Chapter 32
CASSIE
Vigo borrowed Jagger’s Aston Martin for the award ceremony and we arrived at the Four Seasons in style.
I felt pretty in my new dress, to say nothing of the black Louboutins the Hawks had insisted on buying as a nod to the unhinged sex we’d had in the dressing room.
Poor Meredith.
She hadn’t even been able to look me in the eye after she’d walked in on us.
The valet in front of the hotel opened my door and I started to get out, then took Vigo’s extended hand when he appeared next to the car.
He was devastatingly handsome in a tailored black suit, his blond hair, usually spiky, combed into some semblance of submission (a tuft at the back stuck up, but in my opinion it only made him hotter), and a familiar rush of lust moved though my body at the touch of his hand.
I clutched his arm on the way in and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so feminine as we made our way through the lobby.
I’d even had Daisy come to the house to help me get ready.
She’d encouraged me to wear more makeup (“It’s a fancy event!
Have fun with it!”) and had looked up videos on how to twist my hair into a complicated chignon at the back of my neck.
The hairstyle highlighted my bare shoulders and the deep plum-colored lace dress, and the heavier eye makeup worked with the dress to accentuate the green in my eyes.
The hotel was filled with well-dressed guests, some of them heading out for a night on the town, some heading for the other banquet rooms, and we passed signs for two wedding receptions and some kind of corporate party before spotting the sign pointing to the university’s award ceremony for Professor Harrison Keaton.
“I’m nervous,” I said, holding tighter to Vigo’s arm.
He looked down at me with a sympathetic smile. “Don’t be. They’ll love you. Besides, they’ll be too wrapped up in the ceremony and their boring friends to pay us much attention.”
Another sign for the ceremony stood outside the banquet room. Music drifted into the hall from inside along with the murmur of many voices engaged in conversation.
I didn’t even have time to catch my breath before we entered the cavernous room filled with people.
Vigo was instantly waylaid by people stopping to say hello and telling him congratulations on his father’s award, and it was obvious he’d known a lot of them for a long time.
They greeted him as a friend, and he introduced me to each one, spent a few minutes making small talk, and pulled me through the rest of the room to look for his parents.
There was no sign of the mischievous troublemaker I’d gotten to know over the past two and a half months.
Vigo moved confidently through the crowd, speaking formally and articulately to each person who stopped us, thanking them for their congratulations and referring to his father’s published papers like he was still part of this world.
Trying to reconcile the Vigo I’d come to know — the one armed with a baseball bat and a sleeve of Oreos who conquered every room like a playful provocateur — with the polished, restrained man on my arm gave me a kind of whiplash.
I focused on smiling and shaking hands, nodding sympathetically or in agreement (depending on the circumstances), and letting everyone else do the talking.
We were almost to the platform at the front of the room, a dais set with place settings and name cards I couldn’t read, when a man in his fifties caught sight of us.
I knew immediately he was Vigo’s father. His hair was brown, but he had the same tilt of the head, the same chiseled jawline and posture.
Vigo led me through the crowd and the older man extricated himself from the couple he’d been talking to and walked to meet us.
“There you are,” he said.
Vigo let go of my hand to embrace his father. “Congrats, Dad. So proud of you.”
His dad pulled back and studied Vigo’s face. “Awards are meaningless,” his dad said. “It’s the work that matters.”
“Bullshit,” Vigo said. “You deserve this.”
His dad grinned and I caught a flash of Vigo’s roguish smile.
“This is Cassie,” Vigo said. “Cassie, my dad, Graham.”
Vigo’s dad extended his hand. “A pleasure. Thank you for coming.”
“Thank you for having me,” I said, shaking his hand. “And congratulations on the award.”
“Sweetheart!” A slender blonde woman appeared next to Vigo’s dad. She pulled Vigo into a hug. “It’s been forever.”
“It’s hasn’t been that long, Mom.” Vigo hugged her back. “You look great.”
“You look great.” She pulled back to look at him and picked a minute piece of lint off his suit jacket. “You always did clean up well. I just wish we got a chance to see it — and you — more often.”
Her blonde hair was just beginning to silver, her chin imperious, neck as long as a swan’s. She looked elegant and chic in a simple floor-length green gown that matched the color of her eyes, the exact same shade as Vigo’s.
“We’re all busy,” Vigo said, turning to me. “Cassie this is my mom, Elise Fairchild. Mom, Cassie.”
We spoke for a couple of minutes — about the hotel, the canapés that Vigo and I hadn’t tried yet, the award Vigo’s dad was receiving for outstanding leadership in his field of Economics — and Vigo’s parents glided off to receive the adoration of the people gathered in honor of Vigo’s dad.
“Let’s get a drink,” Vigo said, leading me to the bar at one end of the room.
I wondered if it was my imagination that he looked strained, his smile and shoulders tight.
“You okay?” I asked while the bartender made our drinks.
He ran a hand through his hair. “This isn’t my scene anymore.”
“It used to be?” I asked.
“I used to think it was,” he said. “I used to pretend it was.”
“Why?”
“It was what my parents wanted for me.” The bartender put the drinks in front of us and Vigo put down a couple twenty dollars bills, then handed me the Shirley Temple I’d asked for.
“How do they feel about your… current line of work?” I didn’t want to name that line of work out loud since it involved robbing banks. The Hawks hadn’t mentioned the job they were planning in weeks, and I didn’t know if they’d put it off because of my accident or if they didn’t want to involve me.
“They don’t know.”
“What do they think you do?”
He grinned. “This and that.”
The music stopped playing. Someone next to the dais announced that dinner would be served and the ceremony was about to begin.
Vigo and I made our way to the table at the front where Vigo’s mom said we’d been assigned.
We found our place cards, smiled a greeting at our tablemates (Vigo knew one of the couples, who were apparently old friends of his parents), and sat down just in time for the emcee to begin the award ceremony.
I had no idea what was going on or who any of the people receiving awards were, which was probably why it was, quite honestly, about as interesting as watching paint dry. But I tried to pay attention and be polite, smiling and clapping when someone took to the stage to receive their award.
We were served an assortment of bland banquet food that included bread, a side salad, and chicken piccata with green beans and rice. It was like being at a wedding with average food but without the fun stuff like dancing and cake.
Vigo hardly touched his food. He seemed to shrink as the night wore on, his shoulders slumping, foot tapping fast and hard enough under the table to shake the water glasses.
It was like watching the life drain out of him in real time, and I was relieved when the emcee gave a long-winded introduction to Vigo’s dad before handing him a fancy-looking piece of paper contained in a brown leather folder.
Dr. Graham Keaton (apparently both Vigo’s parents had PhDs) gave a nice speech about the importance of “introducing the next generation to the power of economic foresight and ingenuity” and we stood with the rest of the audience, clapping as he returned to his seat.
The emcee returned the mic to tell us to enjoy the rest of the evening, and the music started up as servers started placing creme br?lée in front of us.
Vigo’s parents, engaged in deep conversation with an older man seated next to Elise behind the dais, hardly seemed to know Vigo was there, and I wasn’t surprised when Vigo, still tapping his foot, leaned over and asked if I was ready to go.
“You don’t want to stay?” I asked. “Your parents— ”
“Won’t even know I’m gone until the cleanup crew comes in,” he said. “They’re in their element. I showed up. We can go.”
“If you’re sure…” It felt rude, but it was Vigo’s decision and I could tell he’d had enough, like a kid who’d been forced to sit through a church service and couldn’t wait to go play in the mud.
He grabbed my hand and stood. “Nice to meet you all,” he said to the other diners at our table. “Have a great night.”
He was practically vibrating as we made our way out of the banquet room, and he didn’t say a word as he led me out of the hotel.
We spilled out onto the street and he exhaled loudly, like he’d been holding his breath for the past two hours, then grabbed my hand. “Let’s walk.”
It was almost eleven at night, but the city was still busy and vibrant around us. Cars moved past, their brake lights shining red, while pedestrians walked purposefully toward or away from something.
“Your feet okay?” Vigo asked.
I looked down. “My feet?”
“Because of the heels,” he said.
“Oh… yeah. I’m okay.” I’d gone straight from the car into the hotel and had spent the last nearly three hours sitting.
“If you’re sure.” This was the Vigo I’d come to know: animated and alert, looking for fun or trouble. “I’m fucking hungry.”
My stomach rumbled. “Actually, I’m starving too.”
“Right?!” The shine was back in his eyes. “That food sucked. Come on. We need hot dogs.”
I looked around, taking in the city as he led me by the hand. The city wasn’t really my thing, but I understood the appeal. It was so vibrant, so alive, and I wondered suddenly why Vigo didn’t live in a place like this, a place where he could get into all kinds of trouble and hardly be noticed.
“You never wanted to live in the city?” I asked.
We were stopped at an intersection, waiting for the traffic to clear so we could cross the street.
“Fuck no,” he said. “Don’t get me wrong. I love the excitement and shit. But it’s like a concrete prison. Too many people, all of them trapped in boxes. Plus, Hawk would die here.”
“He doesn’t like the city?” One thing I knew for sure after almost three months with the Hawks was that they were a package deal.
“He can’t be himself here,” Vigo said.
I wondered what that meant as we crossed the intersection and started down the next block. I was still getting to know all the Hawks — sometimes I thought it would take me a lifetime to really know them, a dangerous thought if there ever was one — but Hawk was the biggest mystery of all.
I still didn’t know his real name. Still didn’t know where he went or what he did when he left the house alone for hours at a time.
We came to a brightly-lit storefront and Vigo led me inside. The smell of greasy cooked meat hit my nose and my stomach rumbled again as we stood behind a crowd of other people waiting to place their orders.
When we reached the counter Vigo ordered five hotdogs with everything plus a large Coke.
We stepped to the side and Vigo grabbed a stack of napkins and two straws. Our number was called a couple minutes later and I carried the Coke while Vigo carried the tray of hot dogs to a spot at a counter attached to the front window.
Vigo grabbed me by the waist and sat me on one of the tall stools, then slid the tray of hot dogs between us before grabbing one and biting into it with the kind of relish I’d come to expect from him.
He closed his eyes and nodded. “Yep, this is exactly what we needed.”
I bit into one and stifled a moan. It was exactly how a hot dog should be: greasy and a little burnt, the tang of relish and mustard mixing with the fatty meat in a perfect symphony of flavor.
“Wow,” I said, around the bite in my mouth. “This is… Yep, you were right. This was what we needed.”
We ate in silence, taking turns sipping on the giant Coke, watching pedestrians pass by on the other side of the glass while we demolished the hot dogs.
Vigo sighed when he took his last bite.
I took his hand. “Feel better?”
He nodded and rested our joined hands on my knee, bare under the skirt of my dress. “I feel like every one of those fucking things takes five years off my life.”
I knew he was talking about the award ceremony.
“You’re so good at it,” I said. “Talking to people, seeming interested.”
“It’s all a show, mouse.” He squeezed my hand. “And life’s too short to spend it putting on a fucking show.”
The words hit me like a sledgehammer.
Because what had I been doing my entire adult life if not putting on a show?
Was that what I planned to do when my three months with the Hawks were up? Just go back to being Coffee Shop Cassie? Putting on a show to make everyone else happy, especially Bram?
I hadn’t realized it at the time, but my life before the Hunt had been me small.
And pretty soon I’d have to decide whether being what Bram wanted me to be was worth dimming a light that three months ago, I hadn’t even known I had.