it myself right now. I guess having the right partner to lead you really does do wonders. When he twirls me out, and pulls me back in, I step on his toes.
“I’m sorry,” I yelp in a very unladylike manner.
“Not your fault,” he answers, not even missing a beat, “it’s my fault really. I’ve got long toes.”
“Really? Long toes?”
“Yeah, you know what they say about men with long toes, right?”
I roll my eyes at the obvious joke he’s going to make.
“They’ve got big shoes?”
“No, they’re quite easy to step on.”
That makes me laugh out loud. His eyes find mine again, and a gentleness graces his face.
“That was quite possibly the most exquisite sound I’ve ever heard,” he says, making me blush. Before I can respond to it, he twirls me again, making me end up with my back to his for a measure, and then doing it all again and dancing on as if he didn’t just give me a huge compliment.
Before I know it, the song ends and we stop dancing. The string quartet sets up to play another song, but we both take a step back from each other. I’m surprised to see there are several other couples dancing around us. I didn’t notice them for one bit when we were dancing, but I’m glad to see that our dance got other people to join in as well.
“So,” he says, still holding my hand in his, “thank you for this lovely dance. I think I now owe you one donation.”
I slowly nod. If I knew dancing with Remy would be like this, I would’ve done it without the donation, but in the end, it’s what we came here for, so I’ll willingly accept it. We walk away from the dancing area and find Chester. He’s holding another empty champagne flute and is staring down at his phone again, looking as unapproachable as ever. Probably the exact look he’s going for.
“All done, Cinderella?” he asks when we approach without looking up.
“Yes, the deal is done.”
He puts his phone away and looks at Remy.
“Thank God, then we can go. I’ll text you for the details.”
And off he goes, walking to the exit without waiting to see if I’ll come along with him. Remy chuckles, as he watches my friend disappear in the crowd.
“This really isn’t his thing, is it?”
I shake my head.
“There’s no place he’d want to be less right now than here. So, it was nice meeting you.”
We shake hands again before I turn around to leave, making my way across the room again, heading for the exit. I’d like to say that I didn’t look back, but I caught myself turning around before reaching the door. I find Remy Ashburn in the same spot I left him, still looking at me, and I give him one last smile before I leave.
I find Chester on the steps of the mansion, nervously bouncing from his left foot to his right and back again.
“What are you doing?”
“It’s cold,” he says, “and Scott isn’t here yet.”
“Yeah, that’s what tends to happen when you leave after,” I grab his wrist and look at the time on his watch, “forty-five minutes. That’s a new record, I think.”
“Yeah, but there’s still room for improvement.”
I can’t help but laugh. He’s probably never going to change, and I hope he doesn’t.
“Come here,” I command him, as I physically wrap his arms around me. He raises an eyebrow as he wonders what I’m doing.
“It’s cold, and you made me leave after forty-five minutes, so Scott isn’t here yet and now you have to keep me warm.”