37. Everett
37
EVERETT
W e’re back to the lion’s den.
The Equestrian Club is bustling by the time we arrive. Event trucks are parked outside. They have workers on ladders looping streams of flowers on the overhang.
Tomorrow is the Belleflower Festival. They’re in crunch time now.
My music app plays a playlist called “calming, chill vibes.” I need it.
I may be on pins and needles, but even I have time to notice…
Claire looks fucking stunning.
She’s wearing a beige pantsuit with a dark brown trim, a loose ribbon at her collar, and thin-strapped, dark heels. Her makeup is subtle but sharp, deftly highlighting her smoky, dark eyes. She’s curled her hair, and it falls in buoyant, swoopy waves around her shoulders.
Since we arrived in Belleflower, Claire has been teetering on the edge of a complete and utter breakdown. This is the first time I’ve seen the Claire I know—confident, with her chin tilted upward, her posture perfect, and a look in her eyes that says, Go ahead. Try me.
Even the click of her heels is an aphrodisiac.
When we enter, the hostess gives us a distressed smile. “So sorry,” she says. “We’re closed for a private event.”
I can feel Claire puffing up like a cat with its tail trampled underfoot. Before Claire can argue her way in, a hand slips over the hostess’s shoulder. “Don’t you recognize Belleflower royalty?” Arris steps around the podium. He’s dressed in a maroon suit with dark fringe around the shoulders. He takes Claire’s hand and gives it a kiss. “Apologies, dear. Come on in.”
He moves his hand to the small of Claire’s back, guiding her inside. Ransom and I follow in their wake.
“It’s busy,” I comment.
“Everyone’s excited for the festival tomorrow. Limited service in the meantime.”
We enter the dining hall with its round, white-clothed tables, where Claire and I came with her Promise Sisters. Also where Claire sat in my lap and clenched around me over sorbet.
Focus.
A chandelier blooms above the space, but it fills mostly with the natural light of the curved, floor-to-ceiling windows that look out into the arena. The brunch crowd is familiar, everyone dressed in their regal best. Claire’s “sisters” are at a table in the corner, and when they see us, Elspeth breaks into a wild wave.
I adjust my glasses on my face. As I do, I pinch the rim where it folds around my ears, activating the small camera. It’ll take a series of pictures and shoot them off to the Wolfpack, where they can analyze the faces for any suspicious characters .
I wager there are more than a few in this bunch.
I’m particularly interested in the arrival of the special security—men in dark suits who hover against the wallpaper like mute statues. Brunch seems like a peculiar place to need firearms.
Arris guides us to an empty table by the window, but Claire catches his wrist. “Arris. I was hoping we could sit down and talk. It’s important.”
He gives her hand a squeeze. “Of course. Make yourself comfortable. Help yourself to the buffet. I’ll be right with you.”
He parts ways with us.
“Thirsty?” I ask Claire.
“Just a sweet tea,” she replies.
“I’ve got it,” Ransom and I say at the same time.
The Promise Sisters are descending. We both break to go to the buffet table, which sits adjacent to the windows. It’s piled with mini sandwiches, finger foods, and a host of drinks.
Ransom beats me to the tea (bastard), so I collect three glasses of water.
“You should unbutton your shirt,” Ransom tells me. “You’re looking a little stiff.”
My gaze flickers to him. Specifically, to the handkerchief around his neck. “Blue. Interesting choice.”
“How’s that?”
“Have you heard of the hanky-code?”
“The what?”
“In the seventies, queer people would safely flirt by wearing handkerchiefs. It was dubbed flagging . The different colors signified different intimate acts they were comfortable performing. The position of the handkerchief denoted giving or receiving. ”
“What’s blue mean?”
“Anal sex.” I hold his eye contact, unflinching. “Bottoming.”
His expression sours. “You’re making that up.”
“Am I?”
As I lift the glasses to take them back to the table, I hear Ransom mutter, “ Dammit ,” before removing his handkerchief and stuffing it in his pocket.
I have to work hard to keep the smirk off my lips.
When I return to the table, the girls are all standing around together. I set the waters down, and Ransom gives Claire her tea.
“Riley Ransom!” Mary-Kate exclaims. “What are you doing here?”
Her eyes dart greedily from Claire to Ransom, back and forth like a pinball, eager for the latest gossip.
I can feel Ransom gearing up for an elaborate lie, so I come out with the truth: “We all sleep in the same bed these days.”
The girls break into a flutter of laughter, thinking I’m joking.
Yes. How absurd .
Claire changes the topic. She twists toward the window and asks, “What’s going on down there?”
Men in tight-fitting suits and helmets linger around the racetrack. Some walk with horses that wear dark socks around their ankles and braids around their tails.
“They’re having a polo match,” Mary-Kate says. “Look at them,” she whispers, her voice soft and reverent. “Those strong legs…the way he fills out those pants…”
“Are we talking about the horses or the riders?” Claire asks.
“You know what they say,” Mary-Kate grins. “Save a horse.” She puts her hand on my chest. The uninvited touch makes my skin crawl.
I retreat into James. “Polo originated in Iran,” I say. “But it’s a popular sport among modern English gentlemen.”
Ransom squints at me. “Oh, yeah? You play often?”
I stand my ground. “When the opportunity presents itself.”
“Wicked cool, gov’ner!” Ransom says, with the worst British accent I’ve ever heard in my life.
The urge to put my hand around his throat is strong.
“You should sign up!” Elsbeth squeaks. “It’s an open game.”
I press my lips together. “I don’t think so?—”
“ Yes ,” Claire says enthusiastically. “They absolutely will.” She sets down her glass to grip me and Ransom, then pulls us aside. “ Go ,” she says, dropping her voice. “Arris will speak freely with me. He might clam up if you two are breathing down his neck. Besides. It will give you a chance to…mingle with the locals.”
“Mm.” All I can think is horses. Dust. Sweat.
“Knock ’em dead,” Claire says, trying to be encouraging.
“May I?” I ask.
Her mouth twists. “Ransom. Hold his hand.”
Ransom smacks me on the back. “C’mon, James. Time to cowboy up.”