Chapter Four
Romy
T he ballroom of the boutique hotel that sits within a stone’s throw away from the San Francisco Bay is beyond stunning. No expenses were spared on the lavish decorations. Tall, intricate, otherworldly floral arrangements adorn each linen-clothed table. Each one is uniquely different from the rest but somehow, they all tie in to the navy and gold theme that CUP displays.
Floor-to-ceiling windows just beyond the dance floor reveal the moonlit, glittery bay and give a faux effect of “dancing in the moonlight.” If I were in my home city, I’d be enthralled by the enchanting feel of it, no doubt looking for a cute guy to take me for a spin.
I’m not at home, though.
I’m far, far away and way out of my depth.
I may as well be swimming in that bay, the heavy sequins of my two-thousand-dollar dress sinking me to the rocky bottom like a shiny anchor.
Breathe.
You belong here.
Who else could get into an event like this on a whim?
I exhale, remembering I’m a Langston.
Langstons command every room they’re in.
Clutching my handbag to my chest, I carefully sidestep groups of chattering guests. I notice a few men raking their gaze over me, but thankfully none that linger too long. I’d rather get the intel I need without running into any of Dad’s associates.
When I see a waiter walking by with a tray of champagne flutes, I make my way over to him. He doesn’t balk at my young features and offers me a drink. No one cares if you’re under the legal drinking age at parties like this.
It takes everything in me not to chug the chilled, sparkly beverage. Daintily, I sip the drink and casually scan the space.
I need answers.
Why would a girl like Megan have a brochure for the Crowne Unity Project? She follows them on social media and clearly is connected in some way. I just need to find out how.
I look around for easy pickings—one of those partygoers who likes to hear the sound of their own voice. They’re usually surrounded by unsuspecting guests who are caught in their snare. A brown-haired man with a sharklike grin has several too-polite young men in his orbit, holding court over them as he tells an elaborate story with excessive hand gesturing. He abandons his story long enough to look at my cleavage and lick his lips.
Ew.
Pass.
I need someone who isn’t distracted by the female species. Someone who’s more interested in themselves than those around them.
Seconds later, I find my target. The woman is in her late thirties, and by the way she sways slightly, I’d say at least a whole bottle of wine in this evening. Her audience are two other women, who keep exchanging annoyed expressions. I’ll give them their out and isolate her.
“Love your earrings,” I say as I join the group. “Where’d you get them, hon? I’ll need to tell my dad.”
The other two ladies slink away as the one woman fixes her unfocused eyes on me.
“Oh, these old things,” she purrs. “My husband got them while on a work trip in Milan. I’m sure they’re nothing more than costume jewelry.”
I know expensive diamonds when I see them. There’s nothing costume about them, but I play along anyway.
“Guys are clueless sometimes,” I say, sidling up closer to her as though we’re besties. “My high school boyfriend once went to Jared’s for a necklace. Dad made me break up with him shortly after.”
“Smart father,” she responds. “I’m Isla Porter. You’re…”
No sense in lying. “Romy. Just Romy tonight.”
Isla’s glazed brown eyes warm. “You’re a young one, Just Romy.” She smirks conspiratorially at me. “Are you here to see the famous Cazey Tee?”
The way she says the singer’s name with barely held contempt tells me all I need to know on how to proceed.
“Oh God,” I say with a groan. “She’s not singing tonight, is she?” I curl my lip up. “She’s the most overrated pop singer of my lifetime.”
Isla’s shoulders relax. “I think she slept her way to the top. I mean, she came from Oakland.”
I make a scrunched face as though I’m just as disgusted as she is.
“I’m honestly skeptical of her collaboration with the Crownes,” Isla continues. “They’re usually a lot more selective with whom they associate with.” She points a delicate finger past a group of people. “Orion is old-school and loyal to those who’ve been around for decades. She’s probably one of their little project moths. If I had to bet, I’d say she’s also sleeping with one of his boys.”
I want to ask her about what project moths are, but I’m suddenly curious about his boys. When I follow where she’s pointing, I see the famed Orion with three other men. Surrounding them are tuxedo-wearing security detail meant to blend in. They’re obvious if you know what you’re looking for.
“Which one?” I ask, voice low. “The one with his back to us?”
“Theo? I’m sure he’s stuck his dick in half the women at this party.” She chuckles softly. “Except for me. If I ever strayed from Ryan, it’d be with Gareth. He’s the one about to burst out of his tux like the Hulk.”
One of the men, indeed, is incredibly fit. His muscles bulge beneath his tux, threatening to tear the fabric in two. A hint of a tattoo peeks up above his collar. The sides of his head are shaved, and icy-blond hair is slicked back on top. He wears a perpetual smirk that makes you wonder if he’s playful or cruel. Either way, he’s definitely good-looking.
“Where’s the other brother?” I ask, scanning the group, discreetly looking past people who keep stepping in my way.
“He’s around here somewhere. Just look for the creepy one.”
She cackles at her own joke and then waves down a waiter. I’m still searching when she plucks my empty champagne flute out of my hand and replaces it with another one. I sip the cool liquid while continuing to hunt down the creepy one.
As though a draft enters the room, a chill slithers through my veins, spreading quickly throughout my body. I suppress a shiver and wonder why the alcohol isn’t warming me. As Isla babbles about Orion being handsome for his old age, I can’t shake the feeling I’m being watched. My first thought is to look for the beefy guy. He’s huddled with the younger brother, not paying me any attention.
It’s then I lock eyes on a man standing a few feet away from them.
Cold dark eyes bore into me, cutting through me like a knife. My confidence from earlier has evaporated. I feel exposed to the man who has his crosshairs on me. Unable to move, I meet his gaze and attempt not to shudder.
“Caius Crowne,” Isla mutters under her breath. “Like I said. Creepy. Ryan calls him Lurch. Do you know who Lurch is? Lord, you’re just a baby. The answer is no. I’m so old.”
I ignore her rambling to pick apart why she thinks Caius is creepy aside from his menacing stare. He’s at least a decade older than me—and incredibly tall, which allows him to see over those around him. Unlike his brother Gareth, he’s not bursting out of his tuxedo, though he’s broad-shouldered like him. But there’s a quiet strength about Caius. A dangerous aura that emanates from him. Rather than a philanthropist, he gives assassin vibes with his serious, calculated, emotionless stare.
“Come on,” Isla says, nudging me. “I want you to meet Ryan. He’s going to want to eat you up, sugar.”
A wave of irritation ripples through me when she grabs my bicep, dragging me away. I lose Caius’s gaze, which thankfully breaks the eerie spell he was trying to put me under.
As we walk, I decide to try to sneak in some questions. “Do you know Megan Benson?”
Isla cants her head in my direction. “Haven’t heard of her. Is she famous? Can’t be too famous.”
“No, uh, she’s a friend of mine. Went missing this week.”
Isla lets loose a sinister, hair-raising laugh. “Maybe she’s their new moth.”
My mind begins to whir with possibilities. I want to argue and state Megan is not a moth, but to people like her and the Crownes, it’s exactly how they’d see her. What if CUP is a front for something dark and evil? What if these people kidnapped my friend to…what?
Turn her into a butterfly?
I almost laugh at the insanity of it all. If I thought the school and police didn’t care about someone like Megan, these people certainly wouldn’t. They’re in a whole other galaxy than her.
Chasing rabbits.
But that’s why I’m here.
To chase down any leads.
Even if they feel insane.
“What do you mean?” I ask as we skirt around another group of finely dressed people. “Moth?”
She downs the rest of her champagne and sets it down on a tray as we pass. “Never mind, Romy. Come meet Ryan.”
A man around her age grins as we approach. He’s fit and handsome, but I don’t like the way he openly leers at me in front of his wife. She practically thrusts me toward him. He grabs me by my shoulders and assesses me like I’m a choice piece of meat.
“Well, hello, beautiful.” His smile widens, revealing rows of white veneers. “My wife has impeccable taste in…friends.”
His warm fingers bite into my shoulder and I have the urge to squirm out of his grasp. Thankfully, he loosens his hold, though doesn’t release me fully.
“Let’s get you something a little stronger.” He winks at me. “Don’t worry, Isla always takes good care of her friends.”
It hits me with sudden clarity that Isla has brought me to her husband as some sort of prize or offering.
Gross.
“I, uh, think I’ll pass,” I say, my cheeks blazing hot, “on whatever this is.”
The man, Ryan, releases my shoulders and his grin falters.
“I’m just looking for my friend,” I continue. “Megan Benson. I have a picture in my purse.”
He stands there, watching me with mild irritation at having been turned down. However, he waits patiently for me to fetch the photo of her. Isla, having realized I’m not into their threesome party, has already prowled off to look for someone else.
“Can’t say she looks familiar,” Ryan says after a quick glance. “Sorry.”
Defeated, I slink away from the man and into the crowd. I decide to stop being discreet and flat out start asking every person I come in contact with if they’ve seen Megan. Most people are polite, but a few are rude, not bothering to answer me whatsoever.
Maybe they know something…
Or maybe I’m just getting in the way of their good time.
I feel the cold stare again. Without having to see him, I know Caius Crowne is watching me. What if Ryan or one of the other partygoers told him what I was doing here?
Before I can figure out who I’ll interrogate next, a giant man crowds me from behind.
“Miss, I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” the gruff guy says. “Don’t make a scene.”
I scoff, but the meaty hand that clutches onto the back of my neck has the sound dying in my throat. A quick glance over my shoulder tells me it’s one of the security detail.
So much for being stealthy.
The man guides me out of the ballroom wordlessly and then deposits me into the lobby. “Don’t try to come back in or I’ll be forced to get the police involved for harassment.”
I shoot the man a withering glare, but he’s unmoved. With a sigh, I make my way to the elevator. Another man in a hotel uniform hurries after me, catching the door before it closes behind me.
“Ma’am,” the man says. “Someone asked me to give you this.”
I take the folded note and stuff it into my purse along with Megan’s picture. It’s probably a stupid threat from the security guy. I mash the button to my floor and then impatiently wait to get to my room. Once I’ve reached the sanctity of my room, I strip out of the dress and get back into my jeans and T-shirt.
“What a waste of time,” I grumble as I plop down on the edge of the bed.
I open the flap on my purse and pull out the note to read it.
Meet me at the Irish pub on the corner at midnight. I might have information on your friend.
My heart skips a beat.
Holy crap.
What if I find Megan after all?